It was so him. It seemed unlikely that he, a popular, handsome man with the world at his feet,
would be at home on a Saturday night, so, just to see how it felt, I gently touched his buzzer with the tip of my index finger.
There was a crackle, and then a man’s voice spoke. I was somewhat taken aback, to say the least.
“Hello?” he said again. A deep voice, well spoken, measured. Honey and smoke, velvet and silver.
I quickly scanned the list and selected another resident’s name at random.
“Pizza delivery for... McFadden?” I said. I heard him sigh.
“They’re on the top floor,” he said, and hung up. The door buzzed and clicked open.
Without stopping to think too much about it, I went inside.
The musician was upstairs on the first floor, in the flat on the right-hand side.
There was a discreet brass nameplate above the bell. I stood and listened.
I could hear nothing from inside, just the hum of the stair light and faint sounds from the street below.
On the floor above, a television was blaring. I took out my notebook and tore off a blank page.
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