The 1974 Triumph Stag V8 prowled the country roads, oiled black angles flickering against the night like a mirage. Regan gripped the leather steering wheel and glanced behind her. Curled up on the back seat under a worn blanket, the kid slept, her head awkwardly positioned on the makeshift pillow of an AK-47 assault rifle. She was snoring.

 We didn’t speak. Not at first. Not for a long time. But then, London’s like that sometimes, isn’t it? Thousands of people occupying the same few miles, sitting on the same buses day in and day out on their way to wherever, recognizing the faces but never giving more than perhaps a nod and a grunt of recognition. It just isn’t done, talking to strangers. Not when you’re a grown up

So that’s how it was. At first the bench was solely my own, as it had been for years. I had probably become almost invisible to the regular visitors to the children’s play area in Paddington Street Gardens, as if I were maybe a statue that they saw so often it faded out of their immediate vision, creating space for newer and more exciting colours and shapes.