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…

And they look entirely too rowdy

I cross

That would flag up

nonchalance. That’s the

Fucking limp…

head tipped back, bottle tipped up, notices me. Elbowing the next, he jerks his

wearing baggy jeans slung low

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

the lookout for

What do they see?

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

Could get a nasty

“Nothing of yours.”

“Coming back from the gym? Sports kit, eh?

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

neon orange of the streetlamp glinting

to the group who, right on

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

a finder’s

blade held up by his own face, displayed. “Like the movie

in the

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