Hackney. London Fields. One of the benches lining the pedestrian path. A gaggle of friends walking back from an early dinner on Broadway Market; commuting home from Shoreditch. Summer, still light outside. The occasional cyclist gliding past on their custom-painted fixed-gear. The sound of the overground as a train heads toward Hackney Central.
That was the picture that came to mind so vividly when I started to imagine the scene in which the protagonist makes their first call to a number that they know will not ring. Sat there on one of those benches with their jacket pulled around them. Just watching for a minute. Noticing. Not looking at people who pass, maybe, but looking through them.
Writing is hard, but some bits are easy. Sometimes a scene arrives fully-formed in your mind, like it needs to get out of you. Like your only purpose is to let it pass through your mind and into your fingertips and onto the page. This scene was a bit like that. I’ve sat on those benches. I’ve ridden that bike. Been in that gaggle. Heard that train; ridden it.