A BLACK door, filthy from decades of roadsplash grime, opens directly from the street. On one side of it is a pizza shop; on the other a couple of kebab takeaways, and the downcomer beside it has rusted away at headheight so that when it rains, the water must splurge out onto the pavement.
The fanlight above the door is so encrusted with dirt that no light filters into the narrow dark passage behind. The passage leads straight to another doorway which opens to reveal complete blackness. I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight only to discover that I’m wrapped up in a straggly curtain of thick spiders’ webs. Behind the curtain is gloryhole of junk in an understairs cupboard.