I found Nez leaning on a wall, staring at the tower block where her friends lived. Friends she has not heard from since before the fire. Friends she does not expect to see again.

She is crying.

Crying for her friends she believes she will never see again. Crying for her sister-in-law who made it out just in time and is now recovering round the corner with her brother.

'About 600 people were crammed into these flats, six flats to a floor, 24 storeys high. Maximum-capacity dwellings with minimum possibility of escape'

'It is surreal, this burned-out black building, still billowing acrid smoke up and across the people scattered in the surrounding streets'

Crying in anger, too. Angry that 'they' let this happen. Angry that no one cared. Angry that the people sheloved were left to burn.

Angry they were told to stay inside, pushed back, told to seek safety in their own homes and use wet towels to blot the smoke from the door when they were begging for help to get out.

Emergency responders were following protocol. I have just passed them on the kerb, faces blackened, looking half-dead themselves.

The agreed evacuation policy was to 'stay put / defend in space'. And the frightened residents did as they were told by the people who knew best.

They stayed put. Defended in place. And died in place, too.

Onlookers were forced to watch the horror of small children crying for their mums, parents pleading for help. One mother throwing her baby into the night, hoping arms would catch his fall.

Helplessly watching other human