The Man Across the Road

From Lille-Flandres station to the towpath along the Deûle it's an hour and a quarter on foot, and I walk it in the dark.

I leave the hotel at half past five. It's 11 November, a Wednesday, a public holiday. The city is asleep. The few cars about still have their yellow night-time headlights on. I walk fast, my hands pulled up inside the sleeves of the anorak, so I don't have to think.

On Wednesdays and Saturdays I used to run. I'd go out at twenty past six, take the alley at the end of the street, head off towards Wambrechies and be back before Sacha woke up. An hour to myself. The only one all week.