White’s boarding-house in Russell Square. The bridge was protected on either side by a railing with bannisters placed at wide intervals. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. She had better escape if she can. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. But this was long ago. Fascination. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. “What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin.
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