He walks down the muted grey of the city street. Cars idle past at a funeral pace, sometimes so slow that he walks past them. They pay their respects to another dead working day. No one rushes during rush hour.
The air is heavy with the baying horns, impatient men in business suits, respectable pillars of the community – now revert to savage tendencies.
It is a relief to move away from the cacophony of the main street, into the litter strewn area of residential flats.
Paul’s arm lingers for a second, the distant buzz strains until he lets his hand drop. He closes his eyes for a second.
John will believe me, he must see the truth, he will help. I mean, after all, he did believe me about the ghost. Everyone else mocked, but he believed…
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan