FORTY-TWO
The auditorium lights dimmed, you could still see around you, but the focus was on the violinist and conductor, the momentum building in the final movement. Jack knew the piece well, loved how the soloist built his cadenza, a faint buzzing in his head, the gunshot echoing around his largely ineffective ears and brain box, affecting his full appreciation of the music, but his soul was overwhelmed by the power of the performance and the measure of the piece.
He had been in a daze after Amanda had woken him from a deep sleep. He could picture her in the shower with him. She had dried and helped him dress. He could recall the look of concern on her face, and Jackie’s voice, like a slowed down echo, asking how he felt? He remembered brushing them off, the pretence of all being well,
