I snatched the sheet from the jaws of the Remington, and headed for the Boss’s office. He was there, as ever: a hoary old toad squatting in a yellow pool of lamplight.

“Lambone,” he said. “You got me a story?”

“Sure,” I replied, handing over the copy. He read quickly and I heard him mutter, “so he was there,” before glancing at me.

“‘Rumble in city restaurant’? Okay kid – you make the front page.”

“Thanks Boss.”

He grunted, returning to his work.

*

A clock struck one as I walked back along empty streets. The rain had stopped and the moon emerged: a spider’s egg, caught in a web of cloud.

Reaching my apartment, I descended the steps and entered. The place was cold and dank, with a musty smell that ordinarily I never failed to notice. Except today.

Today I smelled cinnamon and honey, warm and sweet; and the baleful light bleeding though the bedroom curtains from the street outside was banished by a brighter glow as I turned and saw her there: Greta Munday, lying like a sunbeam across my sheets.