The doorbell rang again. They heard Liv greet somebody in the hall.

‘Why don’t you come along?’ said Griff. ‘Take your son-in-law-to-work day.’

‘Work?’ said Dan, surprised.

‘Takes my mind off things,’ said Griff. ‘Coming?’

‘Do I need to change?’ asked Dan.

‘Would there be any point?’

Ashir was out front in a Mercedes. Dan had never seen anything like the inside of it, a strange quilted world of headrests and armrests and footwell lighting. Fuck, he thought, as they pulled away. Griff didn’t bother speaking, bashing away at his iPad on the other side of the car.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Dan.

‘Wait and see.’

It was quiet in the car, and Dan didn’t notice the traffic. They drove through Camden Town and past the British Museum, then crossed the river at Waterloo. Elephant and Castle, the Old Kent Road, and gradually, the streets became familiar.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked again.

Griff smiled. ‘Your manor,’ he said.

Dan peered out, through the tinted glass. Peckham High Street. Consort Road. The car felt more and more conspicuous, and it was surreal to glide through the streets of his childhood in the back of it, with people checking them as they went by. Ashir frowned at his satnav, lost in a maze of railway arches and dead ends.

‘Where you trying to get to, mate?’ asked Dan.

‘He’s all right,’ said Griff. ‘Aren’t you, Ash?’

‘All good,’ said Ashir.

They cut around the back of the Peckham bus garage, made a big loop and turned onto Rye Lane.

‘Blimey, it is rough,’ said Griff. ‘Where is the damn place?’

‘Which place?’ asked Dan, but really, in his heart, he knew.

‘Copeland Park,’ said Griff. ‘The Bussey Building. It should be here. Ash?’

Ashir shrugged.

‘It’s down there,’ said Dan. ‘You need to walk.’

‘Down that alley?’ said Griff. ‘Ash?’

‘I’ll stay here.’ Ashir stopped on a zigzag, putting on his hazard lights.

They got out of the Mercedes.

‘Lead on,’ said Griff.

There was no point asking questions. They passed Khan’s Bargains, as a train thundered across the railway bridge. Griff gazed about him like Captain Kirk after teleporting.

‘KFC,’ he said wonderingly, as he followed Dan into the covered walkway.

‘See it there?’ said Dan.

The Bussey towered above them, huge and unadorned, and beyond it the cracked concrete and other buildings of Copeland Park; painted letters on the battered walls: CLF Art Cafe. Block A. Block B. Stairs. Rusted doors and spray paint, warehouse windows and distant beats.

‘I’ve only seen plans and pictures,’ said Griff. He peered into a stairwell. ‘I don’t particularly get what everyone sees in it, to be honest.’