When the Head of Marketing caught wind of me turning into a pigeon, she tried to take advantage by calling a meeting.
Outside, standing on the balcony, Freddy looked at several pigeons strutting about on the ground below, pecking at a discarded box of chicken and chips.
Drink and food were dad’s priorities. His appetites governed the flat. Freddy watched his dad in the kitchen, pouring beer into a thin glass and then checking the oven to see what was for dinner.
The sun was bleeding. A boy and girl were sitting in the stairwell of the flats, whispering together. They were the only people he had seen since being refused entry to the last pub.