Part TwelveThe following morning George took his coffee out onto his balcony and sat looking out over the western half of the Complex. It was cold and a frost had gathered overnight on rooftops for as far as he could see. He poured a little brandy into his mug, lit a smoke and thought about Mira. He remembered the uncontrollable laughter, the hopes and dreams she shared. The music they listened to and the stories he told her. Mira would sit and listen to George telling stories for hours and hours. ‘You must write your own book,’ she repeatedly encouraged him, ‘you say such lovely things.’ And he also remembered the lies, the deceit and the drinking. Sure, nobody was perfect, he reminded himself. He was far from that and yet she was as close to it as he had found, so far. And now, well now
