Kate Pullinger


There was pigeon shit everywhere. He'd had to lean hard on the door and push with his shoulder. It gave with a slow crunch and he slid through the gap. Like stepping into a ghost room, a room that was a plaster cast of itself- only not plaster, but bird shit. Oddly white at first, then grey, black and yellow. An ordi nary, square, furnished room. The door he came in and a door out the opposite side, a settee, a thin-legged table, a broken chair. Net curtains on the window, a sink below, exposed pipes where the cooker once stood. Everything coated in a layer of shit one inch, two inches, some places as much as six inches thick. How many pigeons? How many years? How could such a room exist?



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