She goes there when she feels down. She calls it the hobby shop, because it’s where you go to indulge and discuss your interests.
The hobby shop is a run-down basement on a suburban street in Orpington. The guy that owns the house opens it up on the second and third Wednesday’s of each month. There’s a projector and screen, and about a dozen worn and chipped dining chairs. It shows specialist films.
Not pornography as such, more spontaneous violence.
There’s a community there. Everybody knows each other, there’s no sense of menace, just excited anticipation.
The films are always ‘fresh’, crimes committed within the past two weeks. She holds herself tense throughout, hardly breathing as the adrenaline tingles through her.
When she walks out, she feels alive. It helps her feel that policing is worthwhile.