She squatted near the market, knees ballooning under her flowered skirt. A sooty Shetland jumper and men’s boots. Her black hair below the headscarf was tangled with twigs and dust.

“Pleeeze,” her brown eyes called as her outstretched fingers convulsed round nonexistent money. Her whine became a dirge. “Pleeeze, money for hostel, street no good.”

Shoppers turned from the alien, abject tones. They preferred their beggars brusque and insulting.

Joe stood bewitched by her moustache and the metal in her ear. Pulling from his dad, he poured his sweets money into the wide lap, down to the last falling penny.

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