London, like the other great cities, is a place built out of stories. It is also the place in which we find ourselves. Let’s take the opportunity to go for a walk as there’s a particular tale which is waiting a short distance away, just for us. Of course, it may not be the story you want – I can’t do anything about that, but it is the story you are going to get. Forewarned is forearmed as they say and we’re in it now, right to what I fear may be a bitter end.

This is a city of four million dwellings, places where people eat, shit, sleep and fuck. Babies are conceived and born between paper-thin walls. Some of those who call these places home die a sad and lonely death, with no one to mark or mourn their passing.

Our walk takes us along the roads, streets and avenues of the city’s outer rim. What do we see? A degree of uniformity for sure. Row upon row of terraces, most of them Victorian and Edwardian. Snaggle-toothed survivors of a bygone era, witnesses to wars, murders and economic collapse. Here, along the A-road, the homes, and those unfortunate enough to live in them, are choked with the fumes of unceasing traffic. Cars, busses, pollutants clog the air – the atmosphere is thick, endless drizzle, ceaseless noise, people and, perhaps, other things hide in the shadows. Few would choose to live along here if they could afford something better, don’t you agree?

It isn’t along this road that we’ll find our story, although it surely has tales to tell. We move further along the street, under the railway bridge – along which depressed commuters are carried before being disgorged into the heart of the city. We narrowly avoid what might be a discarded takeaway congealing on the pavement. On closer inspection it looks like vomit, best left to the urban foxes.

Our journey carries us along the pavement and up a gentle incline. Traffic races by, heedless of speed limits. A street-drinker sits on a bench looking lost. Looking like he just woke up, he’s not in Kansas anymore. Through the mist of drizzle the traffic lights are on an endless loop – red, amber, green and back to red. Lycra-clad cyclists ignore their admonishments, as do some of those driving cars.

A young mother passes by, her toddler is giggling at something they’ve seen. Mum has tears in her eyes, worrying she might be in a coercive relationship with her baby’s father. There’s a story there too but it’s of no concern to us. If we look across the road, there on the right, a man has locked himself out of his building and is frantically waving, shouting, desperately trying to get the attention of someone in another flat. It’s a faintly comical sight but we daren’t risk a smile – schadenfreude might come calling at our door.

Let’s crack on, we’re getting wet and our destination, our story, isn’t far now. We cross the road at the lights (being wary of cyclists). Just another 50 yards, give or take. We’ll avoid eye contact with the young man wearing the facemask. He might be worried about pollution or viruses, he might simply be determined to hide his identity from those of us who are merely passing by.

The street which concerns us is just ahead, on the right – Oldfield Street, named perhaps in recognition that this was once a place of agricultural land. See what I mean? Uniformity. Two rows of Victorian terraces face one another, enemy armies waiting an eternity to engage. Many have been chopped apart and reassembled into a surprising number of flats and bedsits, common in this part of the city. Others are family homes which have been extended beyond all reason – out, up, sideways at the back and down – the possibilities of a larger kitchen squeezing out the pleasures that might be derived by retaining a back garden. At least the rain’s easing off, so we can take our time and stroll it.

Tell a lie – the street isn’t entirely uniform, it’s so long since my last walk in these parts I’d forgotten. There’s a block of flats, breaking up the clean lines of Victoriana, looks like they were built in the 60s, a consequence of bomb-damage perhaps. Looking at them, it’s clear this building wouldn’t win awards for its architecture and the oversized bins out front need attention. Blocks of brownish brick, garlanded with mossy growth, squeeze together while balconies appear, seemingly at random, tempting those who use them to jump to their deaths. This, then, is the social housing of Oldfield Street, the imaginatively named Oldfield Court. Designed for those in need of ‘affordable’ accommodation. The wealthier residents of our storied street will never admit it but they tend to walk quickly past, with their eyes fixed straight ahead, they have no interest in the poor.

We reach 14 Oldfield Street, looking much like its terraced neighbours but its curtains are closed to the world as, indeed, they always are. This then is the home of Michael Bromwich who, his neighbours know, does ‘bookkeeping’. As it happens Mike, a corpulent, red-faced 40-something does just enough work to pay the low rent required, the housing being owned by his elderly aunt who, herself, resides in a nursing home. For Mike his aunt’s deterioration is akin to a lottery win. Michael Bromwich will figure in the tale we are here to share and we should be wary about that. Despite his good fortune the ghastly Mike has sleepless nights worrying about what might happen should a person in law-enforcement ever see the contents of his hard drive. He’s right to worry.

Across the street (curtains open) is the rather lovely number 19. Given it’s autumn we’re treated to the sight of seasonal window boxes, come the spring the lovingly tended wisteria, now cut back, will cascade along the front of the home. The overall effect is pleasing on the eye isn’t it? Unlike the depraved Mr Michael Bromwich, we do have an interest in number 19, or at least in one of its three occupants. This is the home of Paul and Eleanor Warwick. They would be described as ‘pillars of the community’ if this part of the city had such a thing. As it is, they do their best. Paul (44 - IT) and Ellie (43 - homemaker) think of themselves as good people and, in the main, they are. Ellie is passionate about several things, not least Christ and supporting the local foodbank, where she helps out on Wednesdays and Fridays. The rest of her time is spent busily ensuring number 19 looks as beautiful as possible, browsing potential second homes (ideally in the Cotswolds) on the internet, attending Pilates classes and making sure she remains attractive to her husband.

Because Paul loves Ellie he indulges her love for Christ, even though he’s not sure whether he believes in any of that stuff. He does go along to Church with her most Sundays in the hope that it’ll lead to a pub roast and a pint. Unlike his wife, Paul has no passions, although he does have his interests, even though he’s not a particularly interesting man. He rather enjoys playing the occasional game of squash, wines from the New World and the novels of Lee Child. He partakes of any of these when he feels the urge but, mostly, he’s content to let Ellie run the good ship Bromwich.

The one area of overlap between Ellie’s passions, Paul’s interests and the story which concerns us is their daughter Lucy (15 – student). While she’s wrestling with exam prep Lucy, like her mother, is a person with passions. To be precise, she has one great passion – the esoteric. To her mother’s horror (dad thinks it’s a ‘phase’) Lucy’s room is dominated by prints of skulls, photographs of allegedly ectoplasmic mediums and old issues of Fortean Times. Unlike her mother, Lucy has no time for Christ or any organised religion but she is a believer. She believes in the wendigo, in Spring-heeled Jack, in the ability to travel to other planes of existence, in pretty much anything unexplained or inexplicable.

Lucy has inherited none of her parents’ middle-class blandness. She’s a neatly proportioned young woman, dark of eyes, hair and clothing with a sharp sense of humour and a tendency towards bleak moods. Sometimes she cuts herself. It helps.

We’re losing daylight and believe me when I say we do not want the first look at our destination in the dark! In the autumn the cloud-filtered light in London tends to wink out doesn’t it? We’re going to spend a lot of time with Lucy Bromwich, don’t worry. I think you’ll like her, you will, but I am worried about what she’ll have to go through.

If number 19’s pretty, next door at 21 it’s sharp. This is the home of high-flyers Andrew and Sean and their spaniel Molly. They are the only same-sex couple in the street and, consequently, are treated by the neighbours with a mixture of admiration (young mothers) and suspicion (parents of teenage boys). You won’t know this but number 21 used to be something of a mess, having enjoyed a number of years as flats of varying sizes. ‘Shandrew’, as they ironically refer to themselves, have transformed this place and returned it to a single dwelling. New windows and a glossy black front door with chrome knocker, a darkly-paved path, it’s as slick and as modern as a Victorian house can be. They have only a walk-on role in our story so I don’t need to say too much other than they’re struggling with the mortgage and desperate to get their home in an interiors magazine.

You’re right. I have been digressing – quite deliberately if I’m honest. I know what’s coming, or some of it at least.

Frankly, I’m afraid. I wish I could go back to the start, change things. What is it they say, if wishes were horses beggars would ride.

If London is a city of stories then our tale is a dark one indeed. It wasn’t my choice that it be so, it’s simply how the chips fell. My overriding responsibility is to guide you along the safest possible path and to do what I can to keep both of us from harm.

So, this is it – we’re here and it’s not quite dark yet. Number 56 Oldfield Street, both the beginning and, in a way, the end point of the story we’re here to share. Try not to look at it head-on, you’re a part of this now and you need to follow certain rules in order to fulfil your role.  Doesn’t look like much really does it – it’s that uniformity thing again. Perhaps a little less, well, sorted than the other houses in the street, a little run down, saggy at the seams.

Oh, all that being said – I should impart one piece of advice. Don’t spend too long looking at 56 Oldfield Street and never, ever, stare. It has a tendency to stare back. Believe me, that’s not something you want in your life.

Next Chapter: Chapter One