He was standing in front of a graffiti mural, the bright yellows and blues outshone and shrank him down to size. It was early in the day, still, but the weather was mild, and the food stalls were setting up. People were coming from their offices and shops on Rye Lane to eat, and there was a steady stream going in and out of the various spaces, and even some tourists. Nearby, a girl was stirring a sloppy curry in a huge wok over a gas flame, and the chargrill smoke of jerk pork drifted on the air from a barbecue across the cracked and weedy concrete.

‘They can’t do much business,’ said Griff, squinting into the darkness of the building. ‘You can’t see inside.’

Dan shrugged. ‘Why are we here?’ he asked.

‘It’s a project I’m involved with. I thought it might interest you.’

They walked to a zinc trailer with an awning, serving coffee, and Dan bought them one each. Griff didn’t take the lid off his, it was just a prop. He continued to stare, like a Victorian explorer.

‘My degree show was here,’ said Dan. ‘Gallery over there.’

‘A gallery,’ repeated Griff.

‘Where I met Bea,’ said Dan.

‘Here?’ Griff looked at him, full in the face. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Bought her a drink up on the roof,’ said Dan, pointing.

‘Sentimental attachment,’ said Griff. ‘That’s nice.’ He put his untouched coffee on the ground, and flicked his fingertips together, to dust them off. ‘Here’s the thing –’

‘You’re developing the Bussey,’ said Dan quietly.

It had to be said quietly, it was like swearing in church. Even whispering he had the feeling every head would turn, and people would stop in their business, and stare, in shock. It had been a twenty-year battle to save the Bussey from people like Griff. The place was an icon. It was untouchable.

‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s protected.’

Saving the Bussey was a story Dan had grown up with. Scheduled for demolition more than once, its preservation had been an unlikely triumph; south-east London’s haven for the cultural underground, constantly under threat, devotedly defended. Propped up by the EU and the GLA, the Bussey had artists’ spaces, club nights, movies on the roof and vinyl in the basement. Even when the EU money disappeared, preserved by law when Dan was still in his teens, it carried on. It never occurred to him it was vulnerable. He should have known. Preservation laws were no more than paper promises. London needed cash.

‘Let’s walk,’ said Griff.

They moved away from the people, towards parked cars and lock-ups, and Griff talked. Still in its early stages, the Bussey Development Project would soon reach consultation, and then it would be public knowledge. The residents would fight.

‘Fight? They’ll go mental,’ said Dan.

‘It’s a two-billion-pound development,’ said Griff. ‘It will happen. This whole area will be transformed.’