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

I cross

flag

nonchalance. That’s the theory

Fucking limp…

the next, he jerks his chin my way

and wearing baggy jeans slung low at

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

louts on the lookout for an

What do they see?

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

get a nasty cold on your chest.” He nods downwards.

“Nothing of yours.”

from the

to step forward, through

tongue, reaches inside his jacket. “Hand it over.” 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 it. Could be

grinning around to the group who, right on cue,

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

be a finder’s

his grins drops. He rocks his hand, the blade held

in the

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