For the third time that afternoon, Murdo's bicycle chain slipped its cogs. His handlebars were blackened, probably his nose. It was even raining a little.
Old-fashioned terrace houses lined this street. Basement staircases surrounded by black iron railings jutted into the pavement, creating emergency bicycle repair bays between each house. Spaces for homeless people to sit.
A grey man on a milk crate was slumped to the right, under a torn quilt. On Murdo's left a young woman muttered and drank from a flask; past her a guy in torn clothes stared back in the mistaken belief he was the centre of attention. For in the third bay on the left stood a black girl in tears, mouthing something at Murdo. It wasn't quite 'help', but that was her expression.
He stood, then thought twice. Don't fall for a mugging trick in the big city. Maybe mental illness? But as he wheeled the bicycle closer, a Missionbeat van pulled up and a pair of uniformed professionals ran to the girl's assistance.
Murdo sighed, bent over the bicycle, grabbed the chain with both hands and heaved it back onto the cogs.
He stood wiping his hands on his handkerchief as the girl was bundled into the van. Again she looked at Murdo and mouthed the unknown word. He watched her resist, break free and sprint down a side street, a Missionbeat worker in pursuit.
The van roared around the corner. The old man in torn clothes rose and wailed, beating his head. Even the woman with the bottle was awake and staring.
Murdo pedalled after the van. He saw the pursuing aid worker tackle the girl against the road and throw her roughly into the van, which screeched into the next street. As it took the corner, something fell off the side. By the time Murdo reached the spot, the van was out of sight and all that remained was a magnetic "Missionbeat" sign lying in the gutter.