Night Walker |
| By Mark Thomas | View Comments |
| Genre: Crime | Rating: PG-13 | August 19, 2006 | |
Dark doorways stretch away into the swirling, misty distance. A flickering orange streetlight accentuates the dark causing shadows to dance and slither.
A shuffling figure walks the damp street, stopping to catch its breath and to survey the road; grabbing the handle of a trolley bag it moves off again. A noise causes the figure to stop and look around but nothing appears to be moving bar the dark, scudding clouds; progress continues. The wind plays an asthmatic chorus as it whips around the man and his eyes dart left, right, left.
He is now well inside the estate; not far to go. Towers of housing rise all around him, they appear to be looming and watching. Looking out for him or looking for him? That is out of his hands. He shivers at the thought and turns the corner.
The group is huddled beneath a street light, giggling like loons and passing things around. They don’t notice the old man’s progress until he is one circle of light away. The activity stops and they regard his progress with silent interest; ribs are nudged and swapped glances communicate more than words. The man sees the group and his steps falter but he stiffens his resolve and continues, head bent lower; trying to hide from the imminent meeting.
The group moves from their huddle to have their backs against the wall, allowing just enough room for the man and his trolley to squeeze past. He makes no eye contact. His heart skips a beat when he pulls the trolley across the foot of one of the lads who looks down at him and pulls his foot sharply away; still no words are spoken. He is past now! His pace quickens and he risks a glance back, they are still watching but have made no attempt to follow.
By the time he reaches the lift he is almost running, something that he has not done for a long time; his breathing is rasping and ragged. Spots float in his vision and he nearly falls into the lift as the door squeals open, he thumps the button for his floor and the doors close. He sighs in relief.
Back on the street the group returns to a huddle as if to hide from the drizzle.
‘He was almost sprinting!’ one smirked, ‘I didn’t think he had it in him!’
‘That’s Albert from number 12. Wanna do him first?’ another asks.
They set off to follow the route Albert had taken. Standing before the lift, one bangs the button and they all waited impatiently.
‘Bloody things. Give the other side a go’ a lad sulks. They turn and walk across the hall to the other lift, which thankfully opens and they make their way to the second floor and flat 12. The lift stinks of fags and urine and is decorated with gang tags seemingly written in alien script and offers of sex.
They get out on the second floor and make their way along the walkway turning at the end to see the open lift and Albert lying prone. The door opens and closes on his still form. More than one reaches into a pocket to withdraw mobiles as other hands scrabble to check for a pulse.
‘Police and ambulance!’ One shouts into his handset.
Blue lights flash, radios crackle and uniforms mill about. The lads were still huddled in a group.
‘I suppose we’d better knock it on the head then.’ One of them says. ‘Not much we can do with this lot around.’ A furtive nod is directed at the police.
They turn and make their way back to the lift. Yet another broken light flashes and bathes them in sickly yellow as they pass beneath. The back of their jackets are caught the light and the words shine out... Community Help and Graffiti Removal Team