There is a market in Wood Street. There seems to be a market in Wood Street every other day, Clara wonders why they don’t just move into the empty shops. All the usual market stuff; cakes and jams, street food, things made out of wood, bad homespun art. And Mr Osman.
And Xoriyo saying, ‘Hello. Hello.’
Clara and Mr Osman start at the same time,
‘I’m sorry’ ‘I am sorry’
They try again,
‘I am sorry’ ‘I’m sorry’
Clara is aware they are standing in the smell of singed fat.
He is saying, ‘I am sorry, for the cafe. We were rude, all about us and we did not talk of you.’
The detainee she watched through the one way glass, the man who looked like Mr Osman was Sudanese, he was much darker skinned, the resemblance is in the lips, the distance between the eyes.
‘That’s quite alright, I am not very interesting, really.’