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…

have to pass them. And they look entirely

I cross the

would flag up

stroll on, all nonchalance. That’s the

Fucking limp…

notices me. Elbowing the next, he jerks

leather-jacketed and wearing baggy jeans slung low at

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

make to step forward, through the group, but they close ranks ahead of

streetlamp glinting on the edge. “I used to have a bag like that. Let’s see if I think this is it. Could be

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

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

a

grins drops. He rocks his hand, the blade held

not in

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