It was less than a year ago that I sat in this same armchair and, watching Steve McQueen’s house-party, felt so very grateful to him. For giving us this ‘drama’ with no drama. For filming joy in real time. For inviting me into a beautiful celebration full of beautiful people whose beauty I had no particular right to admire, let alone participate in, and yet, it seemed, I was allowed to do both.

Nothing happened and everything happened, I kept thinking. And I did not know, then, about New Cross.

I remember effusive, exuberant praise for Lovers Rock. Everyone agreed it was the best thing about Small Axe. Especially if you were white and sitting in an armchair, absolved of guilt not merely by observation but by association, because nothing happened: in the course of a night-long house-party, the only climax was the wind-down of the whole heaving, dancing, floor hitting the high note, a capella. I remember widespread critical acclaim the day after Lovers Rock. I don’t recall a single reference to the house-party that ended in the deaths of thirteen teenagers in January 1981.

Tonight, not yet a year later, I watched Steve McQueen’s documentary about the New Cross fire. There is too much sadness and disbelief to put on the page right now — but I think this, above al,l is what is most shattering: This was the story that had to be in his mind when he made Lovers Rock. How could it not be.

And again I am grateful. That in addition to the history, he gave us a rewrite. In which everyone makes it home. Wings of angels, bicycle handlebars …