The road itself is quiet, but when he opens the car window he can hear the distant noise of traffic and a police siren. It had rained earlier and the warm, humid air smells of buddleia and dog shit, a nostalgic scent unique to London streets that he remembers from childhood. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. Anyone walking past at this moment, curious about their surroundings, might be aware of a figure sitting in a parked car and even notice a red glow from within, but it is long past midnight and, for now, the road is deserted.
He has no idea how long he has been there – maybe two hours or more. It seems to him he is in a vacuum with no past or future. For the moment he is safe, but he knows that if he leaves the sanctuary of the car and crosses the road, everything will change.
He glances again at the terraced house across the street. The light is on in the sitting room and, although he can’t see them, he imagines shadowy figures moving behind the curtains. Another light comes on upstairs and a few minutes later is extinguished. He reaches behind his seat, awkwardly, feeling for the plastic bag with his bottle of whisky and, as he unscrews the cap, he knows he is crossing a line. He drinks anyway, feeling the spirit warm him but bringing little comfort.
He has to make a decision, but a strange weariness has overtaken him and he can’t force himself to move. Fifteen more minutes, he thinks, and then I’ll decide. The deadline comes and goes. He lights another cigarette, drinks from the bottle. When I finish this cigarette, that’s it, he says to himself. I’ll either start the car and drive back or get out and cross the road. By the time he stubs out his cigarette on the wing mirror, he has made his decision and reaches for the key on the passenger seat.
When he turns his head, he is aware of movement in his peripheral vision as a figure emerges from the house opposite and walks down the front steps. The man comes towards him and, for less than a second, his face is illuminated by the streetlight.