This is how murder begins . . .

There was nothing remarkable about him. People passed him in the street without a second glance. That was good; his anonymity was his biggest asset. He moved purposefully, arms swinging in time with his footsteps, every nerve in his body tingling. He plunged through a puddle, enjoying the slapping discharge of water from his state-of-the-art Nike soles. At once the rain fell, hammering the paving stones, causing a mass unfurling of umbrellas and a panicky dash for shop entrances. He laughed. He was a god! He could even summon rain with a stamp of his foot.

He tilted his face, allowing the water to pound his skin and trickle deliciously down his neck. It felt cleansing, invigorating. He slid his hand into his pocket. The knife was still there, cold against his fingers; he felt the circulating blood surging beneath his skin and his excitement grew. It was getting dark; rush hour would soon be over, and then only the stragglers would be left. The town centre was emptying fast as tired workers caught buses or returned to car parks for the drive home to their TV dinners or bawling babies or dysfunctional marriages. Sad little lives . . . It wasn’t going to happen to him. He had a purpose. A mission. All he needed now was a target . . .

. . . But how will it end?

The sequel to ‘Black December’ is on its way . . .

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