I hope it gives you heartburn, she replied, and swore at the central locking on her patrol car when it flashed the indicators but failed to open the doors.

In no rush to get to Bennett Street, she took a roundabout route that weaved through the back streets of east Manchester. She beeped her horn and waved at the owner of the Manc Muffin, who always piled extra bacon on her breakfast barm. Then she circled around the back of the massive gas holders, slowing to admire their Scalextric-like structure, their framework bleak but bold against the washed-out sky. The regeneration triggered by the building of the Etihad Stadium hadn’t reached this far, but the redbrick terraced streets felt like home to her, and she hoped any eventual attempts to gentrify the area wouldn’t drive its soul from it.

She didn’t bother stopping at the front of the old mill. Every man and his dog knew that was where the padlocked gates and security warnings were. Instead, she drove slowly around the block toward the straight section that ran alongside the river. She and Kash had crawled through a gap in the fence there one night, on a mission to disrupt a medium-sized rave that hadn’t let a lack of electricity dampen its spirits.

Recognising the bright red slab of hoarding that marked the illicit entrance, she parked the car and tried to summon the energy to get out. The mill dominated the neighbourhood, towering above the tightly packed houses and spoiling the view from every backyard. It got set on fire once or twice a year, but it seemed impervious to serious harm, and no one would accept responsibility for its demolition. She snapped a photo, focusing on a broken window and bricks burned black and splintered at the edges, and then attached the image to a message for Jem. I’m going in. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, send help.

Jem must have been between emergencies, because a reply came quickly. Send help where, you pillock?

Bennett Street, Ardwick.

Christ, is that the old mill? Jem punctuated her question with horrified emojis. Are you on your own? Please don’t go upstairs. I went to a lad not long back who’d fallen through the second floor and mashed his brains.

Small world, Rosie thought. I’ll be fine, she typed, unsure why she had chosen to contact Jem and not Kash. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when I’m out.

Please do, and be careful. There are rats in there bigger than Alsatians.

No, there aren’t. Rosie sent the text and then tagged on an addendum. Shit. ARE there?

No, but they’re well organised and toothy. Crap, got a job. TEXT ME.

I will, I promise, Rosie replied, and got out of the car.