Noddy sat on the edge of a green plastic chair, one of a pair that joined a tattered couch and a compact hi-fi as the only furniture in the room. Morag went back into the bedroom. Banging drawers and slamming cupboard doors kept her company.
“You thought he was still here.”
Bang. Slam. Thud.
“What’s that?” Morag came back into the lounge, a battered leather briefcase in her arms.
“Mick. You wanted to find him here, didn’t you?”
She sat down carefully and opened the briefcase. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to see him again?”
Noddy walked to the double doors leading to the balcony, turned the key already in the lock and opened them up. He needed some air.
This flat was on the opposite side from Dirk’s. Less of a view, despite being several floors higher. It looked out over dusty rooftops, two carparks, and the back of the Chelsea Underground, if you squinted in the right direction at the right time of day. Nothing but concrete and brick.
“I saw your psycho bird earlier. He wanted to teach me how to fly. Away from all of this. But I wouldn’t listen.”
Noddy turned back into the room. Morag was cutting white powder on a tiny mirror.
“I thought you’d quit?”
It was a long moment before she looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. Her voice came from a long way away, as if she was forcing herself back to the here and now to respond. Out of loyalty. Friendship. Perhaps something more.
“Let’s just say I’m having a bad day. Okay?”
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