I let the city swallow me up in another Saturday night, walking down the length of Gerrard Street, the smell of roast duck making my mouth water, and then taking a random side street, where an older, dimly lit Chinatown still exists, and voices from doorways call out to a man walking alone.

I heard the heels behind me.

Click-click, they went. Click-click.

‘Ni hau,’ she said.

She was mainland Chinese, wrapped up for some sub-zero winter in Beijing or Shenyang, still new enough to this life to look nervous as we stood facing each other in the Chinatown twilight.

‘Ni hau,’ I said.

‘Are you alone?’ she said.

It was a good question. I shook my head, smiled, suddenly knowing that Chinatown had nothing for me tonight. I ran back to the car and drove north, parking outside the one-bedroom flat above a shop on the wrong side of Highbury Corner.

There was a light on in Edie Wren’s apartment.

We had not spoken since the end of Golden Years. I did not know if the married man was still in her life. I did not know if she was angry with me for Lil having to leave the best place she ever lived. I did not know very much at all.

But I knew there was nowhere else I would rather be than standing on the street where Edie Wren lived.

It was Saturday night.

What else can I tell you?

I rang her bell.

MAX WOLFE RETURNS IN 2018 …

Tell Him He’s Dead