He took a cool breath of early morning air and stretched, wincing at the bruises he'd brought back with his report from the picketing. An unanswered phone rang in an office on Deansgate; a single car cruised past the department stores on Piccadilly, sending pigeons up from the roadway to wheel above the gable windows. Nick ran his fingers through his crinkly hair and tried to let the silence be itself. It couldn't be important to remember; he just wanted to wake up so as to drive home and sleep. He glanced up as sunlight snatched at the steep roofs through a gap in the clouds that were rushing a storm toward the Peaks. Memory seized him then, it felt as though by the scruff of his aching neck. 'Diana,' he gasped, and then he realized what else was wrong. He limped into the building, across the lobby that turned his footsteps high-pitched, up the stairs to the library. The blank grey screens of microfilm readers gleamed dully under the tubular lighting of the small white room.
