The book of the Dead
“she says. From anyone else I’d call this pretentious, but one does not describe Amunet Kebechet in those terms. At least, not if you’ve been trying to get into her pants for the past decade. It’s fair to say I practically worship her, despite all the differences between us.
The DLR, or Docklands Light Railway, is a train service that runs through the east part of London, through districts poor, rich, and insanely wealthy, including the small banking empire of Canary Wharf. The trains themselves always run on time, even when the rest of London’s underground trains have gone tits up.
“Why’s it so hateful, Moon?” That’s what we call her. Moon. She despises her real name, but she’ll always be Amunet Kebechet to me. I used to sit in the row behind her in physics class, whispering her name like a mantra.
“It doesn’t have a fucking driver.” She turns the unlit cigarette over in her petite hands. “A dead train going to dead parts of London.”
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