Jake Evans

Black Book, Bad Penny

Water pooled unevenly amongst the patched and scabby tarmac of the single track lane, treacherous in the darkness under tall trees. Big houses sat well back from the road, behind high hedges and expensive gates. A security light pinged into wakefulness as Jack picked his way between the potholes, sour yellow of halogen ruining his night vision. He tilted the peak of his cap against the glare and shrugged his jacket tighter, trying not to look like a prowler, kept half an ear tuned for the shush of approaching tyres – be easy to get mown down by some Chelsea tractor on an unlit stretch like this. Behind, the light went out. He trudged, picking up his feet in the fresh dark.