ELEVEN
The walk to Paul’s, to mine, to Cassandra’s, never mind, passed with little incident. I was assailed by a murder of youths, but let’s not dwell.
The gate was open, as was the door. Still I hesitated before it, as form dictated. It was a large wooden door, if you must know, but odd in that it was a single door with the proportions of a double door. It did not swing open on hinges along its edge, but one fifth of the way along it, or thereabouts. I still don’t know how this was achieved, but it was, nor do I know why someone had seen fit to meddle with the design of the domestic door, only that somewhere someone had.
I had not come empty-handed. In my right hand I held a bag by the straps and in it were all I felt I needed. A toothbrush and paste, a razor, a second pair of trousers
