I WAITED UNTIL dusk before braving the so-called Royal Quarter. With Dickens at my side, I traversed the ankle-deep gum of rotting straw and sewage covering the slippery cobbled streets. We hurried through the warren of damp brickwork until we arrived at King’s Hill Road. From there it was no more than a few hundred sodden steps through the polluted slush, a few turns down God-forsaken alleyways, before we emerged into a square surrounded by warehouses. No, they might have been called by such an innocuous term by day, but as the last crescent of dull December sunlight vanished behind the grimy edge of London, the warehouses transformed. Red lights flicked on in windows, the hollow bass of music erupted from somewhere and was carried on the icy wind through each building. Doors clanged open
