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Chapter 62
A quiet street, in the sun-blistered heat of the afternoon. Between commuting hours. Before children come home from school. And the sky, a molten blast of blue. Even the birdsong has stilled. Nothing moves. Except me… And my quarry… The thrill of the chase. It"s a cliché. But clichés become clichés because they have something to tell us. becomeThere is something pure about the chase. Something unsullied and perfect. No clever out-thinking and manoeuvring. Just the simple pursuit of the quarry. And as I pursue my fleeing target, the silence howls around me. The air is suffocating. The sun roars down on the streets, and the streets throw it back, stripping the moisture from my throat yet, perversely, setting perspiration streaking down my forehead and cheeks. But ahead of me, Hoodie’s
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