It had an ethos, a code, a discipline. Jago turned his back on them. A guy at Broadgate, in a bar after dismissal for poor time-keeping, had yelled: ‘The best-kept secret in that bloody place? There’s life outside.’ The bank was supposed to be his life, his horizon, would answer all his needs in exchange for total loyalty. Now he opened the door to another world. It was the door to his apartment. He was at the top of the building. Below him was a house of several storeys, unoccupied because the family were on sabbatical. He looked back. The bedroom light was off, but the bed was made, his clothing neatly stowed in drawers and the wardrobe. His accommodation was occupied but anonymous. In the kitchen, the shelves were clean, the crockery washed, the tea-towel folded and the cleaning stuff put away. In the living area, the television was unplugged, the chair cushions plumped and the parquet swept. He had made no life-changing decision about not coming back. He hesitated. The staircase in front of him led downwards.
What do You think about No Mortal Thing: A Thriller?
