CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Despite the horror of the scene at the London Eye, Rachel felt disturbingly unperturbed. Perhaps it was the awfulness of her research, her own experience in recent years, or the numbing themes she and everyone else had been subjected to on the news, in the cinema, in literature. She dawdled, deep in thought, on her way through the city among the supper and theatre crowds who were clueless about what had happened. They were happy, excited, their plans for the night full of fast or fine food, perhaps dancing or a stroll or a show, their blood enhanced by intoxicants legal or illegal. But what impressed her the most was they were alive. She was alive. And what she’d witnessed was not specifically directed at her. She’d been knocked from her own egocentric viewpoint. Of co
