But there were always the hills, the mountains, the lochs, and the trees. There was work, even if it wasn’t always the best paid. The schools still had plenty of outdoor space to play. You could still cycle your bike into the village and feel most people knew who you were, or walk into your local bakery and get a hello and a French cake for 75 pence, and rich or poor, that was one of the best things Cormac knew.

Whereas here. There was an unpleasantly dark and dirty little convenience store with heavy bars on the windows and the security grilles halfway down. A huge dog was chained up outside and barked at him, setting off another few dogs barking around the place. Everything was grimy; nothing seemed friendly. Cormac was good with dogs—they didn’t put that on the job description but should have—but even he didn’t feel like extending his hand to be sniffed by this fearsome-looking beast who was showing his teeth at him.

“Good dog,” he muttered, heading on.

The lobby smelled absolutely dreadful, a concentrated mixture of hash and urine that made Cormac’s eyes sting. He’d been buzzed in, but the trundling old lift took a very long time to come. There was graffiti everywhere. As he waited, an old lady came in pulling a shopping trolley on wheels.

“Morning!” said Cormac, standing back to let her go ahead.

“Fuck off,” she said instantly, and they had to stand for what to Cormac felt like another five years before the lift finally arrived, smelling, if anything, actually worse. Two men got out, obviously in the middle of a fight about something, or so it sounded to Cormac.

“Yeah, roight, fing is you cahnt . . .” trailed behind them as they swaggered past, all aftershave and wide knees. They glanced at him as he got in the lift, and he kept staring straight ahead.

On the nineteenth floor the scent of dope was still pretty strong, but it was now mingled with food and cooking smells, some of which were good, some less so. He paced up the hallway, which was covered in dirty linoleum. Most of the lights were broken and there was no natural light at all. Cormac didn’t want to admit it, but he was nervous. His admiration for his counterpart was rising in leaps and bounds.

He could hear music playing behind the door of number 16 and he knocked gingerly, then louder when it became obvious nobody could hear him. Eventually he rapped loud enough that the noise was turned down inside and a tumble of voices answered the door. He glanced down at his notes as a burly man pulled the door open, surrounded by children.

“Mergim Kavaja?” said Cormac as best he could.

The man frowned at him.

“MerGIM KaVAja?” Cormac tried again, with the emphases on different syllables.