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

cross

That would flag up

on, all nonchalance. That’s the theory

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

baggy jeans slung low at the belt, steps

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

louts on the lookout

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

“Nothing of yours.”

bag. “Coming back from the gym?

make to step forward, through

clicks his 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

grinning around to the group who, right on cue, laugh

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

be a

He rocks his hand, the blade held up by his own

in

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