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Tom
Benson swallows, puts his knife and fork on the plate
then pushes it away. He leans back in the kitchen chair
and stares at the plate for a moment, then stands up.
'I'm going now, honey,' he calls to the bedroom door.
'I'll get some coffee when I get to work.' He doesn't
expect an answer, and he doesn't get one. Same routine,
almost the same day, only the date had changed.
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He
looks out the kitchen window, notes the grey sky, and
takes his leather coat and a black umbrella from a hook
behind the front door of the flat. He would wear the coat
anyway in the winter, no matter whether the sky was grey
or blue. Opening the refrigerator door, he removes a plastic
container and places it in his briefcase. 'Going now,
honey,' he calls as he eases the door shut behind him,
and carefully makes his way three floors down the dimly-lit
stairs.
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As
he steps clear of the cover of the flats, he observes
that it isn't raining and leaves his umbrella unopened.
A tram comes into view and slows to a stop. The doors
open and he boards with three other passengers and takes
a seat near the exit door. A Greek woman in a black scarf
and with a leather bag on her lap is seated opposite him,
as she had been yesterday and, seemingly, every day before.
Six stops further on the tram makes a sweeping turn around
the intersection of High Street and Cotham Road, Kew.
He alights and crosses the road to the office building
he works in. Cornell & Jones Travel Consultants, the
sign on the glass front proclaims.
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Benson
pushes the door open, scuffs the soles of his shoes on
the coir mat and steps onto the blue carpet of the foyer.
A tall woman, dressed in a white blouse and black straight
skirt, with blonde hair falling to her shoulders, edges
out from behind the reception desk. 'Good morning, Mr
Benson. Could you take the mail up with you, please?'
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'Delighted
to help, Miss Curtis.' He wonders why she doesn't ask
him to mind the desk for her as well so she can go home
to her boyfriend. His wife is a brunette, although her
hair is much longer, almost to her waist.
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He
opens the door of the shared office on the first floor,
removes his leather coat and carefully hangs it and the
umbrella in a coat locker. A Dymo-tape label on the locker
door says Mr Benson. He eases his weight into the
swivel chair at his desk, shuffles the letters into order
and places the neat bundle on the corner of his desk.
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