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

cross

That would flag up

stroll on, all nonchalance. That’s the

Fucking limp…

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

the tallest, leather-jacketed and wearing baggy jeans slung

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

louts on the lookout for an

What do they see?

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

for a stroll. Chilly night. Could get a nasty cold on your chest.” He nods downwards. “What

“Nothing of yours.”

back from

make to step forward, through the group, but they close

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 a bag like that. Let’s see if

turns, grinning around to the group who, right on

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

be a

back to me and his grins drops. He rocks his hand, the blade held up by

I'm simply not in

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