The lobby was deserted. The whitish concrete walls were littered with graffiti, mostly names as large as the official letters outside but considerably untidier. A grubby plastic button occupied the gap between a pair of lifts. When Roy poked it the button flickered feebly as an ember. The right-hand lift staggered open, and as we stepped in I heard its neighbour gape. Once Roy thumbed the topmost of the buttons, most of the numbers on which were blurred if not erased by use, he wiped his hand on his shorts. “You need gloves like she had,” he said.

He meant the owner of the cottage. I’d never seen my aunt wear gloves even when her hands had grown motley with paint. I felt oddly guilty for using the lift when she’d had to climb an entirely unreasonable number of stairs, even though the grey cage resembled a windowless cell. The metal walls were scraped and gouged, not to mention scrawled with extravagant spray-painted characters apparently unconcerned with forming words. Halfway up the shaft a smell of cannabis drifted into the lift, and Roy almost looked at me before glancing hastily aside, as if he wasn’t sure he should own up to recognition. I wanted him to be more open with me, but the smell made me nervous that the lift might let in someone who wouldn’t welcome our presence. It faltered more than once, emitting an ominous muffled twang, but stayed shut until we reached the top floor.

A concrete space distinguished from the entrance lobby by different graffiti led to a balcony lined with windows and front doors. A band was rehearsing in an apartment, with bass and percussion so fierce I thought I heard a window jangle. The stairs were on the far side of the lifts, where the last flight ascended to the roof. At the top a door on which the remnants of a sign spelled KEE LOSE had been wedged open. Beyond it the bleached sky looked unnaturally low. When I grabbed the handrail while avoiding beer cans on the steps it clattered in its crumbling sockets, and I let go for fear of alerting someone in the tower block. I pressed my hands against the cold rough walls instead as I clambered up to the roof. I felt nervous of encountering someone out there, but when my head cleared the doorsill I saw the roof was deserted.

Weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete expanse, which was strewn with cans. The parapet was at least four feet high, and I couldn’t imagine anybody falling over it by mistake. As I headed for the edge above the entrance to the tower block the band recommenced its performance, drums thudding harder than ever. I had the impression that the band was pounding a folk song so flat it was unrecognisable. I planted my hands on the parapet and leaned over, though not very far.