Curtains
There is a wall.
It curtains,
throwing shade. Yellow, like most constructions in this country. Perhaps
because the sun blanches everything burnt custard coloured, or perhaps
materials birthed from deserts are naturally this colour.
Probably there
is no way of knowing without research; probing the internet, all seeing, all
knowing.
In front,
between the road and the wall, strewn rubble passes itself off as pavement.
Sidewalk, if you like. To walk upon this, you should take care, for many hidden
dangers linger there. Stones to twist the ankle, mouths to trip the toe, lips
to cause a stumble and fall. Broken heels tell all.
Amongst the
bric-a-brac, face upwards, someone has tossed away a couple of orphan playing
cards with tawny edges; they peer curiously from behind concrete. Perhaps the
queen of hearts, the knave of clubs. They are fading.
Hiding somewhat
behind the wall, a tall building. Seen better days and the paint flakes peel
like skin from a prune whilst the windows’ sunglassed eyes make faces, shielded
from glare.
Rising like
drones in flight, we can spy over the top as a door opens. It creaks in protest,
reluctant to reveal what secrets might lie within.
Picking
their way out carefully, two figures emerge. There is an argument in sign
language, punctuated with shy smiles. Who should go before the other?
After some
flapping, the man, dressed in short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers comes first,
all in flipped back grey hair and sun blushed tomato; his tie is dishevelled,
because he has undone the top button, the one that pinches the neck’s soft
flesh to hide milk skin within. He clutches a soft, black leather satchel, worn
by time so that its lines present an informal face to the watching world.
Following
him, the woman, with hair bound tightly in a mauve and pink scarf whose colours
fade into and compliment her profile, so that only brown eyes and a humble
mouth reveal themselves. No lipstick, nothing about her eyes, for they are
shadow enough in themselves and deep welcoming pools.
She wears a loose-fitting
patterned silken dress. More a robe; designed not to excite stray wanting gazes
or accentuate anything too much. Straight up and down, with hint of curves.
Yet, there are also two opened buttons as in casual accident at the faintly stirring
throat. From high above with a really good lens, and if the loose scarf is
stirred by her graceful motion, there should be glimpses.
The couple
traverse the inner patio, drop out of view briefly, exit through a gate where
they can be observed, one in front of the other, stumbling over the rubble,
making for a medium sized white saloon car with four doors. They walk slowly in
the heat, and although the car isn’t far, it takes 45 seconds before they reach
it. Sometimes the woman leads, sometimes the man. Always in a pantomime of
friendly gestures.
Now they
arrive. She unlocks the door, and so clearly it belongs to the woman, and yes,
she disappears into the left-hand front driving position. The right-hand door
swings open, unlocked from the interior, although front windows are curtained
by anti-dazzle, metallic, heat reflecting shields, so it is hard to be totally certain
if she opens it.
The man
enters the car, satchel first, then his haunches, before swinging his legs
anti-clockwise and the door shuts. They are within; neither can be accurately seen,
just shapes.
Can they be
heard? Yes, just, if the car is approached very closely from the rear where the
window has not been blacked out. But it is hard to pick out every word because
the engine is running, even though the car is stationary. The air conditioning
inside is blowing so that slowly the interior cools.
“We must sit
in here. Outside is hot. I will sit with you. Sorry, Mister, the car broken. I
cannot drive you.”
“There
really is no need, it will come in a minute.”
“No, Mister,
it is pleasure for me to sit here with you. You are good teacher. My children
love you, when you come, they are so happy.”
“Listen, I
don’t want to put you out. Please, I am happy to wait by the gate.”
“When you
come, I am happy. You are a good, kind man. So much you remind me of my
father.”
“You are so
kind, to say that. I’m sure I’m nothing like him, really.” And the man can be
heard chuckling nervously.
“You are
kind and gentle, like him. I loved my father so much, Mr John, so much. He was
wonderful man, with silver hair. I never wanted to leave him; he always was
soft with me. My husband says me it is wrong to love my father so much.”
And her
voice is swelling as she says this, like a roller approaching the beach, before
it retreats back into itself, only to come again.
Beats. Silence
holds them together in fleeting eternity. Watch carefully; these two do not
look at each other. They do not touch. They must not. They cannot. This nothing
speaks of substance. It will fill volumes of unwritten pages in crimson and
black ink.
She moves. Spell
broken, now reaches into a small handbag. Only the back of the man’s head, in
streaks of dark and grey can be seen. But by moving closer to focus more
carefully and without attracting attention, it is plain that her hands are
trying to conceal a decanter of scent.
She is
taking his wrist in her palms.
Nothing is
said. Or, if it is, it cannot be heard and her lips are barely discernible
behind the veiling scarf. Observe. She is spraying his wrists, then gently
stroking with her fingertips in small circles, one, then the other, rubbing
softly.
Now, we see
her smile, she lets go his hand then anoints her own forearms. She is pushing
the bottle into fist. Pressing. Her lips move and might say: “So that you do
not forget, Mister.”
Does he
refuse the gift? Try to pass it back to her?
Before more
can be witnessed, another car approaches and it would be prudent to pull back
out of earshot and sight.
The front
right passenger door opens and the man, Mr John, as we now know his name, still
rumpled, reappears, clutching his satchel and blinking at the sudden dazzle of
the sun. He looks up the street, then back down – perhaps feeling he is being
watched – then sees this newly arrived car waiting.
John shrugs,
turns, waves vaguely into the interior of the car he has just left. Is he
blowing a kiss? Smelling his scented wrists? Possibly. It is difficult to see
clearly from here. Moving away and closing the door, he lets himself into the
second car. As the glass is tinted dark, all that can be seen is a reflection.
After a
pause, the car drives off, curtained and cool.
Will there
be anything of further interest? For a little while, maybe five minutes, the
white saloon car is rocking gently, its occupant screened off; cradling her in faint
ripples. Possibly it is heat haze. The engine is still turned on.
Some time
has passed but it is not important how much time. The sun is fiercer that it
was and spends longer in the daytime sky.
There is a
carpark.
A barrier, painted
in red and white strips like a barber’s pole, separates the dark interiors from
the gaze of the burning sun, or the eyes of the ministry buildings opposite.
Much of it, but not all, is constructed underground. A ramp descends deep
beneath, above which the building sits like a pointing finger.
In the
underbelly, it is hot, because the air conditioning is not as effective as it
could be. Due to this, fire alarms cry in false tongues throughout the day while
surveillance cameras prowl the walkways, looking for anything that could pose a
danger to the inhabitants or their children.
Trapped heat
rises, swollen by the pit. It burns the undersides of the ground floor
apartments and in these, the air conditioning strives twice as hard to maintain
a living environment.
The carpark
also runs above ground, adjacent to three apartments; it curves to the side of
these. A barrier partitions the outside from the inside but here, the sun’s
sticky tongue can reach and lick the split paving. It is rarely employed by
people who rent the homes within and is unencumbered by stationary vehicles,
only occasionally used by trade and delivery.
It is quite
simple to duck quickly under the barrier and tread lightly across the concrete.
Mr John
lives in one apartment alongside the carpark. It is easy to reach his windows
and there is no need to be especially quiet because the constant drone of his labouring
air conditioning units, pumping cool air, covers most external noises. Just the
shrill high-pitched myna birds reach within.
By the side
of his apartment, the carpark road narrows into a space just wide enough to let
a medium sized vehicle through. Beyond this is a tall painted wall in
ubiquitous yellow. Upon seeing his windows, observe how pointless they are,
they look out upon nothing but the wall, letting in little light. The windowed
eyes of tall buildings opposite can peek over the top and because his apartment
is grounded, it is easy to peer in, if care is taken not to alert him.
The far
window of two stares into his bedroom. Both have bars, net curtains and thick
drapes. Mr John rarely pulls these across, perhaps because it is rarely light
enough for him to bother, or perhaps because he is careless.
He is
sitting on his bed. He is using his phone to take photographs. But of what?
With closer
examination, notice how his left-hand grips one naked foot and pins it across
his knee whilst the right manipulates the camera. It is obvious he is
right-handed and is capturing images of the soles and heels. Mr John is not
particularly dextrous, however; observe that he must release the right foot in
order to send the photographs. Some people would find such a task easy, needing
only one hand.
He appears
to be satisfied that he has accomplished the task, because now he reclines back
on to the bed, left sided, leaving his right hand free whilst the other is
partially trapped by his body. He is wearing a loose fitting robe – quite usual
and comfortable in hot climates.
His head
rests back on one of three pillows, two of which are covered with striped
pillow slips; the third is a plain, purple colour. Three pillows could be seen
as an odd number. Most people would have four and all the slips would match.
What this suggests about Mr John is impossible to know without asking him.
To do this
might raise awkward questions that are best avoided.
Mr John
appears to be waiting for something and from the window; his right hand
disappears. Gentle, regular movements can be observed – but then, the hand resurfaces
because, although it can’t be heard, the phone rings.
He holds it
to his face from where it had been reclining beside him. It is difficult to
hear what is being said, but the mirrors in the room reflect the movements of
his lips; his face is smiling. He is looking at the phone as though it is
looking back. He finishes the call by stabbing the screen with his right thumb.
Somewhat
slowly, he stands up. Perhaps his feet are causing him pain. He slips the phone
into his pocket, then walks slowly from view, towards an area of the bedroom
that can’t quite be seen. Possibly the door?
By now, slipping
rapidly to the first window, which requires slightly more effort to reach due
to the ground sloping downwards, it is indeed the case that he has moved from
the bedroom, through the apartment, turned left and is disappearing towards the
apartment’s entrance, reasonably briskly. Why?
At the front
of the building, a medium white, four door saloon has arrived. The windows are
unshielded, and inside the female driver is gripping the wheel tightly. The car
is idling in neutral, perhaps two metres away from the entrance. From here,
someone shielding their eyes, squinting against the glower of the midday sun,
could make out that she is wearing a head scarf, concealing her hair.
No point in moving
our vantage point though, because Mr John hops into the passenger side front
seat. The car executes a right turn and drives smoothly into the carpark, just
in front of his two windows. There is a little
manoeuvring, before the driver pulls on the handbrake, but leaves the engine
running so that the air conditioning combats the heat within.
Only the two
heads can clearly be seen, side by side, safe distance between them. There is
no contact, but a conversation is taking place, clearly of a friendly nature; to
hear the words requires moving closer and this is not possible. Even if you
were in possession of a good microphone and headset, to wear it would be
obtrusive.
But now, the
driver’s door opens and the woman steps out. Her clothes fit tight against her
figure. They draw attention to her breasts, accentuated in a pleasing way;
full, pushing forwards against a lightly coloured silken blouse. Her legs and
thighs are slim in the dark trousers she is wearing and the curves of her
haunches are graceful where they meet her woman’s belly which is very slightly
plump in an erotic, fertile way. Her walk cannot help but be sensual, her gaze
coy from within the scarf.
Quickly she
steps, though, and occasionally her eyes startle as though being watched. In
her left hand she carries a medical bag. She is a doctor.
As she
reaches the passenger door which she opens, her quiet instruction is given and
Mr John’s sandalled feet emerge. He passes her a cushion.
Now
something astonishing and seldom seen. Kneeling on the cushion, she reaches
inside the bag. Pulls out equipment. Takes off Mr John’s sandals carefully,
one, then the other and lays them beside the bag.
“Maryam,
what are you doing?”
“Don’t
worry, Mister, I wash your feet.”
Mr John’s
face cannot be seen, but his feet put up no resistance. So tenderly she uses
varied cloths, wipes, antiseptic, creams, lotions and quietly, her head bent to
perform this task, does she stroke, wash, rub, massage both feet. She takes her
time as though it is a pleasure to do so. No words are uttered between the two,
just an occasional sigh from the interior of the car.
Finally,
Maryam towels his feet lightly, but thoroughly, and replaces the sandals.
Still
kneeling, she looks up and into the interior of her car. Mr John’s hands reach
out to her, but she ignores them. No. Refuses them. She pulls herself to her
feet.
“I now must
do this.”
Maryam
reaches into her bag and pulls from it a large hypodermic syringe. She breaks
an ampule deftly, clearly well used to such procedures. Without effort she
fills the syringe with a dark red liquid. Mr John’s face can now be seen. He
looks anxious.
Her hands
push up the sleeve of his robe to expose bare skin. Only her back can be seen
as she rubs his upper arm with a sterilising swab, ripped from its tight packaging.
Now her finger is raised as she gently pushes the needle into the epidermis.
She squeezes the trigger.
Mr John’s
face tenses into lines, his eyes closed, his teeth gritted.
“I am sorry.
It hurt. It is needed. It will cure feet.” Her voice sounds like a smile. When
finished, she rubs the arm again and dextrously applies cotton and a plaster,
although there is no blood, pulling the sleeve of his robe back down.
Again, Mr
John holds out arms. In thanks or for comfort, it is impossible to tell, but
Maryam refuses, instead just barely stroking the arm she wounded, but with an
affectionate, hidden gesture, using the back of her hand, which moves down to
his wrists, and then his thigh, so quickly, so sparely, so lightly, she might
assume that it went unrecorded, unfelt and unremarked upon.
Now she
closes the car door, walks back to the driver’s side and re-enters, doors are
closed and the occupants once more sealed off from the world.
This time,
however, there is no need for the metallic sunshields, as the air conditioning
has been in constant flow; two heads and shoulders are visible. Mr John
reclines back in the passenger seat turned towards her, the back of his head in
shot, occasionally rubbing the arm, whilst she looks into his gaze, her own deep
eyes warm and sparkling, her sharing mouth animated and humorous.
They are
there for quite some time, but nothing can be heard over the idling engine and
air conditioning, punctuated by the shrill calls of myna birds.
Once again,
time has passed, and once again, how much has no importance upon events. Maybe
a lifetime or merely just a sweeping second hand halo in lover’s heartbeats –
it does not matter. The sun continues to scald the ground for longer than any
heels would wish, splitting and forking concrete paths in two.
There is a
medical centre.
It is an
unobtrusive building. The flat roof forms a cap upon its two layers, like
yellow marzipan sealing a layered wedding cake, the sun dappled walls
resembling marbling. The windows are tinted; they wear dark contact lenses. It
is possible to see out from within, but upon approaching and looking inwards, a
person will only see a reflection. A mirror, if you like.
From behind
curtains, the medical centre watches. Like every building, on every street
corner, small surveillance cameras adorn its exterior. Little hemispheres and
spheres, scattered like haphazard, grey baubles. So ubiquitous, in fact, that
it is easy to forget they are there.
And most do.
Almost all have become so used to being watched, it is buried within them.
Accepted as part of life; in fact they have forgotten to remember they forgot, it
has slipped, this signed contract in virtual ink, undisputed unless it is
screened on television as entertainment.
At the
roadside, in front of the medical centre, there are a handful of cars,
scattered about. Some of them have been parked longer than others. Observe that
they have a deeper frosting of hot sand upon their exterior shells; it drifts
lightly this desert, ever expanding, carried by warm thermal currents on days
like these.
The left-hand
front driver’s door of one such vehicle, a large black Pajero, opens. A man
exits, dressed in a long, white, cotton thobe, his head covered in a red
patterned keffiyeh which moves gracefully as he strides up a paved path towards
the door. His sandals kick carelessly at dust. It chokes thin needle leaves of
unkempt brown-dirt vegetation engaged in the eternal struggle to not cease
existing.
Opening the
centres front doors, he is swallowed by its black mouth, joining the others
within.
Next to the
Pajero, notice the front and side of a strikingly coloured blue, yellow and
black vehicle, marked with the word ALFAZA in a bold, sans serif font. Like the
medical centre, its windows are tinted and gaze dispassionately upon the
building. If anything is within, it cannot be seen.
Surely recognizable
by now, our medium sized, white, four door saloon approaches the building. It
slows, it pauses, it indicates - with flashing orange light, ready to turn
right across the oncoming traffic.
The vehicle
has moved slightly beyond the parked cars and is parallel to a small driveway
that leads into a covered area bisecting the medical centre. The advancing
traffic moves slowly, a sun-prismed relentless oil slick of unnatural colours
that dazzle and blind.
Finally, a
space appears, one that - with quick reflexes and some small amount of bravery
- could be taken advantage of. It is risky, but what is the alternative? To sit
forever, static, waiting for I dare not to become I would, like some poor cat,
whilst behind, the traffic builds, expanding into a volcanic rage? The time for
patience is over. It should be replaced by trust.
Those who
hesitate are lost.
So, our car
darts across and makes it safely into the covered harbour. There is a little
manoeuvring, then the driver pulls on the handbrake, switching the motor off.
It sits, engine cooling, and the covered roof shields it from heat, like a
canvas tent.
For 50
seconds precisely, there is no exterior movement, just a blur of shapes inside.
Then, the passenger door opens on the left side. Mr John emerges. His dark
shirt is not really fit for purpose in this heat; his eyes shielded by jet
black sunglasses. He puts his back to the vehicle in a conspicuous, obvious
manner. It is as though he is forbidden to witness the activity the driver is
engaged in, or perhaps he is hiding it from view, and a slight smile plays upon
his lips.
What is the
driver doing? It cannot be seen with any clarity, but it involves an arm
fishing around on the back seat and a pair of shoes.
The driver’s
door opens. Doctor Maryam is also smiling. A coy, shy smile; in apology, framed
by the head scarf she is wearing. Her lips move. They are wet and even in the
shade cast by this covered parking space, they shine with life’ contrary to the
choking miasma of fine sand. She speaks and her words drift upon the air; just
audible to any interested spectator.
“Forgive me,
Mister, I can only drive with bare feet. They slip. I scared in case I cause
accident.”
Mr John’s eyes
glitter with amusement and wry understanding. “I did not look. I shielded you
from embarrassment.”
“Come,
Mister.” Maryam indicates the building. There must be doors leading into the
interior. If so, they are obscured by her car.
She is
wearing her mauve pink headscarf. Her professional clothes are modest enough,
but see how her curves draw the eye; the beauty of her movement, an appetitive
step; her breasts are cradled firmly enough but with each stride move visibly,
rubbing against her soft, silken coat.
And, yes. Maryam
and John do disappear through a door guarded by the car.
They can be
followed if the main doors are used. Documents and I.D. cards must be presented
to a receptionist, of course. Some reason for being in attendance that will not
arouse suspicion. An enquiry about vaccinations, perhaps? That will certainly
do.
After an
initial conversation and some exchange of papers and certificates, the observer
can be absorbed by the multitude already present. Pushed into the background
and ignored. A medical centre is always busy.
Correct. Here are Mr John and Doctor Maryam. Now they can certainly by-pass any formal or
bureaucratic procedures as described because this is her clinic; she is the
doctor. Approach them, drift towards them like seed on wind, penetrate curtains
thrown up by this press of people.
Look. Her
consulting rooms.
They enter
and the door is closed. All might seem lost to the spectator. The window set
into the door is frosted, vague shapes are hidden, barely discernible. What
lies within?
Wait.
Another woman approaches the consulting room. Dressed in a white coat that
covers most of her figure except slim legs, her head wrapped in a dark scarf.
Steel-framed glasses glitter, catching the light, sending forth pricking shards
that needle. She carries a board, made of stiff card, to which are attached
notes bitten by a silver clip.
Move away
slightly; let her through – she opens the door of Doctor Maryam’s rooms.
Inside,
facing us, a long, wide desk, behind which are cupboards, glass fronted; they
contain all manner of medical equipment and instruments. To the right, an
adjustable clinic bed beside ultra-scan machines and monitors. Upon the bed are
cushions and to the side a green curtain that can be drawn across if privacy is
needed.
A
comfortable stool sits in front of this bed, where a doctor could administer to
the needs of any reclining patient.
Mr John,
however, is sat facing Doctor Maryam at her desk in front of us. We cannot see
his face, but he is sipping strong coffee that she has freshly prepared for
him. Smiling, she breaks a small piece from a chocolate biscuit and passes it
to him. In doing this, her hand hesitates. It is as though she would like to
feed him.
She does
not.
Her colleague
is tapping the silver topped clipboard; an indication of impatience or
attention.
Doctor
Maryam’s voice is coy. Her brown, wide eyes cannot look at her colleague or the
man in front of him “This is Mister John.”
“Good
morning, Mister John.”
Mister John
turns to face the door. He also smiles. “Good morning.”
The
colleague returns the smile. Moves away from the entrance. But…she has left the
door open. And so, all will be clearly seen. All will be heard. Wrapped within
each other, they have forgotten, they are oblivious. Did they sign a contract?
We cannot know.
“I told her
about you. I am always talking about you.”
Doctor
Maryam rises and indicates the medical bed to her left. He places his coffee on
her desk carefully. Her hands, usually so strong, are shaking.
They do not
touch. They cannot touch. They must not touch.
But as he reclines
on the bed, all this will change. Can you not see it? She is a doctor, he is a
patient.
She helps
him to lie down. Removes his shoes. Sits before him. So gently does she
unbutton his belt; push up his shirt, her fingers trembling as they press his
stomach, his thighs, his chest.
She has not
closed the curtain.
Mr John
looks at her. She at him. In a fixed moment of whirlpool drowning, hands clutch
for each other. Now they are grasped firmly.
“When I look
in your eyes, I am weak, Mister.”
“You are so
sweet.”
“I want to
take you, put you here in my heart and lock it. Forgive me. I should not say
these things.”
“My dearest,
there is nothing to forgive.”
“It is too
late. These feelings are in my heart. I cannot control my heart any longer,
Mister. They will not leave my heart.”
“I am
imprisoned there. How has this happened?”
Maryam’s
face is obscured, but the backs of her hands move upwards. They are still
shaking. She removes her crimson scarf and dark hair tumbles forwards like
curtains. She moves her head downwards towards John’s chest and his hands can
be seen gently running through her thick, glossy tresses in shock and wonder.
In
amazement, John’s astonished hands are unbuttoning, the blouse opens, breasts
falling forwards to brush against his mouth.
There is not
perfect focus, but an observer might reasonably assume she is kissing his
chest, her lips moving down so slowly towards his midriff where she had
previously unbuckled his belt. Somehow,
John tenderly pulls at her so that she is over him, above him, straddling his
body upon the bed. Her face looks into his, her hair falling, falling forwards.
It is at
this point that both notice the curtains and the door have been open all this
time.
Framed
within? Two policemen. Led here by the steel-rimmed colleague. They have just
pushed past; barely noticing us recording these moments.
Matthew
hurled the book away from him with a frustrated growl. “That’s it, I’m done
with this shit.”
The book’s
pages fluttered heroically in an effort to stay aloft, before giving up the
struggle and plummeting to the floor. It lay there, stunned for a while, as
Matthew bludgeoned his keyboard with blunt fingers and thumbs, watching the
processed text appear on his screen in satisfaction. “He’ll be crucified for
this.”
A hand
retrieved the book from the floor, dusted it down, thumbed at its pages in a
flicking motion. “What ails you, my friend?” asked the voice to which the hand
belonged, as it replaced the book on Matthew’s desk.
Matthew
looked up with a scowl. “Why aren’t you busy? What you working on, Luke?”
“Nothing
much. Your agonized howl drew my attention.” Luke grinned. “Are you going to
see it?” He gestured at the screen, scanning the words Matthew had battered
into submission from his keyboard: ‘Last Orders, Please: Closing Curtains on
Opening Night’. Luke smirked. “Ouch. Good title. You don’t think it’ll have a
long run, then?”
“The single
worst play that has ever come across my desk,” responded Matthew, “thought I’d
read it prior to curtain up. Bad decision. Fatal.”
“What’s
wrong with it?” Picking the book up, Luke squinted at the blurb on the rear.
“Totally
unrealistic. Dialogue written by a hack. No real people would ever sound like
these two. What dialogue there actually is, to be sure.”
“What d’you
mean?”
“Well it’s
all exposition. Scene setting. Stage directions. In present tense – progressive,
perfect, simple…it’s thoroughly unengaging. Uninspired. No thought went into
it.”
“What does
it treat on?”
Matthew
snorted. “Treat on?” he scoffed. “Are you Bottom now?” He paused. “I didn’t
finish reading it.”
“He won’t
like that.”
“Bollocks to
him.” Matthew raised his eyebrows and gaze, somewhat quickly. “It isn’t about
anything. It has nothing to say. The characters do not come off the page.
Unrepresentative of our diverse culture. No lesbians, homosexuals, trans-genders
– not even a token bloke in a wheelchair shooting hoops. Just this straight,
dull couple. And he’s obsessed with tits. Check out page 14.”
“Tits?” Luke
echoed Matthew’s previous words, tossing the book back down in distaste. “He’ll
be crucified for that.”
Matthew’s
look suggested it would be justice served. “What did you say you were working
on, mate?”
“I didn’t.
Not much crime occurring. Just a couple arrested for sex in a public place.
She’s married, he’s banged up.”
“Let’s piss
off early. I’m done for today. Pretend we forgot to finger out.”
“Yeah, why
not?” Luke stroked the back of his neck thoughtfully, then repeated, “Why not.”
He paused, shivered a little and looked upwards towards the ceiling. “Do you
ever get the feeling we’re being watched?”
