James

It’s weird how adaptable the human brain is. How capable of accepting new levels of what is ‘ordinary’. Despite knowing that I am now completely alone, I settle into a kind of routine.

Read… Run… Carry…

East Portside Road… El Valderado Bar…

I have my second wind, breathing easily. Even my leg isn’t giving me the trouble I thought it might. My muscles thoroughly warmed through now, I jog along, heading for my next destination.

Read… Run… Carry…

Parkmoor Bridge over West Marine Rise…

Pacing myself, pacing my breathing to match my easy trot, I survey dark windows…

Where are they?

… Parked cars… Alleyways… Cafes and kiosks…

Then passing through shadier areas; roof lights, warehouse windows, disused garages…

I skid to a halt.

Ahead of me, blocking my route…

Under the glare of a streetlamp, a group of youngsters, swilling back beer, yelling, pushing and shoving…

Look again…

No, not kids.

Young men.

Crap…

pass them. And they look entirely too rowdy for

cross

flag up as

on, all nonchalance. That’s

Fucking limp…

one of the group, head tipped back, bottle tipped up, notices me. Elbowing the next, he jerks his chin my way and almost as one, the group turn

slung low at the belt, steps forward from the

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

just louts on the lookout

What do they see?

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

a stroll. Chilly night. Could get a nasty cold

“Nothing of yours.”

“Coming back from the gym?

through the group, but they

He holds up a knife, the neon orange of the streetlamp glinting on the edge. “I used to have a bag like that. Let’s see if I think this is

to the group

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

a

the blade held up by his own face, displayed.

in the mood

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