I went to work today at the biscuit factory. In the break somebody said that Marcin may be returning to the city. This produced an agreeable sensation, as if my heart had been prodded with a stick to wake it up. But I also felt oddly unsettled, even frightened. I carry around with me, in my wallet, a Polaroid of Marcin. In the photograph, he is laughing and holding up a string of come – his own, if I recall correctly – and a lump is dripping from his chin. It is an arresting image, seemingly of textbook composition, but the moment portrayed was, in fact, caught accidentally. I used to fantasise about having the photograph blown up to eight times its original, Polaroid size, and then having it framed over the mantelpiece of my Newington apartment. But my brother often calls unexpectedly, and I would be constantly taking the thing down and trying to hide it.