Further on, they passed the market, a pepperpot of food and races; and Cold Harbour Lane, the new front line, where rudebwais in Hilfiger distribute pharmaceuticals to a richer, more wanly dressed white clientele; and the park around St. Matthew’s, a hulking presence with Doric columns that due to lack of faith was no longer just a church but also an arts venue—with a restaurant in the crypt.

Continuing on Effra Road, they passed some terrace houses in need of love and care; and the Eurolink Business Centre, a hothouse of local capitalism in the shell of an old synagogue. Then moving quicker now, as Fire felt the pull of his house, they cut through Brixton Water Lane and entered Herne Hill, a scarf of relative affluence on the edge of Brock-well Park.

“So where’s Nan?” Fire asked, as they walked up the steps of the brick Victorian.

Courtney checked his watch. “On her way home from classes, I’d fink.”

They’d stopped for takeout on the way.

“She won’t be hungry when she comes?” Fire asked. “You didn’t pick up anything for her.”

Courtney thought for a second, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Is awright,” Fire said as they went inside. “I’ll make something.”

Courtney shrugged again.

“So what she doing at the polytech?” Fire asked, noting that the lawn was shaggy. Come on, he thought. You’ve living here rent-free, Courtney, you could take care of the fucking place.

“Farting around,” Courtney said, straightening the For Sale sign. “She claims she’s studying computers … she can’t even fucking type.”

“So what is she doing, then?”

“I fink it might be word processing. But I’m not really sure.”

Fire had purchased the house when he sold film rights to his first novel, The Rudies, an epic about the rise and fall of a Jamaican gang in London. At the time, the neighborhood, like a lot of Brixton, was considered marginal. Since then, however, yuppies, priced out of Thatcherite Dulwich, had moved in, increasing property values exponentially. He didn’t foresee this when he bought the place, neither did he care. He bought it for the park, an undulating green triangle, with a duck pond and a wonderful lido, where he saw nothing but sky while floating on his back in the summertime, the sun warming his face like a hot copper penny.

To command a view of the park, he kept the top floor for himself. Courtney and Nan lived in a first-floor duplex, and Phil, Fire’s first roommate when he moved to London, lived on the floor below him. Phil was away on tour with a chamber ensemble and was expected to return in a month.

“So, did Nan get called for the gig with that design firm?” Fire asked, as he made her a veggie-rice pilaf. He was down in Courtney’s kitchen. Some eggplant, which had been tossed in olive oil, was sitting aside on the counter. In a Dutch oven, the rice was simmering in a vegetable stock seasoned with onions, garlic, cinnamon, and allspice.