The DLR is closed due to a security alert. It’s a relief for Hook to emerge into hard sunlight at the centre of the whirlwind that is the City. In the shade of a building resembling a root vegetable he swipes at the flies landing on his nose and turns on his BlackBerry, but there are no messages to say work’s cancelled. A line of buses avail themselves; Hook boards the most relevant and drowses on the top deck. When he resurfaces he’s floating on his invisible ship through the crystal canyons of Canary Wharf, like Hook sober and on the twelve-step programme after decades of extravagance.
When the bus stops at a temporary light Hook watches a young, business-like couple walk along the pavement beneath a monumental glass building; in its reflection he sees an escalator inside the foyer and his bus on the street, Hook gazing into space with a blank, urban expression. Then the woman ascends the escalator, the man walks along the street. Hook decides to get his eyes tested.
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