And on that thirty days there is a clip from twenty to three in the morning on the twenty-sixth of September.
Troy, on our back patio, in the dark, with a torch, going along the external wall where the gas comes in. Four minutes and eleven seconds of a man
measuring something with his hands.
I had seen it.
On the twenty-sixth of September, at about eight o’clock in the morning, with a cup of tea, on my phone, because the light had triggered in the night and I always check.
I watched four minutes of my husband at our gas supply in the dark and I saved the clip to the folder called household and I went to work.
Eleven days.
Eleven days between watching that and a car park at an airport, and in all of them I did not ring anybody, because a man walking round his own house with a torch is not a thing that gets a unit sent, and because I knew exactly what the person on the other end of that call would have to say to me.
