The man from the brothel fixed me with an arched eyebrow on first joining me in the cab then announced he was in personal contact with the supernatural. He sweltered for a while in his penumbral space before deciding to ply his trade on the nearest person at his disposal.
But in fact the hard headed driver was already on high alert. Years later this man would be charged with murdering his solicitor, better him than me, oversized head all gnome all sweltering brain, a small sculpture in my memory that whispered in the lubricious dark. I still remember this profound bearded gaze that tried to frisk the feeble ingenue he thought I was.
Fifty loose envelopes stacked up in the room at home collapsed impossibly when the wind blew, from on top of my wooden filing boxes neatly as if all of a piece into a leather satchel that devoured them, and whose tongue now lolled with front strap hung open to become in front of me a waking vision of a long tongued ogling satan!
To make this happen the envelopes had been pushed by the gust which I heard slam a door at the far end of the house and which then sped along the corridor to my room. These elemental gusts which instead of dispersing the envelopes like birds now caused the leather satchel to look up directly at me from the floor as though it might attack me with its teeth.
Hand eye coordinated events linked by a power at the back.
Beast the symbol of grief wrong and all error in myself and outside.
Some sort of remote perhaps now dead power.
Protected me when it could over events that happened such as that half hour spent driving through the rain with satan.