It’s nice to see you, he says (in that ridiculous accent). I haven’t seen you around for a long time. (Cunt.) She doesn’t say anything, just stares up at him, tearily. He nods at her. Anyway (he makes some kind of European face), I’m leaving here soon. Maybe I’ll see you in the pub (he gives pub a weird intonation, like it’s some kind of arcane slang). And he nods at her – nice to see you, he says again – and walks back to his group.

Ollie watches him go and then looks back at Jeanie. Let’s key his car.

Jeanie nods. Yes, let’s. She wipes her nose on her hand.

He rolls her another cigarette and lights it for her. He watches her face. Wanna see my etchings?

Silence. She is staring miserably after Johann.

How about my kittens?

Jeanie turns. Are there really kittens, Ollie?

Kittens. And Glenfiddich.

On their way out they pass Jeremy Deller, who looks at Jeanie’s coat with, Ollie notes, some distaste.

The coat’s a hit, says Ollie. You should wear it more often.

They liberate a couple of beers from the bar and swig them expansively along Whitechapel, weaving through groups of student nurses coming off shift, then cut through Stepney towards the piss-and-concrete of the Burdett Road, where both of them live.

They run the gauntlet of Bengali boys on the wall as they enter the stairwell to Ollie’s flat, the boys – about twenty of them – quite obviously commentating in Sylheti.

It probably isn’t complimentary, says Ollie, punching in the key code.

They’ll set fire to a car later, says Jeanie.

Oh good, that’s something to look forward to.

They hold their breath in the lift and pause on the walkway to take in some slightly fresher air.

Ollie opens the front door. There’s a Britain First sticker on it that wasn’t there before. He scratches at it with his key. So do you want a drink?

Where are the kittens? There are kittens, aren’t there?

Course there are kittens. Would I lie to you about kittens? He pours them both a whisky.

Well, you are full of shit you know, Ollie. Cheers. She knocks her glass against his.

Ollie beckons her down the hall to his flatmate’s old room. They’re in here. He opens the door and turns on the small floor lamp, throwing a batik print over it to dim the light.

Ollie’s cat lies on her side on a towel on the stripped mattress. She raises her head, lowers it again and closes her eyes. Ollie shuts the door carefully behind them. They sit on the floor by the bed. The three tiny kittens are nestled to the mother. The black one in the middle moves; the others are asleep.