She went to Maritime Street, feeling the alcohol in her system accelerated by sunshine. She couldn’t handle her drink now like she could when she was younger, found herself buzzing as she strode across the cobbles to the vennel and the studio. She walked up and tried the door, and to her surprise it opened. She went into an empty foyer, narrow corridors in both directions. She noticed that the buzzer system and lock on the door were both busted. A beer crate acting as a coffee table had a spread of community flyers and notices, exhibitions, drop-in workshops, some crap about tribal drumming, chakra realignment. On the walls were posters for local gigs, galleries and clubs, all cheap, lo-fi stuff.

She hesitated then went right. She could smell burning plastic, other kinds of industrial smells she couldn’t identify. The corridor had three doors off to the left, all unmarked, cheap plywood. She walked to the end and back, then along the other corridor, which 131was the same except with a scabby toilet at the end. She knocked on the nearest door, no answer, then tried the handle. Locked. Same at the next one. Knocked on the third and got ‘Just a minute.’

A woman in her late twenties opened the door, a lit blowtorch in one hand, goggles pushed into her mess of curly red hair, wearing orange overalls that made her look like a terrorist prisoner. She stuck her chin out.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hi, I was thinking of renting one of these studios, do you know if any are free at the moment?’

The blue flame of the blowtorch flickered as the woman moved her hands about. ‘Maybe, I think Derek committed himself to the psych ward again. In and out of that place. He struggled to pay rent anyway, so I reckon the owner would be happy to see someone else.’

‘Could I have a look at it?’ Jenny said.

‘Mohammed will have a spare key but he’s not around.’

‘Are they all the same?’

‘More or less.’

‘Could I check out yours, just for two secs?’

The woman thought for a moment then opened the door.

Jenny walked in, the smell of welding strong. The room was dominated by a six-foot sculpture made from rusty scrap, shaped into an embracing couple, two naked women. A cut-down car door panel had been beaten into the shape of a leg and lay on the floor beneath the sculpture, as if the woman in the embrace had just been in an accident. The rest of the room was cluttered with old metal junk, bigger pieces on the floor, smaller ones on a long table. A large sink, a corkboard, posters everywhere. The room was surprisingly light, much bigger windows on this side of the building flooding the space.

Jenny chewed her lip. ‘Have you got a number for Mohammed?’132