Shirley Golden, 25 Jul '12

Sam leans against a splinter-framed entrance, which fronts an abandoned property impervious to the tirade of shoppers. The street bursts with traffic: bodies of flesh and metal whirr past. Drizzle coats the roads and kaleidoscope lights shimmer off black pavements. Christmas in London; the weather's turned tepid, like a waning faith.

        He watches a couple; his eyes flick in quick saccades. Young and animated, their smug embrace rebukes his seclusion. He forages frayed pockets and retrieves battered cigarettes. The flare of his last match reveals an intelligent face that no one sees; his illumination is a speck against the commercial band of exhibits.

        A woman in spiky heels balances over a pushchair. She tugs to release a clip and flip a cover across a kicking toddler. Instinctively, Sam shifts forward. Then he remembers. He shrinks back into place; a residue of smoke escapes from the hollow where he waits.

        The jingle of coins cuts through a background chorus of carols. Sam tilts his head to a suited man who won't make eye contact with him. Five bright coins - he smiles. Perhaps he will go to the cafe, after all. He scoops up his bedding, stamps out his fag end and is swallowed by the masses.