VIII - Paige
Paige
hated walking through the city at night, especially through the quieter
streets. She hated the dim arc sodium
lighting and the distant hints of other people cosily concealed behind glass
and curtain fabric. There was always
the feeling of being watched or followed and pace and pulse quickened in
fractured symmetry. A street could make
you feel naked and alone when you walked it at night, and that was with the
lights on.
Now
she stayed close to Charlie, as much for her own reassurance as for his
protection and she was constantly ushering him to move quicker, to stay within
comfort distance of the man with the torch.
Behind them Henry struggled to keep up.
Her
eyes were constantly scanning the dark and her hearing had become sensitised by
unnatural silence. The only light was
their own, the only movement that of their shadows, the only sounds made by
shoes on concrete, rapid breathing, fabric rubbing against fabric. The urge to break that silence, to take
control over the environment somehow, was almost unbearable.
"How
much further?"
"Not
far." Henry answered from behind
her. "It's just at the top of the
next hill."
Paige
let her eyes follow the torch beam up a long sloping street, Edwardian terraces
made, of course, out of granite lined either side like a parade
inspection. She drew a line with her
gaze towards the sky, following the street past its vanishing point to its
crest and the hospital. Her breath
caught.
"There
are lights!"
The
torch was suddenly in eyes.
"What? Where?"
She
waved her arms to indicate that he should face the beam elsewhere, "At the
top of the hill. It must be the
hospital!"
"I
knew someone would muster there."
Henry sounded almost triumphant.
The
torchlight shone back up the street and their pace quickened, through hope now,
rather than fear. Even the awkward
angle of the slope did little to slow them down and soon the lights of Devara
Hill were clearly visible to them all.
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