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burrowing through the walls. I let myself get pushed out and watched
as Carlton was spat out behind me, quickly jumping clear of those falling out after him. Fireworks and rockets shot horizontally past, exploding in bonfires and whizzing and cascading over
everyone. There were more people on the roof, just standing, watching. Most people on the ground were watching everyone else. A body was carried towards some bushes and dumped there.
    A group of punks had forced open the small window of an empty, dark building and were trying to climb in through the gap. The window was about five feet above the ground. Once one of them had
got his head and chest through, his friends pushed at his legs until there were only shins and feet sticking out and then these disappeared suddenly and there came a loud crash and laughter from
the other side. Then it was someone else’s turn. When they were all in this black, empty room all you could hear was more crashing and shouting. Then one of the other windows of the room
exploded like a firework around our heads, big fragments of glass angling through the night and splashing everywhere. A few moments later there was a barrage of broken glass as bottles from inside
were hurled out through the windows. We scattered to one side. There was a pause and then, from the roof opposite, two bottles were lobbed gently through the windows of the room. There was a crash
and shouts from inside. Two sizzling fireworks were dropped like grenades through the broken windows and went off with a huge
kerrumf
that echoed round the empty room. Smoke swirled out of
the windows. No sounds from inside.
    Things were burnt and broken, people ran around in the dark. Two policemen appeared, one of them shaking his head, not quite sure whether it was worth anyone’s while to do anything about
whatever it was that was happening here.
    By now, like sand slipping through an hour-glass, the level of the gasometer had fallen and a vast cylindrical web of spars was silhouetted against the dim sulphurous sky. I saw Steranko sitting
on an upturned crate close to a bonfire, his face bathed in the deep red light of the flames. The burning frame of a chair toppled down the slopes of the fire and rolled, still burning, to the
ground. A momentary sense of
déjà vu
surged through me and vanished as I called Steranko’s name.
    Some friends of Carlton’s came over. They were going to another party and asked if we wanted to come with them.
    ‘What do you think?’ Carlton said.
    ‘I’m tempted to abandon the evening,’ Steranko said.
    ‘Yeah, me too. What about you?’
    ‘I might go along for a while,’ Carlton said. ‘Sure you don’t want to come?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘OK, I’ll catch you later.’
    ‘Yeah, see you next week.’
    ‘Take care yeah?’ We waved goodbye, another burst of fireworks exploding low overhead.
    After clambering through the exit Steranko and I began walking silently to Trafalgar Square to catch a night bus. Halfway there, feeling drained and worn out by this shitty evening, we hailed a
cab. We climbed in and shut the door before the driver had time to ask where we were going.
    ‘Brixton, please.’
    The driver grunted and the cab began bumping its way reluctantly south. It was the first time I’d travelled by taxi in about six months. Trees slurred by as clouds slipped past the
indifferent moon. The driver tugged back the glass partition. His neck was red through years of vigorous scrubbing.
    ‘What part of Brixton?’
    ‘If you go via Stockwell – then we can direct you,’ Steranko said.
    ‘What’s it like there then?’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Brixton . . .’
    ‘It’s OK.’
    ‘No trouble?’
    ‘Some. Not really.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘You know, like everywhere. Most of the time it’s fine.’
    ‘You don’t mind living there?’
    ‘Not really. No, it’s fine.’
    ‘Rather you than me. I wouldn’t fancy it.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘Nah. Not me. All those . . .’
    ‘I tell you what,