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‘Don’t muck about,’ she warned him. ‘Don’t wait for your life to start. I was always waiting for my life to start. Everything that happened seemed like a good beginning, but it turned out to be the thing itself.’
In fact he was reasonably content. It was a relief not to have a life.
‘Places like this seem nice for an afternoon. After that they’re just a lot of history.’
It was the kind of place, Victoria imagined, in which murders had been committed so quietly and savagely over the years, and under such careful disguises, that they were never discovered.
‘People try to help, but all they have to work with is their theory of you. You might as well not be there. In the end they’re talking to themselves.’
