That same night as Lizzie walked home, Marc decided his nerves were frayed so he put away his guitar, helped himself to a whiskey and got into bed. No sooner had he slid off to sleep when he was awoken by a splattering crescendo. Bleary eyed Marc got up, pulled on his robe (Burberry, from a yard sale) and went off to explore the reason for the rukkus. He unlocked a door and stepped out into the courtyard and the jasmine scented air. Wearily Marc scanned his territory, tightning the belt on his robe. Even the shadows were layered with shadows, even the sliver of moon only momentarily flashed in between dark fronds of palms. Marc’s eyes picked up nothing.
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