217 Babel Street | Apartment 1
The moon was almost full. Viv opened the window and turned off the radiator. She sat on the bed, peeled off sticky socks and threw them into the laundry basket. A breeze blew the curtain against her cheek. It felt good. She had the postcard in her hand. She'd caught a glimpse of the picture earlier but had managed not to look properly. She'd wanted to save it. She'd seen enough to know that it was a European city, with old buildings and street cafes. It might be from Paris, or Amsterdam. She liked faraway ones the best: Singapore, Moscow, La Paz, wherever that was (it didn't matter) but this one wasn't from any of those places.
A crash from upstairs. Bloody Nora. She clenched her fists. Wasn't it enough that she cleaned up after these people all day, without this every night? She knew what the banging was. Fighting? Murder? Some hope. She'd been in recently, to read the daughter's school report and have a piece of chocolate cake. Their bedroom lightbulb had gone, months before, and they hadn't got round to replacing it. They went to bed in the dark, falling over furniture and each other.
Viv scanned the postcard. Brussels. Having a great time! Love the beer! She smiled, took a lump of blu-tak and stuck the postcard on the wall with all the others. There were sixty-seven now. So Harry had a friend visiting Brussels. Viv knew her neighbours. Oh yes, she knew them all.