well be mad, but what of it? He must find her.
An icy rain came across his face as he walked on. In an empty bar in what appeared to be the centre of the city, he drank a glass of red wine and tapped into his phone the wifi code. He went to the first place he always went – her Instagram account. It was fourteen minutes since she had at last posted a seventh image. It showed a detail of Dromord Hill – a whitethorn bank – in an evening sun flare. Her accompanying caption read, ‘Mam na mysli lato.’
Google Translate: ‘I am thinking of summer.’
Beneath her profile on the post was the place from which it had been sent – Kafé Komputery. He showed this name to the barman, and was directed to it. It was two lefts and a right, a five-minute walk. It must have been the last internet café in Europe. Its dim lights were cinema against the falling dark. Katherine, paler, still lovely, was at a terminal – all the others were unoccupied.
She turned at once at the scraping of the door as he entered.
‘Oh, thanks be to fuck,’ she said.
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