I memorise the address and shut the computer down, hurrying out of the office to my car.
Outside, dusk is settling over the area with a hint of damp and mugginess in the air. I drive quickly, nearly going through a red at a set of traffic lights. I continue on along the coastal road, tight chested.
I didn’t know what I was expecting when I looked for her name, but I wish I hadn’t. The different surname indicates she has married since we last saw each other.
That shouldn’t bother me. But it does.
Leave it alone, I tell myself as I approach the...
They say Craig and I never went to Vince Macarthur's house, only Gordon did. But I did go, and so did Craig. I remember the three of us going and I remember the house well. The faded curtains. The musty smells. The shabby carpets. The elusive dancing shadows behind the loose banisters on the staircase. The torn settee by a pile of dusty newspapers. The purple vase in the corner with a fine wiry pattern etched in the glasswork. The metal guard around the gas fire. Model aeroplanes in the sitting room. Spitfires. Lancaster Bombers.
A black tar crow, the night in silhouette, he flies away from his inheritance but is caged by syllables and the past, black as noir of death before dawn, with sirens’ calling that also turn to night, but it’s then as crow’s perch’d above over city street, fleeting shadows a city flash neon strobe that separates, to merge into the ...