Buzz-cut Kev did not come back. At eleven we went out to find a cash point. Smister wore a cerise waterproof poncho with a matching umbrella. He wound a fresh checked scarf around my bedraggled silk turban. Electra wore a polythene bag with holes cut out for her head and legs. It was still dumping buckets out of the sky. All this reminded me of the surveillance cameras that protect cash machines. I didn’t want to say anything in case it tipped Smister off about my lack of identity. I had the credit cards which I wouldn’t let him touch and he wouldn’t tell me my personal security numbers. It was a matter of trust. Usually when someone like me is at a cash point, it’s when I’m sitting on the pavement, begging. Or it was before a young banker-wanker said, ‘Are you out of your tiny mind? These machines only dispense tens and twenties. Do you really think I’m going to give you one of those?’ I said, ‘But while you’ve got your wallet open you might spare a little… ’ ‘Change?
