Aunty Joan looked old, impossibly old. She became old overnight when her only child Julian had taken his own life aged just seventeen, that was almost twenty five years ago.
That was the thing about Reading; it was just never quite, and neither could it be, a pleasant place to live.
The busiest time of George's week by far was a Friday evening during the hours before Maxene returned home from work.
Am I a shadow of my former self, or a form yet to fill the deepest shadows of my prime? Am I dreaming, yet to wake, and break the membrane of perceived sentience?
The following evening George returned to the area, this time disguised as a jogger. Dressed in some old tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a cap, he ran up and down the length of the main road.