On either side, and above and below him too, John could hear the other tenants of the house going about their business, but the door was shut and he was alone. He was used to the music of the unceasing traffic outside; it had become a type of silence to him. Nothing like the peace that reigned in Glastonbury under the stars, though. John got up from the narrow bunk where he’d been sitting and padded over to the window, as if he could physically avoid the comparison. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever see the farmhouse again, and he wasn’t ready for the wash of homesickness that had accompanied the thought. It hadn’t been his home. It was Mike’s, a place he had visited while they had been on visiting terms. Well, things changed. Hitching absently at the towel round his waist—no need to scare passersby, even in this wasteland, half-derelict street—John knew there was nothing he could be sure of. Not about the world, not about himself. Had there ever been?
