William ate slowly, thinking about the homeless person that he had handed the last thermos and paper bundle to. She had looked like many others, scare... that he would reject her, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her and sneer. He remembered the timidity with which she had taken the coffee, the age and threadbare nature of the coat, the shoes bound up with string. He made a mental note to find her down at the shelter in the morning and give her what clothing he had in the warehouse. The house at. "She's a fucking waste of space. All Mum ever does is mainline and turn tricks for arseholes." Not like you, of course," said Babushka Oxana sardonically, despite knowing that any hint of reproof would be totally lost on her wayward granddaughter."Fuck no," said Olive affronted. "My mum's a fucking pin-cushion. I'd never stick needles in my arm and I'm not a fucking whore."But now, just two weeks later, Olive wasn't sure about the truth of either assertion. Survival would be well nigh. More

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