More that strange, fuzzy static feeling she had felt before when she was nearing the end of a particular existence.
Trying to ignore the feeling in her body, she headed in the vague direction of the car park.
She passed her old garden flat at 33A Bancroft Avenue. A man she had never seen before was taking a box of recycling out.
She thought of the lovely house in Cambridge she now had and couldn’t help but compare it to this shabby flat on a litter-strewn street.
The tingles subsided a little. She passed Mr Banerjee’s house, or what had been Mr Banerjee’s house,
and saw the only owned house on the street that hadn’t been divided into flats, though now it looked very different.
The small front lawn was overgrown, and there was no sign of the clematis or busy lizzies in pots
that Nora had watered for him last summer when he’d been recovering from his hip surgery.
On the pavement she noticed a couple of crumpled lager cans.
She saw a woman with a blonde bob and tanned skin walking towards her on the pavement with two small children in a double pushchair.
She looked exhausted. It was the woman she had spoken to in the newsagent’s the day she had decided to die.
The one who had seemed happy and relaxed. Kerry-Anne.
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