Aaron felt it for the first time, a pulsing at the back of his skull, firm pressure between his eyes. A throbbing ache behind his ear, low ringing. He’d made a call the night before, half believing nothing would come of it, only to wake up with sensation invading his head. An answer. There were others. He called again during breakfast, his mum fussing around as usual, and felt three stronger replies from three directions. The back of his skull, between his eyes, behind his right ear. He relaxed into the warm, steady pulsation, chewing until there was nothing left but lonely oat kernels, Mum going on about him doing the housework while she was at the hospital, Aaron ignoring every word.

He should have known what to expect before he got there, might have if he’d thought about it harder, but he’d been more concerned with his own nerves alongside the jarring pain of the too-bright, too-loud veneer of normality, a glistening, shifting bubble. The cheap glow of budget clothing stores. The counterfeit stall selling defrosted E-number cakes they claimed were organic and homemade. The row of fruit and veg stalls, the lightweight shack of the CD hut, its walls of thin black material, rippling as the masses walked by. People, too many, walking too fast or slow, darting through gaps in the crowd or halting right in front of him until he swore and sped past the lurching granny sideways on, guilty for subscribing to group consensus. He hated the old centre during the day.

It was almost a relief to swerve into the pissy oasis of the car park entrance, a small enclave leading to oil-dark steps. He climbed past two hunch-necked olders, puffing a ripe blunt, stench of smoke and urine filling his head, making Aaron cough, them stare. He trotted upwards until he met swing doors, pushing into the expanse of the first floor. Breathed deep, tasting exhaust fumes, smog. Sighed. He wandered across concrete, taking the steep incline of driveways instead, up and up until he reached the sixth floor.