Dim blue light filters in through the broken blinds across the room where ten men lie sleeping. He's drifting. Outside the rain drums down on the night. Rainwater overspills from a gutter and lays down a rhythmic slapping as it tumbles onto the slabs below. The room, with its years of dry decay, is warmed by all the sleeping bodies.
He is on the cusp of sleep when something irritates his senses. The slap of the gutter waterfall ceases for a moment, then resumes. As if something has passed below it.
He reaches around and the rifle hums softly in his grip. In between the patter of the rain, he thinks he hears the padding of stalking feet.
Paddy Dobson
30th December 2021