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The Safehouse

By Michel Faber   May 2006

I wake up, blinking hard against the sky, and the ?rst thing I remember is that my wife cannot forgive me. Never, ever. Then I remind myself I don’t have a wife anymore. Instead, I’m lying at the bottom of a stairwell, thirty concrete steps below street level in a city far from my home. My home is in the past, and I must live in the present.

I’m lying on a soft pile of rubbish bags, and I seem to have got myself covered in muck. It’s all over my shabby green raincoat and the frayed sleeves of my…

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