The balcony is cold, good cold. Deep-breath it-won’t-be-cold-for-long cold. Morning-of-a-good-day cold. Cold that makes Lyn feel elsewhere. Abroad. Rasping scooters, lazy sirens. About to explore a new place.
She can’t see the prison.
Nothing moving in Burgage Square.
Between the offices, the old library.
She loved working in Drury Lane because the library had its back to the south west turned away from everything that reminded her of … everything. At first, after she came across the Pennines, whenever she returned to Wakey she looked for Emley Mast, from the train, driving the M1, the M62: the first sign of home, visible from all horizons, day or night, grey silhouette or red lights, one light two lights, one light two. A rocket that had decided to stay. A friend.
Then a thorn, a reminder, always there. She tried not to look. A thorn in her eye.
The new library is all south west facing glass. People keep saying, You must love that view, now you’ve got one.
Yes, she says, How can I help you?