‘Here we are,’ De Chauncey said. We were outside the flagship branch of Wolfe / De Chauncey, a warm slab of light held behind sheet glass. The office was closed, the spots over the desks were dimmed, but the LED-rimmed properties in the window shone like an inaccessible constellation containing habitable worlds. The glass-fronted fridge, a doll’s-house version of the store that contained it, still displayed its soldier ranks of San Pellegrino and Cobra. Its blue glow revealed the Street Art wall and the quieted mixing decks where DJs strutted during the day, laying ambient beats over property transactions.

‘Home sweet home,’ I said. I didn’t want to do the interview, but I did still want the lift. I could just grit my teeth and let him talk.

‘Cars are parked round the side,’ De Chauncey said. Next to the office was a narrow alley, lit only by what reached it from the main road.

As I turned into the alley, the side wall of the office was caught by the sweeping headlights of a passing car. My foot caught on a cobble and I stumbled – my phone slipped from my hand and clattered onto the ground.

A giant cockatoo was waiting in the alley. It stood two storeys tall, feet apart, the yellow feathers on the back of its head raised in a fan. It scowled down at me.

I fell into a crouch, wanting to retrieve my phone from wherever it had fallen, but also to tear myself away from this vast apparition, daring to be certain that it would be gone by the time I looked up. My phone had not broken or landed in a puddle, but the voice recording had stopped. I tried to wipe the dirty water from its screen but succeeded only in redistributing it.

The cockatoo was still there. Its attitude was disapproving, but unchanged. Not a feather had shifted. Another strafe of headlights showed, under its feathers, the texture of the bricks it had been painted onto.

‘Do you like our pet?’ De Chauncey asked. ‘Mascot, really. We sponsor some street artists – they can do amazing things for the image of an area, and values. This was painted by Drabble.’

‘Drabble, yeah,’ I said. ‘I know him.’ There was a giant possum, its back swarming with young, near the magazine’s building.

‘Hold these,’ De Chauncey said, handing me the gift bags he had been carrying. Once unencumbered, he took out his car keys and point-clicked. Lights flashed further back in the gloom and an alarm hiccupped. We walked towards the lights.

‘Hey,’ a voice said behind us.

We turned. A bulky figure was standing at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the lights of the street.

‘You all right, mate?’ De Chauncey said after a moment.

The newcomer walked towards us, purpose in his step, hands thrust into the front pocket of a black hoodie, hood pulled down over the eyes, shoulders shining with rain.