Even London sleeps, eventually.
Kate moved through silent streets, searching, the euphoria of 2 am fading into a raw buzz of adrenaline, caffeine and too little sleep. She was somewhere near the Globe when they called in the Regent’s Park sighting, but though she reached for the radio she never answered it. John had picked it up before her hesitation showed, so she never had to explain that frozen moment staring out across the river.
They’d had nothing to run on but hunches all night, and she was past any attempt at analysis. All she knew was that the river drew her on. For the moment that was enough, and later no one was inclined to ask questions. She’d crossed the river. She’d found their man. They never asked her how it took so long to cross the bridge.
It was a flat ribbon of darkness in a sea of light, floating on the eerie glow of the wings that held it aloft. On the far bank St Paul’s was still lit up, and suddenly its brightness was framing a dancing man. He must have been leaning on one of the supports. Her instincts screamed for her to back off, but she walked on mechanically. He really was dancing, she realised. No crazed jig, but a waltz. As she reached him he bowed and in a daze she took his hand.
For three measures they crossed the bridge together, and all she knew was the mixed scent of him, the utter gravity of his smile and the pain of his eyes.
She should have stayed, she should have asked him, she should have tried to pull him from the depths.
But she had work to do, and she left him there. In the morning he was dead.
Another little something inspired by Microcosms – and another little visit from Kathryn Blake, by way of a promise that she will be back one day, she will, really, she will.
Alex Brightsmith 