‘Take the fire escape stairs,’ Marlowe suggests. ‘It’s left out of the door, at the end of the hall. It’ll take you straight out onto the street.’

When he’s gone, Marlowe jerks her head towards the door Robbie emerged from. ‘I’m just going to…’

I follow her in. Tabby’s room is larger than I would have expected. Best guess: Marlowe gave her the biggest room. She’s probably sleeping in the shitty box room. This is definitely a haven, though. My heart aches at the effort Marlowe must have put in here. Strings of flower-shaped fairy lights cast their rose-pink glow, and in the corner is, I assume, the epic tent Athena organised.

But the real attraction lies in the middle of the room, where the little girl who’s already stolen my heart sleeps peacefully. Her blonde hair covers most of her face, and I wish I could stroke it. I remember how soft it feels. I’m glad she has this sanctuary, even if the illusion of safety in here is just that.

An illusion.

I watch as Marlowe bends to kiss her head and then I follow her out to the main living area. It’s clear she takes pride in keeping her home clean and cheery, but the colourful prints and the bunch of cheapo supermarket flowers can’t detract from the stark reality: that this is a tiny, badly constructed flat in an unsafe block in a rough neighbourhood. Marlowe doesn’t belong here.

Even if she’s not ready to step into the professional glory that could await her, she should at the very least have a life where her safety, and that of Tabby’s, is a certainty.

‘Thanks for an amazing evening,’ she says to me distractedly. ‘It meant so much to me. I’m going to hit the sack, so you can go now⁠—’

‘Not on your life. I’m not going anywhere. Not while those stabby little shitheads are around. I’m calling the police.’

‘You can’t call the police,’ she hisses. ‘They never give me any hassle, but you just went full alpha male on them. Of course they’re going to act out if they’re provoked. But if you call the cops it’ll raise a whole load of trouble for me and everyone else in here.’

‘They can’t get away with shit like that—holding court down there in a public space and threatening other residents.’

‘It was very clear to them that you’re not a resident,’ she argues, and I glare at her. ‘Semantics. I’m calling the fucking cops.’ I pull my phone out, and she grabs it.