Early morning. A dismal great British morning, the sky a cloudy grey, the streets silent as the grave, slick as the oil, and smooth as a mill-pond. A row of terraced houses – each a repainted replica of the one before – cower behind gardens that range from the weekly-tended though to the burning-tires schools of landscape gardening. Exactly halfway down this road was a house exactly halfway between those standards, exactly halfway between the rents, halfway between the gutter and the rooftops. And here – halfway between the middle of the night and the middle of the morning – is halfway between the begnning and the end.
Did I say this was the beginning? It is, in a way. It's A Beginning, though possibly not The Beginning. The Beginning comes earlier, and is probably just A Beginning to someone else, but the beginning of this, the start of the story, the tee, the kick-off, the starting gun is here. The opening track is the tune on the radio that is about to wake the person in the house r