Still struggling with writer’s block. I’m working on a psychological thriller and finding it hard going.
We wait another few minutes in case Freddy comes out, then take the spiral staircase down to the spacious entrance hallway. Ground floor. A mist of morning sunlight streams in through the glass dome in the ceiling. We go through to the rear yard where the zigzag fire escape is situated on the back wall, a few yards from the tall chimney that stands on its own near a row of concrete sheds with peeling paint and padlocks and darkened windows. Further along is a brick hut with torn bags of cement and a wheelbarrow covered in plastic sheeting. The yard is empty and windy, the sky heavy with smoky clouds. High walls and railings surround the Factory grounds; beyond, a grass verge with a side path leading down to the main road where the river lies at the bottom of the hill.
I smell varnish and spot a light on in a window behind the wheelbarrow. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Let’s go and find out,’ Gordon says.
I glance up at Freddy’s flat window, but there’s no sign of him. We wander over to the brick hut. Rain water has gathered in the plastic sheeting, causing it to sag, and green shoots sprout out from the walls and the floor. Gordon reaches for the rusty door handle, turns it. We step inside a carpentry workshop with a sink and kettle, and a bench like the one I saw in Freddy’s flat, though this one is cluttered with tools and wooden shavings.