On the inside, I was rejoicing. I shared Pierce’s disgust at this Mumford-infested travesty, but it had at least shut down his bizarre plan to get attacked. I might even be able to get a drink. We could sit down, and I could record a few essential quotes on my phone, and I might even be able to write a few lines tomorrow, enough to get Eddie and Polly off my back, some red meat to throw into the Monday meeting on Friday.

‘Not much risk of getting mugged here,’ I said, trying to conceal my relief. ‘Robbed, maybe, if we buy a beer.’

Pierce came to a sudden stop, feet scrunching on the woodchips. We had reached a clearing in the midst of the shipping containers, surrounded by boutiques, bar fronts and Brazil-themed fast food outlets run by ex-financiers. Cumin and turmeric wafted through the night air and there was a burst of sizzling as something was flipped on a grill. A nearby group burst into educated laughter, making a big physical display of it, slapping legs and patting each other on the back. One, overcome with mirth, took off his flat cap and scratched his shaved head.

‘When I was younger, in the eighties or nineties, this place was …’ Pierce began. ‘You wouldn’t come here.’ He waved his arm at the banner that dominated the clearing: VILLAGE GREEN @ CASTLE GARDENS. Community will be at the heart of everything we do.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ I said. ‘Talk.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Pierce inattentively. ‘We will, but I want to see …’

We crossed the clearing. Chalkboards advertised henna tattoos and curried goat burritos and wildstyle graffiti masterclasses from street art professionals. Under a thicket of patio heaters, a young man in a pork pie hat had stripped down to his string vest and was languorously grooving to the music, as if this were London Fields at the height of summer.

‘What is this music?’ I asked Pierce. It was the same artist, or similar, lisping and strumming away winsomely.

‘“Lithium”,’ Pierce said. ‘A cover.’

Before, our view of the far half of the long slab block of flats had been obscured by a tower of scaffolding, which supported floodlights, speakers and a climbing wall. The container-street spread out into another large open area, larger than the ‘village green’, thinly filled with a crowd lounging on branded picnic blankets and deckchairs under additional groves of patio heaters. Many were sitting on the stumps of fallen trees. Above them, projected onto the skin of the shrink-wrapped council block, Jurassic Park was into its final half-hour. But the crowd’s attention was divided. Although many were watching the film, more were focused on where the plastic dermis of the block ended in a ragged, twisting line.