As Hook limps along Camden High Street he calls his brother and gets that same blank voicemail. Jack hasn’t bothered to put a message on his own phone, and it isn’t the laziness that annoys him, it’s the arrogance and security money provides. Hook feels a pain in his chest; hate mail from the mortgage company. Flies fall about his head and he waves his arms.
After taking a deep swallow of a lager in Liberties, Hook watches sweaty shoppers gasp as they fight their way into and out of bargain basements, tat-clothing stores and furniture showrooms. He doesn’t wish to consume: he’s happiest in a t-shirt and shorts; the sofa on which he often sleeps is adequate. Why does the economy need people to keep buying tat? Is the economy still so fragile? What the hell’s wrong with everybody?
Hook reflects that his midlife crisis is getting out of hand. His BlackBerry rings: pulling it out of his jacket he makes a face to demonstrate to any voyeur watching that he’s unhappy.
“Hello Karen.”
“Chris? Where are you?”
Even as Karen speaks Hook remembers he’s supposed to meet her at four. He looks down at his watch: four-thirteen. Then up at the window:
LIBERTIES
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