The blood was dripping from the raw sore on his nostril, down on to the Östgöta Street pavement. Hilding was almost running. He was in pretty poor shape despite having been inside. He had never been one of those guys who worked off their hatred, or built up respect, in the prison gym, but now he was jogging along, raging at the fucking bitch at the Katarina-Sofia social and panicking, desperate for heroin, and was therefore out of breath when he arrived at the Skanstull metro station on the ring road.

Sod their fucking handouts. He would just have to get the money himself.

‘Hey, you!’

Hilding prodded one of the kids standing just in front of him on the platform. She was twelve or thirteen, that sort of age. She didn’t respond and he poked at her again. She turned away deliberately to look in the direction of the train they were waiting for.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’

He’d seen her mobile phone. He reached out for it, took a step forwards, grabbed it from her hand and dialled the number, despite her protests, then waited for the line to connect.

Hilding cleared his throat.

‘It’s me, sis. Hilding.’

She said nothing, so he continued.

‘Listen, sis. You got to lend me some.’

She sighed, then replied. ‘You won’t get any money from me.’

‘Sis, I need food. Clothes. That sort of stuff. That’s all.’

‘Try Social Services.’

He glared angrily at the phone, drew a deep breath and shouted into what he figured was the speaking end.

‘Fuck’s sake! I’ll have to sort it out myself then. Whatever, it’s your fault!’

She answered in the same tone of voice as before. ‘No, it’s your choice, Hilding. And your problem, not mine.’

She hung up. Hilding shouted abuse into the electronic void. He threw the bloodstained phone on to the platform. The fucking kid was still standing there crying when the train pulled in and he got on.