She releases her hand from Dad’s and points to the building we’re parked—illegally, I’m pretty sure—outside. We all look at it, even Iris. It is a three-story building that looks as if it’s ready to collapse under the weight of neglect. A redbrick Victorian terrace that might once have been grand, with ornate bay windows on the ground and first floors. But the red brick has been blackened by years of traffic fumes, and weeds sprout from every crack of the building’s facade. The tiny front garden is bordered by rusted, listing railings and is filled with black bin bags, lying on their sides like bloated slugs. A satellite dish dangles from a broken hinge and sways in the wind. Vera turns off the engine, yanks on the hand brake, and readjusts the rearview mirror so she can see her face in it. She pulls a lipstick from the pocket of her coat and applies it to the frozen O of her thin, dry lips.

“Are you...is it okay to park here, Vera?” I ask tentatively.

I don’t like telling people their business, but nor do I want her facing a hefty de-clamping bill. I don’t know for certain and I don’t like to make assumptions but...it’s possible that Vera doesn’t have too much in the way of disposable income.

“Don’t you worry ’bout me, sweetheart,” she says, tapping the bridge of her nose with a long, painted fingernail. “I know people.”

She flings open her door without checking her wing mirror and not so much as a glance towards her blind spot. I really don’t know how she’s managed to live as long as she has, with such a cavalier approach to road safety. On the road, she pulls at her jeans, which have slipped down and are now clinging to the dubious jut of her hips, and hoists them onto the tiny circle of her waist. She surveys us, still inside the car. “Is you coming?”

“Where?” Dad asks. I open the door.

Iris says nothing.

I help Iris to the front door. There are three doorbells, with a laminated space where the names of the residents should appear. They are all blank. The fanlight over the front door is an impediment to natural light, given the thickness of the grime that has collected along its surface. There are cracks too; it wouldn’t withstand too much in the way of elbow grease before it shattered altogether.

Vera unlocks the door and steps into a narrow hallway where a table missing a leg leans, covered with flyers for launderettes and takeaways. Beside it is a bicycle with flat tires, and sitting on top of a pay phone with wires sticking out of it is a long-dead spider plant, usually difficult to kill.

The stairwell is a dark, narrow affair, the treads and rises of the steps unlikely to be in keeping with current health and safety regulations.

Vera takes to the stairs at a surprising clip. Dad follows her. It is unusual for him to form a connection with new people. Vera seems to be an exception.