just to secure a flat

We left the flat and the agent, and retired to the next-door pub, which, despite the sirens we could hear and the twinkling of blue lights, was apparently a “cool” one, with a “nice” clientele.

- 

“Yes, hmm, the tapas bar...” the barman told us, “and, of course, there’s the nightclub.”

“What nightclub?”

He pointed. “That nightclub.”

In fact, the nightclub under the railway arch across the road from the flat, which, despite its jaunty nod to devilry, being painted black all over, we'd not previously noticed.

“What about it?” I asked.

“It's dodgy,” he answered. “So you get a few fights. You know, Fridays and Saturdays. So best avoided. And, you know...”

We did not know.

“But look on the bright side,” he added. “Odds on, they'll shut it down soon.”

We left the pub deep in thought. (Actually, existential angst.) But our way, it seemed, was blocked. By tape stretched between lampposts like angry bunting. Which said, in repeat pattern, “Police line - do not cross”. There had, it seemed, just been “an incident”.

The line stretched across the pavement outside the corner shop we'd passed on our way. And around the actual corner, where a police officer was milling. So we trotted across the road.

“Excuse me,” I said, “can you tell me what's going on? Only we've just viewed that flat there” - I pointed. “Above the tapas bar. And, given this, er, incident, we were wondering. Is this a safe place for a woman to live alone?”