We live in a stocking which is in the process of being turned inside out, without our ever knowing for sure to what phase of the process our moment of consciousness corresponds.
                                                      Vladimir Nabokov, Bend Sinister

He especially liked the underpass and the way it took him from one side of the main road to the other. Straight down the slope on one side and then a long stretch of passageway under the road, with the traffic rumbling overhead, before he reached the ramp on the other side and emerged into the daylight.

But if you concentrated very hard as you approached the end of the tunnel, screwing up your eyes and letting them drift out of focus, you could sometimes catch the passageway unawares and manage to make a left turn at its end where normally there was only the slope straight ahead.

That was how he accessed the steps on the left. He called it his sinister turn and always experienced a slight lurch in his stomach as he ascended the staircase. At the top you reached… nowhere, just a patch of scrubby ground with grass and trees.

If you looked above the trees you could see the rooftops and familiar skyline of the town, but there was no way out of this small, enclosed area, other than back down the steps by which he had arrived.

He never met anyone else in this place, though the odd can and wrapper on the ground suggested there had been other visitors. If you listened hard you could just about hear birdsong, traffic and the urban hum, but all seemed distant as if projected through an old-style telephone line.

He never lingered long when he came here; this place was peaceful, but not in a pleasant way. Soon a feeling would rise in his chest and start to become unbearable. Immediately he felt this way he would turn and make for the steps; relieved, every time, to find they were still there.