‘We go now.’ He steered Frieda out of the front door and in the direction away from Hana’s flat. They went down some narrow stairs that Frieda hadn’t previously noticed, through an alleyway between two of the buildings, past industrial-sized bins and through a gateway that brought them onto the street. A car gave a little beep and the lights flashed. Lev helped her – it was almost like a push – into the back seat and the two men sat in the front. Lev started the car and drove away, turning this way and that, until Frieda felt entirely lost.

‘Here,’ said Josef, and Lev pulled to the side of the street by a junction with a larger road. Josef took a bundle from his jacket pocket and handed it to Frieda. She saw that it was money.

‘Is this from Reuben?’ she said. ‘That’s far too much.’

‘Reuben is away. This is your money. Some of it. Three thousand. A bit more. That was all we get.’

‘Josef, what have you done?’

‘We get your money back.’

‘What about Hana?’

The men exchanged glances.

‘He not a problem for her,’ said Lev. ‘For a while.’

Frieda leaned forward, took Josef’s right hand in hers and turned it over. The only light came from a streetlamp, but she could see it was bruised. ‘What have you done?’

Josef’s expression hardened and there was a light in his eyes that she had never seen before. It made her uncomfortable.

‘Frieda. Two things. You don’t go back there. Not near there, not ever. OK?’

‘No, not OK.’

‘And the other thing. This not game, Frieda. Not showing your money. This man push you a little. Next man have a knife or two friends.’

‘Josef, what did you do?’

Josef opened the car door and moved one foot onto the pavement. ‘I get money back. End. What you want?’

‘Not that.’

‘I go now. Remember, I still don’t know where you live.’

He slammed the door, put his large hand flat against the window near her face in a gesture of farewell, and was quickly gone.

‘I don’t know where I live either,’ Frieda said.

Lev’s expression was curious. ‘I take you,’ he said.

Lev drove quickly, turning left and right, like he was trying to avoid being followed. Frieda just looked out of the window.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Different part,’ he said. ‘Elephant and Castle. You know Elephant and Castle?’

‘A bit.’

‘Near Elephant and Castle.’

After a mile or so, Frieda saw that they were on the New Kent Road. Then Lev turned off onto a smaller road, drove under a railway bridge and into a street lined on both sides by apartment buildings much like the one she had left, but less abandoned-looking. Under the streetlights she could see areas of grass behind railings, lines of parked cars. Lev turned again and parked. They got out and Frieda looked around. On one side was the building. She saw the name on a sign, Thaxted House. The railway ran along the other side of the street and, beyond that, Frieda could see two tall tower blocks, speckled with lights.

Lev took the bags from the car and gestured her towards a door on the ground floor. He unlocked it and led her inside into a dark hallway. He pushed the light switch on with his elbow and led her through into the kitchen. Frieda saw the torn lino on the floor, the mismatching chairs, a battered and stained old gas cooker. But the kitchen was clean and there were bowls and several oven dishes washed up by the sink.

‘Someone lives here,’ said Frieda.

‘I show you your room,’ said Lev.

‘But will they mind?’

‘Not their business.’

‘Who are they?’

Lev only shrugged and led her back into the hall, past two rooms with closed doors. He put a finger to his lips. He pushed open a door.

‘OK?’ he said.

Frieda looked in. There was a bed, a bedside table, a rug, nothing else. Again, it was clean and tidy. She walked to the window and pulled the net curtain aside. It was barred but through the glass she could see pools of light in the darkness. There was a square expanse of grass, bounded on all sides by the flats.

‘You’ve done too much,’ she said.

He gave a small nod in acknowledgement. He handed her his key. ‘Take more of the care,’ he said. ‘And I will now say goodbye.’

He held out his hand. Frieda shook it, but then, without releasing it, examined Lev’s hand more carefully. The knuckles were raw, like Josef’s had been, the skin stripped off them. ‘What did you do to him?’

Lev took Frieda’s right hand in his hands. It seemed tiny and lost in his grasp. He let it go. ‘You been in fight ever?’ he said.

Frieda didn’t answer. She had, once or twice.

‘I hate the fighting,’ said Lev. ‘The fear, the blood. The people who think the fighting is a joke, that is …’ He seemed as if he would spit to demonstrate his contempt. ‘You cannot have a piece of a fight, a half of a fight, a little of a fight. Then you are hurt. I don’t fight.’ He looked down at his hand with a rueful expression. ‘But when I do fight it is everything. No limit, no stop. It is like love.’

‘Like love,’ said Frieda, slowly, repeating his words rather than asking a question.

‘You get up close, you feel the smell, you feel the touch, you feel the breath, and you do not stop. Most of the people cannot do that. I talk to Josef. You, Frieda, I think you can.’ Almost absent-mindedly, he took something from his pocket. At first she couldn’t see what it was. Then she could. He was holding a knife by the blade. The handle was polished dark brown wood.

‘What’s that for?’ said Frieda.

‘For you. Keep by you always.’

‘I can’t have a knife.’

‘Ach. You never use probably.’ He snapped it shut, then leaned forward and slid it into the pocket of her jacket. ‘Careful. Is sharp. Very.’

‘But –’

He shook his head.

‘None of the way,’ he said. ‘Or all of the way. If you have the …’ He searched for the word. He tapped his belly.

‘Stomach,’ said Frieda. ‘The stomach for it.’

‘Yes. You have, I think.’

He left the room and Frieda heard the outside door open and close. She rummaged in her bags and found her toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and a towel. She walked out and found the bathroom. As she brushed she noticed a pink plastic razor on the side of the bath and a shelf with shampoo, conditioner, a packet of tampons, jars of cream, a black eye pencil, a bag of cotton wool. There was nothing that looked as if it belonged to a man.

She got into the bed and switched off the light, then lay and stared up at the ceiling. A jagged crack, like a coastline, crossed the ceiling, all the way from one side of the room to the other. She heard the rumble of a train passing, a goods train. It seemed to take for ever.

She was woken by voices. She pulled her clothes on, and as she left her bedroom, the voices became louder and then there was a crash and a shattering and then another bang. She walked through to the kitchen. At first she had difficulty in working out what was going on. A woman was kneeling on the ground, picking up fragments of a plate. Frieda could make out her shock of blonde hair and her dark clothes, but she couldn’t see her face. Another woman was standing beside the sink. She had brown hair, dark, almost black, eyes, and she was banging a wooden spoon on the edge of the sink’s metal rim, to reinforce the point she was making. Both women were speaking at the same time in raised voices and Frieda couldn’t even make out whether they were speaking English or not.

‘Hello?’ she said, but there was no sign that they had even heard her. She rapped hard on the table and the two women stopped.

‘How you get in?’ said the dark woman.

‘I slept here last night,’ said Frieda. ‘Lev brought me.’

‘Lev?’

The blonde woman said something, maybe in explanation, and the two women started shouting at each other again.

‘Please,’ said Frieda, and then she said it once more, almost shouting herself. The two women looked at her, almost in puzzlement. ‘Is there a problem?’