And the only reason it ever came out is that none of the three of us was in charge of the twentieth of November.
Where things are.
We are still on Pellow Street. We talked about moving and decided not to let that happen.
The locks were done at half past ten on the night of the twentieth of November by a man called Bax who came out as an emergency, took one look at the pair of us, and charged us the day rate.
My brother is nineteen miles away and we do not speak. His wife Shona rings Maia about once a month, which is a thing I did not expect, and which Maia has allowed.
My aunt and two cousins are gone. There was no announcement. People simply stopped being at things.
And I ring nobody on a Sunday evening. I have had, for about eight months, a sort of hole at seven o’clock on a Sunday, which Halla says is normal and which I have started filling by taking Nina out in the pram, because she is the only person in my life who is not going to repeat anything I say.
And the key, which is the object this whole thing turns on and which I want to finish with properly.
