ABSTRACT
Just off the traffic-clogged East India Dock Road, through a concrete archway and across a bleak square surrounded by three-storey 1960s blocks, was a flight of stairs leading to the maisonette where Yasmin lived. Running down these one muggy August morning I came face-to-face with a striking piece of graffiti: on the painted breeze-block wall were a dozen sets of initials set out in two neatly sprayed columns, and next to them an inscription: “E14 4 LYF”.
