rest of New York, or, God forbid, Jersey. Why would she need to? She was Manhattan born and bred. And now she was taking all
her worldly possessions to Bushwick, of all godforsaken places. She had become bridge and tunnel, like the rest of the New Yorkers who dreamed of living in Manhattan but had been priced out decades
ago. They had to catch the subway or the Jersey PATH or drive in over the glittering bridges – Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg – for the hip restaurants and bars and clubs that had
the cachet of being on Manhattan, the tiny sliver of island packed in so tight with seething humanity you often wondered why it didn’t sink under the sheer weight of people and traffic and
fifty-storey steel skyscrapers.
Bridge and tunnel. It was so depressing Evie couldn’t stand to think about it.
They turned onto the BQE – the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway – firing the Lincoln Town Car through tiny gaps between swaying trucks and coaches heading for the airport. It was such an
ugly highway that Evie closed her eyes, but even when she opened them a few minutes later, as they raced down Metropolitan Avenue, with its burned-out lots and seedy storefronts, the view was no
better. God, she couldn’t believe what she was being reduced to.
All she knew about where Lawrence lived was that he rented a room, or a space – he hadn’t been specific, and she hadn’t cared enough to ask – in a warehouse building that
wasn’t zoned for domestic use. But when the Lincoln Town Car pulled up outside the building, even the driver looked dubious.
‘You sure this is the right address?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, ’ she said, heaving a deep sigh. ‘He’s got some illegal warehouse let.’
Evie tried Lawrence’s number again. Still nothing. Reluctantly, she climbed out of the car. The front of the building looked like a prison: steel bars, grey industrial paint. The number
was scrawled on the steel door with what looked like Magic Marker, and the buzzers by its side were so chipped and scratched Evie wasn’t even sure that they worked. She knew Lawrence was on
the top floor, so she tried the top buzzer, but could hear nothing inside the building.
It was as grim and forbidding as if it were derelict, totally uninhabited. On either side were similar buildings, one set back behind a fence topped with barbed wire. Behind it, Evie could see a
pair of Alsatians on thick chains, lying slumped by a corrugated-iron shed. She pressed the buzzer again, and, waiting for some reply, she made a 360-degree turn, surveying the street. Across the
road was a steelworks, a pair of huge gates swung open, and, staring into the dark interior, she could see a group of men hooking a rusty-looking piece of metal onto a chain hoist. Whines of
factory machines, big electric saws, scraped through the air. The street itself was filthy with litter and discarded drink cans.
Evie shuddered.
‘Hey!’ called a woman’s voice from up above.
Evie tilted back her head to see who it was: one of the big windows had been pushed open on the top floor, and a girl was craning out of it.
‘What do you want?’ she called down.
‘I’m a friend of Lawrence’s, ’ Evie yelled back. ‘I need to come in and dump my stuff.’
‘You’re a friend of Lawrence’s? ’
‘Yeah!’ Evie was growing irritated, standing out here looking like a fool on the sidewalk. ‘Look, come down and let me in, OK?’
The girl’s head disappeared. Evie went over to the back of the car and started pulling out her pole and her suitcases.
The driver got out to help. ‘Hey, baby, I’d take you home with me in a heartbeat!’ he said, throwing his arms wide, showing the sweat stains under his arms. ‘But my wife,
she might throw us both out, you know, and then we’d be right back here—’
There was a clanking sound from the door, and Evie’s head jerked round eagerly.
‘Who are you? ’ the girl from upstairs demanded.
She was average height and quite pale,
her worldly possessions to Bushwick, of all godforsaken places. She had become bridge and tunnel, like the rest of the New Yorkers who dreamed of living in Manhattan but had been priced out decades
ago. They had to catch the subway or the Jersey PATH or drive in over the glittering bridges – Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg – for the hip restaurants and bars and clubs that had
the cachet of being on Manhattan, the tiny sliver of island packed in so tight with seething humanity you often wondered why it didn’t sink under the sheer weight of people and traffic and
fifty-storey steel skyscrapers.
Bridge and tunnel. It was so depressing Evie couldn’t stand to think about it.
They turned onto the BQE – the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway – firing the Lincoln Town Car through tiny gaps between swaying trucks and coaches heading for the airport. It was such an
ugly highway that Evie closed her eyes, but even when she opened them a few minutes later, as they raced down Metropolitan Avenue, with its burned-out lots and seedy storefronts, the view was no
better. God, she couldn’t believe what she was being reduced to.
All she knew about where Lawrence lived was that he rented a room, or a space – he hadn’t been specific, and she hadn’t cared enough to ask – in a warehouse building that
wasn’t zoned for domestic use. But when the Lincoln Town Car pulled up outside the building, even the driver looked dubious.
‘You sure this is the right address?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, ’ she said, heaving a deep sigh. ‘He’s got some illegal warehouse let.’
Evie tried Lawrence’s number again. Still nothing. Reluctantly, she climbed out of the car. The front of the building looked like a prison: steel bars, grey industrial paint. The number
was scrawled on the steel door with what looked like Magic Marker, and the buzzers by its side were so chipped and scratched Evie wasn’t even sure that they worked. She knew Lawrence was on
the top floor, so she tried the top buzzer, but could hear nothing inside the building.
It was as grim and forbidding as if it were derelict, totally uninhabited. On either side were similar buildings, one set back behind a fence topped with barbed wire. Behind it, Evie could see a
pair of Alsatians on thick chains, lying slumped by a corrugated-iron shed. She pressed the buzzer again, and, waiting for some reply, she made a 360-degree turn, surveying the street. Across the
road was a steelworks, a pair of huge gates swung open, and, staring into the dark interior, she could see a group of men hooking a rusty-looking piece of metal onto a chain hoist. Whines of
factory machines, big electric saws, scraped through the air. The street itself was filthy with litter and discarded drink cans.
Evie shuddered.
‘Hey!’ called a woman’s voice from up above.
Evie tilted back her head to see who it was: one of the big windows had been pushed open on the top floor, and a girl was craning out of it.
‘What do you want?’ she called down.
‘I’m a friend of Lawrence’s, ’ Evie yelled back. ‘I need to come in and dump my stuff.’
‘You’re a friend of Lawrence’s? ’
‘Yeah!’ Evie was growing irritated, standing out here looking like a fool on the sidewalk. ‘Look, come down and let me in, OK?’
The girl’s head disappeared. Evie went over to the back of the car and started pulling out her pole and her suitcases.
The driver got out to help. ‘Hey, baby, I’d take you home with me in a heartbeat!’ he said, throwing his arms wide, showing the sweat stains under his arms. ‘But my wife,
she might throw us both out, you know, and then we’d be right back here—’
There was a clanking sound from the door, and Evie’s head jerked round eagerly.
‘Who are you? ’ the girl from upstairs demanded.
She was average height and quite pale,
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