Green Castle Circle

I stand under the dirty brick Victorian façade that hangs over the narrow lane. Blank, greasy windows, like spider eyes stare myopically down, as though the insect city is looking for me. Piles of black plastic rubbish bags litter the tarmac around my feet, lit by the sickly yellow glow of old sodium lamps.

Why am I here, waiting? It seems as good a place as any to begin a journey. I’ll know when to start, where to go, something will give me a sign, push me off towards something old. It’s not the new you have to be wary of, it’s always the old. Something ancient, sick, festering below, ready to erupt onto the surface to poison the city.

I grind out the last of my cigarettes, hoping that whatever it is will get a move on. I can do 20, maybe 30 minutes without having a smoke. Any longer than that and I’d feel sorry for whatever unspeakable, nameless evil decided to poke its head above ground tonight.

There it is, my sign, at the end of the alley, a girl in the dark where a lamp has died, running towards me.

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