I thought you might be hungry.’ There is a strange woman in Michael’s house. An emollient. It is nice how they can run on wheels around her. She sets down a plate of soup, and a sandwich cut in triangles. Things are being done, useful things. She untangles and sorts. His jaw is becoming unclenched. It’s the most pleasant feeling. She puts down his plate. ‘I’m away to get Ross.’ Slips off. It’s late afternoon. He ate his fill at the council buffet anyway, but doesn’t like to say. Michael flexes his fingers, feels the blood. There has been no Ghost whatsoever since Justine came. He feels . . . well, he feels good again. In control. All the same, he swallows a couple of Panadol. Better to avoid the headaches before they start. Come on, come on. He wriggles his fingers harder, waits for the energy to flow. Some meat stews in a pot. Smells good. He inhales the woody fragrance of thyme, and thinks of the cedar fireplace in his office at the council, which still gives off the scent of fresh-cut wood, even though it must be a hundred years old.
