217 Babel Street | Apartment 14
Knitting needles clicked on over the patter of rain. Damien looked out at the street. No sign of the removal van.
He turned to the women. "Weather's foul."
The stout one smiled into her wool. "Dreadful. Rainy, foggy and polluted."
"Like my life."
She shook her head.
"Mark my words, young Damien. You'll go far in this town."
"It's not looking great at the moment. I haven't even got my things."
"Yes, now. But one day you could be mayor."
"Mayor?" Damien wasn't sure what a mayor did. Gym or night-club owner was closer to his dreams.
The owl and the husk dropped the wool and stared. Damien looked away. His eye caught the spirit level. Odd. Though the floor was fairly flat, there was no bubble in the glass at all.
The owl blinked. "Someone important anyway."
"We know it," the husk whispered.
"Really? And when's this going to happen?"
"In many years. Or tomorrow."
The owl unravelled more wool.
Damien laughed, took his mug to the kitchen. "Well, tomorrow and tomorrow and the day after that... they're all the same to me right now."
He noticed dust and a little blood on his fingers so washed his hands.
He returned to an empty room, three full mugs.
"Weird." He hadn't heard the door close.
Someone important. Sophie always said he could be someone, if he'd make the effort. Perhaps he could. Anything was possible.
A dark anvil-shaped cloud pressed down on the sea. A storm was brewing.