1975, London

As you returned from school a policeman was waiting at your door. He explained gently to you that earlier that day that your parents had died in a car crash. You were then told to pack a bag to take with you. You were taken to the police station where you had to stay for hours where they searched for someone to look after you. Finally, they managed to reach a friend of a family friend of a friend- not anyone you had ever met before, and not that they knew your parents- Roger. The police called Roger and explained the situation to him. Roger refused at first then swayed at the mention that he would be payed (however little) to look after you. You were then taken to Soho, 143 Wardour Street. The street was busy with drunks and sex workers, the streets sticky with beer and glowing with neon signs. The inside of the building smelt of oil and perfume. Faded limo covered the narrow creaky stairs. The police handed you over to Roger with so much as checking his criminal records for any worrying offences. Inside the flat there are posters stuck over the walls, ash trays scattered around, worn wooden floorboards, mismatched furniture and windows facing the street. Roger puts a round your shoulders and pulls you inside, rubbing your arm to calm you down.