Peter Le Chapelain

The Black Notebook

Elton was walking home from his late shift at the Supermart. Taking a short cut, he turned off the main road onto a street comprising a row of body shops and a scrap yard. This stretch of deserted, potholed bitumen was sketchy at night, he’d had a few close calls in the past, but it cut his trip by ten minutes. There weren’t usually any cars parked on the street at this time, apart from dumped offerings to the god of thieves, their blacken skeletons silent in the dead of night. That’s why the red BMW, parked under one of the sparse streetlights drew his attention.