The invitation
macon looked up the phone number in the book. It was nine in the evening, a good time to call. Alexander would have gone to bed. He picked up the phone. But what would he say? Muriel, last year my son died and 1. Muriel, has this nothing to do with you personally but Muriel, l can't. just can't. He held the phone to his ear but his throat had closed up, his voice had disappeared. He had never actually said out loud that Ethan was dead. He hadn't needed to; it was in the newspapers, and then friends had told other friends. He hung up. He found some notepaper, sat down, took out his pen. Dear Muriel, he wrote. And stared at the page for a while. Funny sort of name, Muriel. He examined his pen closely. How well made it was. He examined the notepaper. Well. Dear Mariel, l am very sorry, he wrote, but I won't be able to have dinner with you after all. Something unexpected has happened. Yours, Macon He put the letter in his pocket and drove to the south of the city. He wondered how Muriel could feel safe living here, among these dark streets full of rubbish and young men drinking out of brown paper bags. He turned onto Singleton Street. He found number 16, got out of the car and climbed the steps