Martin stands by the window, looking out. He lives on the sixteenth floor of the Terrance Messenger Tower. And he stands by the window, looking out.
Martin stands by the window, looking out over the houses below, the flat rooves of the warehouses and business parks, over towards the reservoirs. Martin likes to study the clouds reflected in the still waters. Martin likes to study the sky by looking down. Funny, Martin thinks, how you can see the sky more clearly that way.
Martin stands by the window, looking out. He hasn’t left the Terrance Messenger Tower for six weeks; hasn’t been out the front door in fact.
Martin’s mother doesn’t like him standing by the window, looking out at the world. There are too many things wrong with the world, she’s told him. We’re better off here. It’s best to wait it out. Stop looking for clues out there, she tells him. Come away from the window, she says.
‘We know you’re in there,’ the angry attendance officer said yesterday through the door.
‘We know we’re in here as well,’ his mother shouted back and then laughed with Martin at the audacity of her response. She’s a funny one, his mother. Martin has heard people say that.
‘This isn’t some kind of joke,’ the attendance officer said.
‘That all depends,’ his mother said, ‘on your point of view.’
Martin stands at the window, looking out.
Until his mother stops him. Until his mother tells him it’s making him worse, giving him an attitude, looking out all the time like that. Until she tells him to come inside and close all the curtains. The light carries bad things, she tells him. Bad things from a bad world.