I thought I could hear footsteps in the darkness behind me. I stopped to look down the little alley from which I’d come. No one. The streets of Greenwich were filling with buses, commuters pressed into every window, faces of every kind, empty faces turned vacantly onto the world outside, seeing nothing but their own thoughts. The uniforms of the working city – suits and ties for the offices, jeans and a T-shirt for the trendy “creative” jobs and hi-vis jacket for the builders. Schoolkids in a special shade of brown known as “poo-humility” shuffled by with black backpacks on their shoulders, mobile phones pressed to their ears. I caught the smell of garlic from the front door of an Italian kitchen, and of fresh bread being synthetically pumped out of a supermarket. I had to get to Oda. I headed for the mainline station. South London works on different geographical rules from North London; everywhere is twice as far apart, and takes twice as long to get to.
