Footsteps.
Past the chip shop, still bustling with the pub turnouts, its neon sign blinking over and over, and frying smells drifting from the fan above the door.
Past the houses, their curtains drawn against the night, TV's flickering in darkened rooms, strains of teenage rebellion; music to rattle windows from the upstairs rooms.
Feel the wind pick up a little.
Streetlights crackle overhead. The orange tinted pavement littered with fragments of chip papers and cigarette ends. Ever onwards, past the church, a place isolated by the night. It's stained glass windows, as black as jet. Ivy ripples across its walls; the building seems to shiver. The gentle tapping of tree branches. A clatter. A cat screams.
The footsteps continue.
A row of shops with their empty, dark windows barred. Scribbles of graffiti, dark as blood, against the pale grey walls. A rubbish bin tipped over on its side. Swift movement, a grey body, whiskers; a rat, watching.
More houses. Someone is cooking. The smell of bacon hangs in the air. A rich, fatty smell.
And then...
Just coming round the corner, only a few metres away, a man. Tall, thin, walking hurriedly, glancing nervously from side to side.
The footsteps stop.
As if time stands still.
On the corner, all alone. Just out of range of the streetlight's bright glare. Lying still, limbs twisted. Flesh so pale, with a dark, gaping wound to the neck. And not a drop of blood spilled.
The footsteps disappear into the darkness.
