‘I require your national insurance number.’ The clerk speaks through glass, making it difficult to hear him. He repeats what he has said. ‘I haven’t one over here.’ The clerk directs her to where the forms are, pointing behind her. He mentions a permanent address, stating that that will be necessary. ‘I haven’t anywhere permanent. I’ve had my money stolen.’ ‘An address is required on a benefit application.’ Overhearing this conversation, a middle-aged man with waist-length hair and torn clothes says Felicia is wasting her time, an opinion confirmed by a girl trailing a dog on a string. The girl has a safety-pin hanging from a nostril. Her hair is pink and blue, tomahawk style. Felicia says she has been staying at the Salvation Army hostel, but they tell her that won’t do for an address. The man says the benefit’s no loss: if he was beginning again himself he would keep well clear of the System and its computers. Once you fill in a form you’re harassed for ever. Earn a wage for a day and half of it’s taken off you to buy false teeth for old-age pensioners. ‘Play music, do you? Pity,’ the girl adds when Felicia shakes her head. That evening the hostel is full when she arrives. In a Spud-U-Like she spends some of her money on a cup of tea and asks the people whose table she shares if the bus station remains open all night. It’s not something they’d know, they say. On the street again, she is accosted by two men loitering outside a pool-hall. They want to know her name and when she tells them they want to know where she’s from. They say they can fix her up, but she doesn’t understand. She feels frightened and hurries on. ‘Get off out of this street,’ a woman whose face is green in the night-light orders when she sets her bags down for a moment in a shop doorway. ‘Move yourself.’ The woman is big, with artificial fur on the coat, and earrings shaped like hearts. Felicia says she is only having a rest. ‘Rest yourself somewhere else then.’ ‘D’you know is the bus station open all night?’ ‘What d’you want the bus place for?’ ‘I need somewhere for the night.’ A car draws up beside them. ‘Business, love?’ The woman simpers as the driver winds down the window. ‘She ain’t on the game,’ she adds, jerking her head towards Felicia. The man opens the car door and the woman gets in beside him. ‘How’re you doing?’ another voice asks when another car draws up. ‘No,’ Felicia says. She walks on, reaching streets that are familiar to her, where the night-time traffic is busy. Clothes are displayed in the fashion windows, their bald-headed models prancing in affected motion, pouting at nothing. Building societies offer mortgage rates. A cardboard man and woman stride forward, holding a roof above their heads: 8.25% the enticement is. Sports equipment and ski clothing vie for attention with furniture and shoes. Washing machines and microwave ovens are in a sale.