Relocation

Prolongued radio silence leads me to believe that our agents in rural yorks and (recently) Boston have entered a new realm of investigative depth. Perhaps the net is drawing in. Perhaps they are drawing the net in. A dragnet an ocean wide, for the big fish. I must reveal that last night, I aided the hurried removal from a city squat of my and another agent’s stuff. We left the place with the filth of years of decay – strange rusting gas pipes that light up like some oil refinery display. Cupboards with broken hinges, full of green and brown stubby bottles of cheap lager, some still half full from strange forgotten nights. On leaving, this was all visible at the surface, after several days (or has it been months?) of it being hidden by our temporary presence – Orange throes (or throws? – a query for Kingsbury PI to answer) and purple wall hangings were pulled up from damp furniture to make haversacks for swift transport of file notes; audiocassettes; dictaphones; emergency garlic cloves.

From 2am or whatever hour it was, I slept on the carpet – the damp from accumulating winters of discontent made the sofas and mattresses an unattractive prospect. A sudden and bright start at dawn. Vehicle pulls up at the door, and away. Key hidden in usual place for future users of this facility, future victims of this squalor. The driver is alert; ready; a true getaway man. A safe pair of hands. I close my eyes and sleep the early morning away. Wake on a B-road from dreaming of a cat scraping at my windows. Or was it the other way round? Did I wake to a cat scraping the window from dreaming of a B-road. I may never know…