Chapter 27
George opened the back door to his house, stepped out of his kitchen onto the yard and looked with satisfaction at his lawn, tidy, in preparation for the day. A finch was tugging at a bug in between the blades of grass, the air smelt fresh, washed by the night rain. A sliver of moon was still perched high in the sky. No haze, all clouds dissolved. A good sign, thought George; enough of doubt, uncertain-ties. He was owed a respite, a more relaxed way of life. Clasping his hands behind his back, he lifted his face, breathed in the smell of grass clippings; nostalgia, memories he could not quite place. A popular tune came into his head, and he began to whistle - for the first time in many months.
Back in his house, he picked up his paper, took it through to the sitting room. The
