‘After I wrote Night Traffic – no, before that, even, I had been lumped in with all that psychogeography lot, Iain Sinclair and Will Self and so on, and I … well, I didn’t like that. There are so many people doing that shit now. All the fucking lost rivers, ghost Tube stations, all that shit – I’m just so fucking sick of that. It makes me want to puke. It was getting boring ten years ago, it’s just intolerable now. And the whole ideological project that goes along with it, all about tracing out the London of the Kray twins and the industrial past as a revolt against the corporate takeover of … I mean, I fucking hate what London is becoming, what it has become. Fucking hate it. This fucking shiny cloakroom for the biggest bastards in the world. But one of the reasons they come here is because of the trendiness, the grit, all that fucking mystique-sludge that’s getting dredged up from the Thames 24/7. Did you read my eels piece, with the Russian girls, the oligarchs’ daughters, Anastasia and that? They fucking loved all that. They had read Mile End Road, that’s why they got in touch with me, like I was a fucking tour guide. One of them had a copy of Ackroyd’s London biography, she brought it along. The East End, that’s what they wanted. The Blind Beggar, sarees, National Front, Jack the Ripper, they wanted all that as much as Knightsbridge and Chelsea. So what could I do? Trying to get the city back by writing about all that stuff, that was doomed. It’s just advertising, it just sucks in more cash. In the end, that’s one of the things that motivated me to write Night Traffic, to do something that wasn’t shabby-chic but terrifying, something …’

He trailed off, staring into space, in the direction of the window. Then he turned his attention to his coffee, putting in a slug of milk and a lump of sugar from the bowl. I wanted him to complete the quote. It was hard to believe how well the interview was going, to have this great mass of quotable, fiery material up front, but I desperately wanted him to finish the thought. My eyes flicked to the DVR on the table, making sure the red light was lit, and the timer was counting upwards.

‘Something real?’ I supplied. ‘Something true?’ If he accepted either of those, I could stitch the word into the quote and make it whole.