Michael cracked a window to clear the room of stale air, kicked off his boots and started to pull clothes from his back, all the while trying to ignore the sheets of paper piled on top of his desk. Under the shower the sound of Lucian’s offer echoed between his ears. To repay for all the cooking and shopping Michael had done over the past seven days he would be happy to have a look at his manuscript…if that was what he wanted. Except Michael no longer knew if it was. Towelling himself dry, he thought it might be unwise to have his work critiqued before it was finished. Michael could feel how fragile the process was. Vulnerable to insecurity; second-guessing. And a dose of Lucian’s sarcasm might bring his current progress to an abrupt halt. Michael reread the scene he had most recently completed and realised that a similar situation would suit his novel. The aspiring writer showing his latest work to the established author. The worry and anxiety that went along with it. The advice that ensued. Its possible misinterpretation by both characters and readers. The tensions that might emerge between the aspiring author and his new wife. An accusation that she no longer had his best interests at heart. Or a creeping suspicion that she was falling in love with the established author. Could that be another idea developed throughout the book? Another misdirection to put before the reader? Thirty minutes later Michael realised he still had no clothes on and had written an additional two pages. It was like that now. The writing would just happen. Michael would see himself holding a pen, but it felt like someone else was moving it across the paper. The same as when he read a book so good he was unaware of turning the pages. He hoped it was an indication of doing real work. That by escaping the restrictions of the physical world during the act of composition – fleeing gravity; travelling through time; guided by a voice different from his everyday consciousness – he was writing something true enough to also displace his readers. Michael trembled with a sudden recognition of the effort necessary to create something new. And now understood why certain novels of obscure experimental fiction had endured despite never topping a bestseller list. They were vessels. To convey readers into a unique world of no compromise. A singular state of mind that vanished the moment the final sentence of the book was complete. It must have been tortuous for their authors to realise it was gone forever. And Michael theorised that what divided writers was the decision either to spend a career trying to recapture it, or to move on with the understanding that the value of the achievement lived not in the moment, but in searching for its existence. How could anything new be discovered without looking somewhere different? Michael acknowledged that this was what Lucian had done throughout his career, and how it would be folly to decline an offer of assistance. Who knew for how long Lucian would be able to bestow such a gift. Michael dressed quickly and stuffed the opening chapters of his book inside his satchel. He glanced around the room and scarcely recognised it. His laptop and mobile phone had acquired a layer of dust and appeared to belong to someone else. His waste-paper basket was empty, his bed was made with fresh sheets, and someone had turned the pictures on the wall to face the right way. The bathroom awoke memories of Rachel’s visit, and with it recollections of his former life in Sydney. Michael felt little for either the people he had left behind, or the places he had frequented. All he wanted was to get onto the streets of Battery Point. Find a shop. Buy some groceries. Hail a taxi. And return to Wood Green with its trees and quiet and friends like Maureen and Paul. It was where he felt most at home. More so, he realised with surprise, than any other place he had ever lived.