There was a slight tug at the back of his throat which he felt as the train came to a halt.
A musky scent of the bodies around had almost filled up his nostrils; it was clogging him in an unsettling way that made him grateful to be getting off of the train.
Through the barriers and into the open, he was cautious of all and everything around him. The street in which he found himself standing had the appearance of once being beautiful, though in these putrid times society could only imagine how Notting Hill once looked. Hemingway lurked around; still peeled for other beings, but there were none. He closed his eyes and pictured tourists pushing against one another, all keen to witness the famous carnival that flourished at the end of Augusts once gone.
He must have been mad to have come here. Theo wouldn’t want his brother near him.
They hadn’t spoken since their mother’s death, the thought had only just washed over the grey Hemingway who needed more fluids; he felt the first waves of dehydration and knew he had no longer a choice in visiting his brother: a trip to the hospital would be far too pricey.
A final observation of the dim scenery and he walked fast paced through streets that had no names and buildings with no occupants. Crossing multiple roads, past those huddled round a bin fire, onwards over the littered paving and up to concrete stairs and a small wooden door infected by age, which behind sat the quiet Theo, drinking brandy with book in hand.
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