Bait

By Sam Slattery (c)

Wondering home, in the witching hours-and not a living soul about, apart from me.

Everyone else tucked up in bed-snug-sleeping, no doubt.

Wind blasts gritty piss drips of rain on signs, walls, windows-my cheeks-in my eyes...

Bloody lovely!

It's been like this for hours...pissing it down.

South Street-tip toe in friendly, shallow puddles here and there, then try to negotiate the lake sized ones

-round the bank and onto the high street; murky and swimming with chewing gum, fag butts-and other floaters.

Shakily, one foot in front of the other, I tightrope walk the pie crust curb stones between road and paving wet lands-conscious that one false move on either side and it's curtains...

How nice it would be to lay under warm, thick covers, in the rich, velveteen darkness, right now-listening to the rain rapping the window, the wind busy about the bare trees-and glad that I'm not out in it...

A few yards on, the crumpled side walk unbuckles-and the rain run off finds no valley to collect in...

I swear I can hear someone following, and glance reluctantly back.

But there seems to be no one there...

Nothing...

Wind and rain author strange distortions to the noises of the world, don't they.

Gutters clatter; waterfalls cackle down deep, dark, yawning alleys-and it's cold, with the wind butting me harshly, as I wade across the giant tarmac estuary of Castle Street-and continue up the pavement on the left hand side.

Luckily, the flag stones are troubled by only the meekest of baby puddles; no further chance to freshly muller my natty trainers-and incur trench foot-toppling into any deep ooze here.

Half way up, I turn into the wide alleyway, that cuts between a majestic Georgian house, on the near side-and a less impressive row of tiny, Cheddar cheese coloured cottages on the other.

I always dread this bit; Long Garden Walk-a sweeping vein that starts at the bollard top and tailed alleyway before running into a minor road, bordering the backyards and docking areas of high street shops, then skirts right to flank the rear of Safeway and eventually opens out, to the left, as an avenue of thick London Planes, to fuse with Faulkner road, by the college. It gives me the creeps at this hour-too many sheer areas of shadow ...Plus, there's something a bit odd about Long Garden walk in general, even in the daytime, for reasons I have never quite been able to put my finger on.

The rain has eased to odd blobs running late for the last sortie-and the wind's dropped off completely...

Just past the parting bollard, at the far end of the alley, a lone puddle spreads itself widthways across three fifths of the tarmac; no direct indication of its depth, in the gaze of the nearest street lamp. It could be three miles deep, for all I know...

Beyond is an unsettling shaft of sheer shadow that ends before the old fart pub on the right hand corner; closed and locked-and now just another lifeless oblong, like all of the other buildings at this hour.

...don't think I've ever quite grown out of being scared of what might lurk in the dark...

I wish I was past the puddle-and the terrible void of shadow, now-and on h...

Wait-

Wait-

Bollocks-me keys!

Stop.

Desperately rummage through all of my tissue scabbed pockets fumbling for them. Bloody things, would be crap not being able to get in my flat right now...

Who would be awake at this time?

Behind me blurred tree branch shadows dance across the alley cobblestones.

A small, scraggly bird lands on my side of the puddles edge. He flits weightlessly about the immediate district-darting his head skittishly from left to right-and pecks at the shoreline...

Bloody keys...grasp everything else, of course: coins, what feels like a crumpled fiver-a -

Is that a lolly stick in there?

A light breeze ripples across the puddle surface... bird doesn't notice, he's still busy peck-pecking at the grit along the waters edge...

I still can't find them...

-bloody broken headphone wire twists round my fingers...

And then-

This- thing spirts out of the surface, knocking the bird off his tiny feet-and pulls him under...

Something sharp nips my finger nail...

@&£@!!!?

Go to run, but my shoe

My left shoe-my sodding foot-

Stuck-steadfast-in something strong and slimy that lashes round my ankle and-