iii. Your footsteps in the passage echo with the sound of each footstep you imagine directly behind you. Your path has no beacon save a silver cigarette packet, makeshift motorway cat’s eye on the ground – then, with each car that snarls past on King Street, an angry torchlight flashes through the dark. You remain, waiting to be smashed and grabbed by another passing light. Your shadow is picked up, pinned to the wall, flung to the floor, against the wall again. You shudder the brick dust, leave behind your shadow to unnerve the footsteps taking the next short cut. Dinesh Allirajah iv. |