Judas put the feather in his pocket, or half of it at least. Walking back to the office he caught his reflection in the window; it had to be 50cm in length, and the top half was sticking out so that he looked like a schoolteacher from a Dickens novel. He was still thinking of the feather as he approached the door to his office.
The door was ajar. That was the first thing that started to make his scar itch. The post was never delivered to this floor, it was always collected by Williams. There was that feeling again, sadness. The second thing was the brown package on his desk. It was rectangular, thick, well-padded, and it had been made secure with lots of brown twine. Who wrapped packages like that anymore? thought Judas, as he pushed the door open. He made sure to look behind the door aga
