“We’re here today because someone has touched your life,” says the priest. “You can say Kane’s life is a tragic story and he’s a lost soul. Perhaps you’re right. But the measure of a life is how many other lives it touches, and Kane’s life has touched many people’s lives. It’s touched yours, that’s why we’re here. Everything becomes yesterday’s news, but we can’t let that happen.”

The chapel is packed for Kane Walker’s funeral, and tensions are running high. Around 130 people have turned up at Perry Barr crematorium in Birmingham on a bright February day to pay their last respects. It is just over a month since he died, aged 31, and those at the service are angry. How could a young man be allowed to die of pneumonia and a drug overdose in a freezing city underpass? It wasn’t as if Kane was unknown to the police, outreach teams, the ambulance service or the local community. He had spent years sleeping in doorways and sheltering beneath bridges. Everybody knew Kane Walker – even if not by name. And it would seem, everybody loved him.

He was the kind of person who if you dropped your keys would come chasing you down the street with them, ‘here you are, here you are’ Oliver Obee

Yet here they are fighting over the legacy of his life. You can sense the unease even before the service starts. The crowd at the crematorium is divided into distinct groups. Smart girls in pinstriped suits wearing RIP Kane T-shirts, godly folk, and a band of young adults with damaged teeth who, despite their best efforts, still look the worse for wear. There is little intermingling.

Like many people who grew up in care, Kane had several families – and, at the same time, none. So here today are cousins, nieces and nephews from his biological family, the foster family he spent eight years with, and his street family. Every group seems to regard the others with suspicion. Fingers are pointed, and the same question asked time and again – where were you when Kane needed you? When they aren’t blaming each other, they are blaming the system.

While Kane’s biological family make it clear they don’t want to talk to us, his homeless friends are more welcoming. Natalie White met him “bobbing” on the street four years ago. “He was joyful when I first got to know him. He didn’t know what the streets were like, so we helped him. It’s what friends do.” White says the streets gradually wore him down. “I saw him two days before he died. He was in a really bad way – physically, mentally. He’d just drowned. He’d gone from somebody who was really hopeful to somebody who’d had enough. If the government helped more, Kane would still be here now. Everybody who’s died on the streets would still be here now.”

White says she’s lucky. She’s not taken drugs for three years now and has rebuilt her life. She is living in nearby accommodation, and would eventually like to get a job working with homeless people. She says Kane was cursed by “black mamba” – the synthetic cannabinoid also known as spice. Mamba is the street drug for rough sleepers because it is cheap. And it is deadly. “It’s the worst drug in the world. It’s horrible,” she says. “It makes you walk round like a zombie and takes away the hope.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Photograph: Provided by the Walker Family

In the chapel, the priest admits he didn’t know Kane personally. But, he says, he has heard positive things about a man who couldn’t have had it much tougher. He tells us what little he does know of his life: that his father died in a bike crash before he was born; that he spent much of his childhood in care before being returned to his grandmother; that both his mother and grandmother died some years ago within a short space of time. As with so many people who die homeless on the streets and come from the care system, the details are pitifully scant. The priest fast forwards to Kane’s final days, and the shock of his death.

Oliver Obee, a young artist and photographer, talks movingly about befriending Kane. “Even on the worst of days, he would always ask me how I was feeling, how my day had been and if my mum was OK. I’d offer to get the teas and he’d be like: ‘Nonono, I’ll get them.’ He’d get a big handful of 2p coins and he’d rustle up the coppers. He was the kind of person who if you dropped your keys would come chasing you down the street with them: ‘Here you are, here you are!’”

Obee mentions his friend’s addiction to black mamba, and says that even when high Kane tried to protect him from the drug. “He’d say: ‘Sit on the other side, I don’t want the smoke to go in your face.’ He was still conscientious even when under the influence. Once I was walking through town and there was another lad having a mamba attack, and I was suddenly aware of Kane appearing and saying: ‘You’ve got to call an ambulance now.’ Although he was under the influence himself, he knew quicker than me what to do, and those were precious seconds saved.”

Obee says his favourite memory is of Kane singing. “On the street he always loved to sing. He was a surprisingly good singer.”

“He was always singing, brother,” shouts out one of Kane’s homeless friends from the back of the church.

Durcella Davis, a conservatively dressed woman in her 60s, introduces herself to the congregation as Kane’s foster mother. She speaks with quiet conviction in a Jamaican lilt. “When Kane came to me he’d had 10 moves in six months. I was his last resort. He was hard work, but he had love and care from myself and the family.” She says when he left her home he kept in touch throughout his life, and continued to call her Mum. “He was happy [with us]. On one occasion he told me it was the best time he’d had. It was nice to know. A couple of weeks before he died he said to me: ‘Mum, don’t worry about me,’ because the day before I’d been crying and said: ‘Kane you’ve got to get off the streets.’ And he said: ‘Mum you taught me a lot, and everything I am now is what you taught me.’ I brought him up as a Christian. His own mum wanted me to bring him up that way because I asked her, and as a Jehovah’s witness we know that he’ll get a resurrection.”

Q&A What is 'The empty doorway' - the Guardian series on people who died homeless? Show Hide 726 homeless people died in England and Wales in 2018, according to the latest ONS figures. Over the next few months, G2 and Guardian Cities will look behind this statistic to tell the stories of some of those who have died on Britain’s streets. We will tell not just the story of their death, but the story of their life – what they were like as kids, what their dreams were, their hobbies, what people loved about them, what was infuriating. We will also examine what went wrong with their lives, how it impacted on their loved ones, and if anything could have been done differently to prevent their deaths. As the series develops, we will invite politicians, charities and homelessness organisations to respond to the issues raised. We will also ask readers to offer their own stories and reflections on homelessness. We want the stories we tell to become the fulcrum of a debate about homelessness; to make a difference to a scourge that shames us all. It is time to stop just passing by.

There is a disapproving murmur in the church. “Excuse me,” says a woman loudly. “You said you wouldn’t talk about this.” Mrs Davis is brought to a premature, confused finish. “Thank you very much everybody,” she says with dignity, as she steps down.

Outside the chapel, the sense of division is growing. “Do you know where the wake is being held?” a man with dreadlocks asks an upset woman. “I’m not going,” Alexandra Davis says. “The way they shut down Mum off the stage was out of order. They need to have respect. Everybody’s grieving.” She looks at the man with dreadlocks. “Who are you?” she asks him. “I’m pastor Colin Rankine, the one who highlighted it [Kane Walker’s plight]. I filmed Kane and fed him for four years on the streets.” Her face lights up. “Oh yeah, you did really well. He was hugging you in the film wasn’t he? My mum was the foster carer. I’m Kane’s sister.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Alexandra Davis, Kane Walker’s sister. Photograph: Fabio De Paola/The Guardian

Rankine is a controversial figure. He is an evangelical Christian who heads up his own ministry and does outreach work. Some people regard him as a saviour of Birmingham’s street homeless people, while others believe he is a self-publicist who just wants to convert the homeless to his brand of Christianity. Wherever the truth lies, it is unlikely we would have learned about Kane’s life without Rankine.

Rankine feeds, prays for and films the street homeless people of Birmingham. He says he is documenting it all because somebody has to bear witness. After Kane’s death, he provided local television stations with heartbreaking footage taken in 2018 of the young man. Kane is in such distress that it is almost unwatchable. “I’m done now. There’s no point, brother, I’m not going to be here. I’m not living like this no more. This ain’t my life,” he tells Rankine, who is trying to comfort him with a cup of tea. “I’m done, Colin! I’m done. I’m done! You’ve never seen me like this before! I’m done! I am done, brother. I’m done. Oh God. I can’t do it no more. I can’t do it no more.”

Play Video 0:45 Footage of a distraught Kane Walker filmed by Pastor Colin Rankine in 2018 – video

Rankine told ITV: “There are thousands of Kanes up and down the country. We as a nation can draw together. It’s all about showing love. It’s all about not vilifying people for being poor. Meanwhile, Obee went on TV to talk about the abuse his friend endured on the streets. “Kane told me that on a regular basis he was kicked, spat on; he’d wake up several times and he’d have been urinated on in the night. I’d see him regularly with black eyes and cut. There was not a lot of help for him there and there should have been.”

In mid-February, a month after Kane’s death, Liam Byrne, the Labour MP for Birmingham Hodge Hill, calls homelessness a “moral emergency”. Speaking after a memorial service for Kane, Byrne says: “We’ve just brought together homelessness charities across the city to meet with members of parliament about what we need to do to make sure there is never another homeless person dying in our city.” Byrne proposes new legislation that would require public services to work together to prevent homelessness and ensure there is an independent review after every death of a homeless person, and he says it should be called Kane’s law.

Drug workers are having to tell people ‘Go back on heroin because we know how to detox you on heroin, but we don’t know how to detox you from mamba.’ Liam Byrne

In May, Byrne enjoys a small victory when Birmingham’s Safeguarding Adults board agrees to a “formal multi-agency” review into Kane’s death. Astonishingly, it emerges that in 2017-18 it did not investigate the circumstances of a single one of the estimated 18 deaths of homeless people that occurred in the city. The council says outreach workers were reluctant to report vulnerable adults, while outreach workers tell us they simply didn’t know safeguarding adult reviews (SARs) existed. Rankine tells us he passed on his concerns about Kane to the council’s street intervention team, but that they were never acted on.

Birmingham is a city in crisis. It may still be the UK’s largest council landlord, and it may be building more council homes through Birmingham Municipal Housing Trust than any other local authority, but these facts put a deceptive gloss on the housing situation. The number of properties owned by Birmingham city council has halved since the 1980s, from more than 120,000 units to 61,000. The overall estimate is that there are now 20,000 homeless people in the city. The council receives 600 applications every month from people who fear they are about to become homeless.

Homelessness could happen to any of us – the numbers shame us all | Liam Byrne Read more

A rise in street homelessness inevitably leads to a rise in drug addiction, and vice versa. There were 252 deaths related to drug poisoning in the city between 2016 and 2018 – the highest number since records began in 2001. Meanwhile, the correlation between being brought up in care and adult homelessness is stark. While one in 144 children have been in care at some point in their lives, one in four homeless people have been in care.

It is July, six months since Kane Walker died, and we meet Liam Byrne in his office at Portcullis House, opposite the Houses of Parliament. Byrne’s team has done research on key underlying causes of homelessness. They discovered that the mental healthcare caseload is rising four times faster than the budget, while there has been a 20% fall in funding for drug and alcohol treatment. For Byrne, the issue is personal – his father and paternal grandparents were alcoholics, and his grandmother and uncle had schizophrenia. They weren’t homeless, he says, but they so easily could have been.

Byrne is bright, open and very emotional. He weeps twice in our presence – once when talking about a homeless double amputee he met in an underpass while doing outreach (“He was still in his hospital gown with his hospital tag on. It took us two hours to get him an ambulance”) and again when describing the memorial service he attended for Kane.

Kane Walker Photograph: Courtesy of the Family

Was he angry about Kane’s death? “Furious. So furious I decided to run as mayor because I can’t be a bystander any more and watch people die on the streets.” The election is next May, and if he wins he will stand down as an MP. How was he failed? “In Kane’s case, the failure was deep in childhood. A lot of people can tell you about the effort that was made to try to help Kane in the last couple of years of his life. Some pretty serious outreach tried to catch him.” But he knows it wasn’t good enough. “When you have a broken care system and no mental health services and no addiction services, then it is very difficult to set people on a good path.” After Kane’s death it was also alleged that the ambulance service failed to get him to hospital promptly.

Byrne is particularly horrified by the grip spice has on homeless people. Not only is it deadly, he says, but there has been no investment in detox programmes. “Because every mix is different, drug workers are having to tell people: ‘Go back on heroin because we know how to detox you on heroin, but we don’t know how to detox you from mamba.’ You’ve got to ask yourself why, in Birmingham, addiction services have been cut back so dramatically when there is this epidemic of psychoactive substances that we don’t know how to unravel. There wasn’t an emergency drug treatment programme available to Kane because we don’t know what the pathways of care look like. That is the scandal of Kane’s story.”

Are people looking for a programme yet? “I don’t think they are. I don’t think people give a shit.” Although the coroner ruled that the principal cause of death was a heroin overdose and that a contributory cause was pneumonia, spice was found in his system. His friends are convinced it was this that killed him.

Seven months after first getting in touch with Alexandra Davis, she agrees to see us. She suffers from anxiety and depression, and has struggled since Kane’s death. Talking about him tends to make her feel worse, she says, so she tries to avoid the subject. We meet at St Martin’s church in the Bull Ring – a bustling hub with market stalls and shops where Kane liked to hang out. She asks for one favour. “Please don’t call Kane my foster brother. To me, he was my brother, and I was his sister.”

Davis turns up with her two children. Levi, 10, and Pearl, five, are lively, lovable and perfectly behaved. Both have fond memories of Kane. Levi shows me a photo of Kane on the day they took him to get a new phone on 20 July last year. That was an important day for all of them.

Kane was four when he walked into Alex’s life; she was a year older. “I just remember this young pale-skinned boy coming into the house. He had a big grin on his face. He looked very innocent, so happy. I was so excited.” Davis’s parents had taken in foster children before, and continued to do so after his arrival. But Kane was different. He stayed with them for eight years. And when he finally left, none of them wanted him to go because he was family.

“Our lives were relatively privileged,” Davis says. “We had apple trees, plum trees, a pear tree. We’d go in the garden, grab a little basket and spend time picking fruit and playing.” They would ride bikes, play with her dolls. Davis was the youngest of five girls. In summer, they would all go on holiday together – Alex, her four sisters, their mother and father, Kane, and often one other fostered boy. “We’d go to Prestatyn in a minivan and dad would drive us around. We’d go to the beaches and stay in chalets at Pontin’s. Kane used to love dancing with the human teddy bears during the holiday. We’d all be dancing and enjoying ourselves.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Kane Walker aged 8 with sisters Cecilia Davis (left) and Alexandra Davis. Photograph: Fabio De Paola

Were they into music as kids? “Oh yeah. Kane loved music. His favourite song was 21 Seconds and he memorised all the lyrics. He’d rap and really move to it.” They used to say that Kane could be an actor when he grew up. He performed in plays at school and church, and sometimes he and Davis would put on improvised dramas at home. “We did one for Mum and Dad’s anniversary about God testing Abraham’s faith and telling him to kill his son. Just before he killed his son the angel came and told him to stop. I was the director and Kane was the actor. He played the part so good.” He was bright, she says, but struggled with reading. “I think he was a bit dyslexic.”

Young Kane and Alex were inseparable. Then suddenly he wasn’t there any more. She thinks she was 13 when they were told that Kane was going to live with his grandmother. Can she remember the day he left? “It was horrible. We were all crying.” She later discovered her parents had hoped to adopt Kane.

He would occasionally return to visit the family, but she says he seemed different – less innocent and carefree. “After he left my mum he got into drug-taking, and when people take drugs they get desperate don’t they? I was told he was taking heroin soon after he left.” After one visit when he was 16, Davis discovered her phone was missing. Her mother told her Kane had stolen it. She didn’t believe her. So her parents took her round to Kane’s house, where he burst out crying and admitted he had taken it. She was devastated, and broke off contact with him.

For around eight years they never saw each other, though she didn’t stop thinking about him. She still doesn’t know what he was doing in this time. But one of Rankine’s videos provides a clue: Kane tells the pastor he and his then girlfriend had been living in council property, but became homeless after being penalised by the bedroom tax.

One day Davis saw him sitting on a street with his girlfriend. She was shocked. “She was skin and bone, like she was going to die. And he told me she was pregnant. I looked at her and thought there is no way her body would be able to maintain carrying a child. I was shocked about the state of him and his situation.” He told her that both his mother and grandmother had died. When she replied that her own mother wasn’t very well, Kane went ballistic. “He said: ‘No! It’s not your mum, it’s my mum. Your mum is my mum,’ and he gives me a big lecture. ‘You’re my sister. You’re not my foster sister. She’s not my foster mum. She’s. My. Mum.’ He said ‘Why did they take me away from mum, because I was happy there.’”

From then on she saw him regularly on the streets. He told her things he had withheld when they were young. He said he had been abused as a child before he came to the Davises. “I think he had wanted to protect me from it,” she says. “When he got older he was very vocal about saying what had happened to him. He just blurted everything out. It was heartbreaking.”

What upset her most was seeing him sitting on the pavement. She thought he was humiliating himself. “One day, I said: ‘I’ve had enough of this. Just get up now. You weren’t raised on the floor, that’s not where you came from. I said: ‘I’m serious, I’m sick and tired of going to sleep worried whether you’re dead or alive. Get up now.’ And I said: ‘We’re going to support you, get you a phone, and you will not sell this phone.’”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Kane Walker and Alexandra Davis. Photograph: Courtesy of the Family

Did he seem different? “He was troubled and agitated, but you could see he was the same Kane.” Was he still smiling? She shakes her head. “He wasn’t smiling. I could see he was in serious difficulty.” Davis might never have experienced street homelessness, but she understood what Kane was going through. She and her children had briefly ended up homeless after fleeing an abusive relationship.

Over the next few months she would often meet Kane in town, and take him for a meal with the children. One day he was distraught. “I said: ‘Come here and give your sister a big hug.’ And he said, ‘I’ve got HIV.’ He was in tears, and I was so upset. I said: ‘Don’t worry. We can do this together, you can go on medication and still have a normal life.’” She was told he had been gang raped on the streets, but doesn’t know if that was true.

After buying him the phone, they became as close as they had been when they were children. For four months they would talk to each other every day. “It wasn’t just once either, he’d call me eight times a day. Sometimes he’d be great – ‘Hi Alex, how are you doing, sis?’ – and sometimes it was like: ‘I don’t want to live any more.’”

Davis took Kane to hospital appointments and out for meals with the children. Even though he was unkempt, she felt proud to be with him. “He had this fast, strong walk. He was so confident in town. He’d be going around saying: ‘Hi, hi,’ to everyone. When I walked around town with him I felt protected. He had a swagger.” Kane moved off the streets and into a hostel, and appeared to be doing well.

And then around October last year the calls stopped. Davis learned later that his phone had been stolen. She went into town and couldn’t find him. She called the local hostels, and eventually one said he had been living there but had moved out. She wasn’t sure if he had left of his own accord or been kicked out. In tears, she called the police, said she was terrified for him and asked if they knew where he was. Later that night, she received a call from the police saying he’d been spotted walking around town and was fine, but they could not disclose any more information. “I said ‘I’ve been taking care of him, I’ve been doing support work with him, I need to know where he is.’ They said: ‘Sorry, that’s not information we’re willing to disclose to you.’ And a couple of months later my brother was dead.”

It’s 9.30pm in the centre of Birmingham and Rankine’s team is about to start the night’s outreach. They come out armed with sandwiches, drinks and prayers. There seems to be someone sleeping rough – or trying to sleep – in every nook and cranny of the city. Dave is in his late 60s, has a gammy leg and has been sleeping rough for most of his adult life. Sam, in his 20s, split up from his girlfriend three weeks ago and is begging outside a pub. He has no addiction issues, but you wonder what state he will be in if he doesn’t get support soon. He says he won’t touch the hostels because they are full of booze, drugs and violence. A story we hear time and again – all over the country.

Homelessness is now part of all our lives. Here's what you can do to help Read more

Rankine asks the homeless people whether they will pray with him, and tells them he is baptising at the weekend if they are interested. Some actively want to pray with him, some agree to, and a few tell him to get lost. “Fuck off, I don’t want to be ambushed by a priest!” shouts one man. Rankine smiles. “It’s OK,” he tells us. “He’ll be begging for that prayer in a couple of weeks. These streets are not nice. If he doesn’t pray, who’s going to protect him tonight when he’s sleeping? I know guys who will come along, start searching his things and stamp on his head. If that guy dies tonight, he’ll do so without a prayer.” Rankine may not be to everybody’s taste, but he clearly has a genuine relationship with many of Birmingham’s street homeless.

It’s midnight and we’re in the grounds of St Philip’s Cathedral, known as Pigeon Park – a common meeting place for the homeless and outreach workers. A group of young people gather. There are two main topics of conversation – black mamba and the latest roll-call of street deaths. Whatever postmortems may show, they are sure it’s mamba that’s killing the homeless. One drag and it can be fatal, they say. They talk among themselves about the recent death of Fungi, who starred in the reality TV show Benefits Street. Fungi did not die on the streets, but he had been homeless on and off for many years, and was much loved.

Dan and Rachel are recovering addicts who were friends of Kane. With the help of Rankine, they have managed to get off the streets and are now living in decent accommodation. Tonight they are out to catch up with homeless friends and chat. Things are good, they say, but they miss their street family.

Rachel and Dan are discussing Kane’s final day and why paramedics didn’t take him to hospital when they were called to him early in the morning. Another friend had called an ambulance because he was delirious and appeared to be overdosing. Kane refused to be seen by the paramedics, putting his sleeping bag over his head and saying he wanted to sleep. Rachel and Dan say he was in no fit state to make that decision, and that if he had been taken to hospital his life could have been saved. Other friends also say this to us. An ambulance was again called to Kane that afternoon, but when it arrived he was no longer breathing. He was confirmed dead at the scene at 4.16pm on 27 January this year.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Pastor Colin Rankine, who documented Kane’s life in the course of his outreach work. Photograph: Fabio De Paola/The Guardian

They lead us across the park to a shrine for the latest homeless person to die on the streets. Miguel was in his 20s and died in the doorway of a Lloyds bank. There are cellophane-wrapped flowers and a banner with pictures of a smiling young man saying: “You are unforgettable Miguel.” The message has been smudged by the rain and is fast becoming illegible.

West Midlands ambulance service confirms it was called out twice to treat Kane that day – first at 8.27am, then at 3.39pm. “After assessing the patient,” it says, “the crew discharged him noting that the patient had refused treatment; they provided advice to Mr Walker’s friends at the scene that they should call 999 immediately if they had further concerns. No further calls were received until 3.39pm. The second call was to the same location … Unfortunately, despite advanced life support, it was not possible to save Mr Walker.”

When invited to respond to comments made by Kane’s friends about the treatment he received, the ambulance service says: “Based on the comments the paper [the Guardian] has provided, a senior clinician has been assigned to review these two cases [the two callouts to Kane] to examine if there is any learning that can be taken from them. We would welcome the opportunity to speak to any of Mr Walker’s friends who have concerns.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Kane in 2018 alongside Oliver Obee’s portrait of him, on display in Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. Photograph: Courtesy of the Family

It’s eight months since Kane died. Kane’s law is no nearer to becoming a reality, and Byrne says if he is elected mayor next May he hopes to introduce localised legislation in Birmingham. But there is another problem. While Byrne talks about the importance of safeguarding adult reviews for every death of a homeless person so we can discover everything that went wrong, the council won’t even share basic information with us about Kane’s life, such as whether he had care-leaver status (ie, was a care leaver at 16), what support he received, and whether anybody from the council’s vulnerable adults team was assigned to him. When we ask about Kane’s care record, the council says it will not provide this “without someone’s explicit permission”. But in this case it is not apparent whose permission it would seek; WKane’s parents and grandparents are dead, and he has no obvious next of kin.

Back in the Bull Ring, Alex tells us that Kane’s dream was to start a foundation for homeless people providing food, counselling and therapy. She would love to do that on his behalf, but says she hasn’t got a clue where to start. She is still putting her faith in Kane’s law, and has a simple question for Byrne: “When will Kane’s law come into effect, because I can see plenty of homeless people sitting on the floor around Birmingham. It seems to me there is a lot of talk and not enough action.”

Homeless deaths: share your tributes Read more

She talks about the happy times she shared with her brother, and shows us a photograph of her and Kane together alongside a moving and detailed drawing of him. It was taken last year and means so much to her. “One day he said: ‘Come! Come!’ And I was like: ‘Where are you taking me?’ And he said: ‘I want to show you something.’ He goes: ‘People say I’m nothing, but I’m somebody. I’m famous. I’m in Birmingham Art Gallery.’ And I went: ‘Liar, I don’t believe you.’ And he said: ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ So I’m running because he was walking so fast, and it was a really hot summer. And we got to the gallery and there it was. And I was like: ‘Oh my God! You are in Birmingham Art Gallery.’ And he said: ‘I told you!’” The portrait is by Obee, who gave a eulogy at Kane’s funeral. Davis zooms in on the photo. “Look at his eyes. He’s smiling with his eyes.”

After their visit to the gallery, he went back to his hostel and spruced himself up. That night Kane called Davis. “He said: ‘Alex, I’ve had a wash and my clothes have been washed.’ He was so happy. He said, ‘See sis, I told you. I am somebody.’”

In the UK, Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. If you are worried about becoming homeless, contact the housing department of your local authority to fill in a homeless application. You can use the Gov.uk website to find your local council

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