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…

to pass them. And they look entirely too rowdy for

cross the

would flag

on, all nonchalance.

Fucking limp…

the next, he jerks his chin my way and almost as

leather-jacketed and wearing baggy jeans slung low at

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

just louts on the lookout for an

What do they see?

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

stroll. Chilly night. Could get a

“Nothing of yours.”

the bag. “Coming back from the gym? Sports kit, eh? Looks

past.” I make 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

group who, right

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

be a

the blade

simply not in

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