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

cross

flag up as

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 to face

leather-jacketed and wearing baggy jeans slung low at the belt,

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

on the lookout for an

What do they see?

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

Chilly night. Could get a nasty

“Nothing of yours.”

the bag. “Coming back from the gym?

me past.” I make to step forward, through the group, but they close

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

the group

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

a finder’s

rocks his hand, the blade held up by his

I'm simply not in the mood for

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