The Number 65 judders to a halt at Kingston. The doors slide open, much shuffling, cold air, the beeping of pedestrian crossings, the green man is bright, lights in the sudden dusk are bright and in the the stark, bright lights of the lobby she starts her shift.
She’s glanced at the rota. She’s doing the ground floor and the plants. Then the first floor toilets.
Then the second floor.
Then the third.
They’re not allowed to listen to music on their shifts anymore, and she hates Felipe for it.
The building is empty. Only her.
After an age she reaches the second floor.
There are carpets here, out comes the hoover, banging loudly against waste paper bins and chairs and desks covered in papers.
She glances at one of the piles as she drags a length of hoover cable.
She spots it, tucked beneath the pile.
A phone. A fancy one.
She slips it into her pocket as the cable clatters against the legs of the chair.