Flyaway

At the thought of Byrne I stopped suddenly and looked about me. I was in Piccadilly, at the Circus, and the lights and crowds were all about me in the evening dusk. And it all seemed unreal. This, the heart of the city at the heart of the world, wasn't reality. Reality lay in Atakor, in Koudia, in the Air, in the Tenere, on the Tassili.

I felt an awful sense of loss. I wanted to be with Byrne and Mokhtar and Hamiada, with the cheerful man who, because his name used to be Konti, was a murderer. I wanted to say hello again to the giraffe in Agadez, to sit beside a small fire at an evening camp and look at the stars, to fed again the freedom of a Targui.

I stopped and pondered, there among the hurrying crowds of Londoners, and decided to give Byrne his fee in person. Besides, it would also give me the opportunity of swapping dirty limericks with Hesther Raulier.