But to her amazement, this lanky stranger had impressed her. Shewanted to let him in and hear him play his flute in her room. Shewanted to hear him play over some of her basslines. Discordant indiebands had done it, she knew: My Bloody Valentine had used flutes. Andwhile the result had left her as dead cold as the rest of that genre,surely the alliance itself was no more unlikely than this one. Sherealized that she was intrigued.

But she was not simply going to stand aside. She had a reputationfor being intimidating. She was not used to feeling so disarmed, andher defences flared.

‘Listen,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t know what you think qualifiesyou to speak about my tracks. Why should I play with you?’

‘Try it once,’ he said, and again that sudden change flooded hisfeatures, the same curled smile on the edge of the lips, the sameheavy-lidded nonchalance about the eyes.

And Natasha was suddenly furious with this pretentious littleart-school wanker, livid where a moment ago she had been captivated,and she leaned forward and up on tiptoes, until her face was as closeto his as it would go, and she raised one eyebrow, and she said: ‘Idon’t think so.’

She closed the door in his face.

Natasha stalked back up her stairs. The window was open. She stoodnext to it, close to the wall, looking down at the street withoutputting herself in view. She could see no sign of the man. She walkedslowly to her keyboard. She smiled.

OK, you cocky fucker, she thought. Let’s see how good you are.

She turned the volume down slightly, and pulled another rhythm outof her collection. This time the drums came crashing out of nowhere.The bass came chasing after, filling out the snare and framing thesound with a funky backdrop. She threw in a few minimal shouts andsnatches of brass, looped a moment of trumpet, but the treble wassubdued; this was an offering to the man outside, and it was allabout rhythm.

The beats looped once, twice. Then, sailing up from the streetcame a thin snatch of music, a trill of flute that mimicked thelooping repetition of her own music, but elaborated on itself,changed a little with every cycle. He was standing below her window,his hastily assembled instrument to his lips.

Natasha smiled. He had made good on his arrogance. She would havebeen disappointed if he had not.

She stripped the beat down and left it to loop. She stood back andlistened.

The flute skittered over the drums, teasing the beat, touchingjust enough to stay anchored, then transporting itself. It suddenlybecame a series of staccato flutterings. It lilted between drum andbass, now wailing like a siren, now stuttering like Morse code.

Natasha was… not transfixed, perhaps, but impressed.

She closed her eyes. The flute soared and dived; it fleshed outher skeletal tune in a way she could never achieve. The life in thelive music was exuberant and neurotic and it sparked off therevivified bass, the very alive dancing with the dead. There was apromise to this tension.

Natasha nodded. She was eager to hear more, to feed that fluteinto her music. She smiled sardonically. She would admit defeat. Solong as he behaved, so long as there were not too many of thoseknowing looks, she would admit that she wanted to hear more.

Natasha paced silently back down the stairs. She opened the door.He was standing a few feet back, his flute to his lips, staring up ather window. He stopped as he saw her, and lowered his hands. No traceof a smile now. He looked anxious for approval.

She inclined her head and gave him a sideways look. Hehovered.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy it.’ He finally smiled. ‘It’s Natasha.’She jerked her thumb at herself.

‘Pete,’ the tall man said.

Natasha stood aside, and Pete passed into her house.

Again Fabian tried Natasha’s number, and again she was engaged. Heswore and slammed his receiver down. He turned on his heel, pacedpointlessly. He had spoken to everyone who knew Saul except forNatasha, and she was the one who mattered most.

Fabian was not gossiping. As soon as he had heard about Saul’sfather he had got on the phone, almost before he was aware of what hewas doing, and begun to spread the news. At some point he had rushedout to buy a paper, before starting again on the phone. But this wasnot gossip. He felt a powerful sense of duty. This, he believed, waswhat was needed of him.

He pulled on his jacket, tugged his thin dreadlocks into aponytail. Enough, he decided. He would go to Natasha, tell her inperson. It was a fair journey from Brixton to Ladbroke Grove, but thethought of the cold air in his face and lungs was beguiling. Hishouse felt oppressive. He had spent hours on the phone that morning,the same phrases again and again — Six floors straight down… Thefilth won’t let me talk to him and the walls had soaked up the news.They were saturated with the old man’s death. Fabian wanted space. Hewanted to clean out his head.

He shoved a page of newspaper into his pocket. He could recite therelevant story by heart: News in brief. A man died in Willesden,North London, yesterday, after falling through a sixth-floor window.Police will not say if they are treating the death as suspicious. Theman’s son is helping them with their enquiries. The screamingaccusation of the last sentence stung him.

He left his room for the filthy hall of the shared house. Someonewas shouting upstairs. The dirty, ill fitting carpets irritated himalways; now they made him feel violent. As he struggled with hisbike, he glanced at the unwashed walls, the broken banisters. Thepresence of the house weighed down on him. He burst out of the frontdoor with a sigh of relief.

Fabian treated his bike carelessly, letting it fall when hedismounted, chucking it against walls. He was rough with it. Heyanked himself onto it now with unthinking brutality, and swung outinto the road.

The streets were full. It was a Saturday and people were throngingthe streets, coming to and from Brixton market, determined on theiroutward journey and slow on the way back, laden down with cheap,colourful clothes and big fruit. Trains rumbled, competed with thesounds of Soca, Reggae, Rave, Rap, Jungle, House, and the shouting:all the cut-up market rhythm. Rudeboys in outlandish trousersclustered around corners and music shops, touched fists.Shaven-headed men in tight tops and AIDS ribbons made for BrockwellPark or The Brixtonian cafe. Food wrappers and lost televisionsupplements tugged at ankles. The capricious traffic lights were abad joke: pedestrians hovered like suicides at the edge of thepavement, launched themselves across at the slightest sign of a gap.The cars made angry noises and sped away, anxious to escape.Impassive, the people watched them pass by.

Fabian twisted his wheels through the bodies. The railway bridgepassed above him; some way ahead the clocktower told him it wasmid-morning. He rode and walked intermittently past the tube station,wheeled his bike across Brixton Road, and again over Acre Lane. Therewere no crowds here, and no Reggae. Acre Lane stretched out wide. Thebuildings that contained it were separate, sparse and low. The skywas always very big over Acre Lane.

Fabian jumped back onto his bike and took off up the slightincline towards Clapham. From there he would twist across intoClapham Manor Street, wind a little through backstreets to joinSilverthorne Road, a steep sine-wave of minor industrial estates andpeculiarly suburban houses tucked between Battersea and Clapham, aconduit feeding directly into Queenstown Road, across ChelseaBridge.

For the first time that day Fabian felt his head clear.

Early that morning a suspicious policeman had answered Saul’sphone, had demanded Fabian’s name. Outraged, Fabian had hung up. Hehad rung up Willesden police station, again refusing to give hisname, but demanding to know why policemen were answering his friend’sphone. Only when he acquiesced and told them who he was would theytell him that Saul’s father had died, and that Saul was with them — again that disingenuous phrase — helping with enquiries.