He knocked on the door and there was no answer, so he walked into his friend's slim room with the concluding bathroom. The clothes, they were slumped about, heavy potions were pretending to be aperitifs, a stereo whispered Fleetwood Mac from the empty park. Upon the round table was a journal, he read an entry from a month before. His friend had been writing some sort of review on Lynne Ramsay, he compared her to Alfred Hitchcock, that cold clarity, the outsider's insight into a seemingly steady world, images cackling with a tough, dark humour. He knew that he was right and yet he decided to set fire to the notebook, watch paper disintegrate while a Left Bank brass band smuggled up and cried out from the window. Yes, he heard the call, and then all was silent.
The evidence was gone.
