Chapter 22
6.30 p.m.
The man in the wrong brown suit was still in a bag and hooked over Julia’s fingers. She winced at the red lines where the string handles had cut in, then left it on a bench. Maybe someone who loved mysteries would take the book and read it, if the weird weather didn’t get to it first. Mr Beelzebub had no hold over her now. He was supposed to know everything; he knew nothing. He may well be the snaffler of secrets, but he didn’t know how to be the keeper of memories.
She ate something as she walked. All just bits of indiscriminate bulk from a corner shop to stop the belly rolling, crying, hurting, and so she didn’t have to look directly at people. So many faceless people.
The wind had begun to whip round, picking up the dormant sweet wrappers and discarded cigarette
