Last week, I walked under what remains of Grenfell Tower in London towards a hall in the shadow of the blackened building for a meeting with residents and others who work on the Lancaster West estate. “You can tell when someone is an outsider,” one of them said. “Locals don’t look up.”

I had looked up, though not for long. The tower seems smaller than in news footage, the charred curtains fluttering from empty windows a reminder of its frail, human scale. Hand-written notes on fences tell journalists to keep away, or ask that no pictures be taken.