Night Work

Начало книги

‘Good morning!’ he called as he entered the kitchen-cum-living-room.

He carried the breakfast things to the table and turned on the TV. He sent Marie a text: Sleep well? Dreamt about you, then found I was awake. ILU.

Nothing on the screen but snow. He zapped from ORF to ARD: no picture. He tried ZDF, RTL, 3sat, RAI: snow. The Viennese local channel: snow. CNN: more snow. French-language channel, Turkish-language channel: no reception.

No Kurier on the doormat, just an old advertising leaflet he’d been too lazy to remove. Shaking his head, he pulled one of last week’s papers from the pile in the hall and went back to his coffee. Made a mental note to cancel his order. They’d already failed to deliver it once last month.

He surveyed the room. The floor was strewn with shirts, trousers and socks, and last night’s dirty plates stood beside the sink. The waste bin stank. Jonas pulled a face. He yearned for a few days’ sea air. He ought to have gone with Marie, although he disliked visiting relations.

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