Half a mile in and the bed-borne grogginess is starting to wear off. The frost is laid thin on the ground, not much more than a translucent smear on the pavement, and certainly not enough to slow his stride.
Trainers hitting tarmac provide the only real noise of the pre-dawn – muffled thumps on top of that unearthly, silent roar of a day not broken, of a world not yet roused from sleep. The man’s fingertips are numb, but already the pleasant ache of muscles working warms him from the inside.
The real warmth, however, comes from the few dull, window-warped ensuite lights shining out into the darkness. It comes from the odd car ticking over in a driveway, pluming exhaust fumes into the morning as the frost creeps back from the windscreen, from the flickering blue light playing onto drawn living room blinds as some night owl slumbers in front of MTV-left-blaring.
It comes from the knowledge that he, and he alone, runs the streets at this hour.
Continue reading “The Young Man from Number Twenty-Seven | Short Story”
Matthew Richardson 