‘That was Gaelic. It’s the language of the Highlands and island communities in Scotland. It was a traditional folk song. A lullaby. For getting the babies to sleep?’

Sammi must have been gawking at her. She closed her jaw for a second.

‘You Scottish, then?’

‘I am.’

‘Long way from here, innit?’

‘It is. I’m here visiting some friends. I ran into Spider on the street and he invited me. I ran away.’ The woman looked delighted with herself, looked like she was sharing a massive, brilliant secret.

The hippies continued to sing their old protest songs, sawing away at their guitars. Usually Sammi found them embarrassing, but she didn’t mind tonight. The woman, who she could see now she was up close was actually a lot younger than the rest, kept her involved, sharing a silent joke with her when someone sang off key. And she looked familiar.

Sammi nudged her. ‘Mate, do I know you from somewhere?’

Her new friend smiled. ‘I’ll tell you later. Listen, do you wanna get some air?’

‘I really do. Have they shown you the roof, yet?’

And they were running, giggling, up the stairs, climbing the shonky metal ladder at the end of the hall, and Sammi led her friend whose name was Clio by the hand, over the slates to the flat bit, and they were talking, and Sammi got out her pouch and rolled a joint, a big one, five-skinner, and smiled at the woman with a bit of a tease, like, oh, you think you can handle it? And then they were sitting together on the woman’s coat on the slates, looking down over the city, its smoke, its car horns, its shouts and its lights going out.

‘I mean it,’ Clio was saying. ‘I want to know how you got into this.’

‘You mean, what’s a little black girl from Brixton doing living in a squat with a bunch of posh crusties?’

‘No. Well, yeah. I mean, where did your politics come from? What drove you into this life? I think we’ve got similar backgrounds, you and me. I’m always interested to hear from people who made the same journey. Because there’s always something, or someone, that starts you off, that fires you up and makes it impossible for you to live any other way. You know?’

‘It’s a long story, mate.’

‘They always are. That’s what’s good about them.’

‘You sure? Really? Your funeral.’

‘I’ll take that risk. Talk.’

It was a command, from a queen, suddenly serious. Sammi sucked long and hard on the joint and passed it over. She wasn’t usually a talker, but she wanted Clio to know her, know her politics, be impressed.