Grasshopper

Clodagh was nineteen when her parents packed her off to college and a relatives house in north London, two years after the death on the pylon, the worst thing that had ever happened to her. They blamed her for it, everyone did, and that was why they were sending her away.

It was hardly surprising that she fell into the arms of Michael Silverman, or Silver, or everyone called him. He was generous and kind and thoughtful too. In his flat at the top of her parents' house he played host to a strange crew of young drop-outs whose pleasure was to range the rooftops. It was a happy, heady time until the moment when, on a trek fifty feet above the street, they looked into a window and saw a scene that was to lead to a tragedy as great as the death on the pylon.