Chance. Or something more maybe. He couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t sure of anything. And yet…
Saturday afternoon. He was sitting outside a coffee shop. It was warm enough for him to do this. Warm enough for a T-shirt. There was no wind, not even a breeze. A stillness seemed to have settled on the world. The coffee was strong. And good. And cheap, which made it better. Which was why he came to this particular place. It was the cheapest place he knew. Today, he decided to hit the high life, and bought a croissant, warmed up, and buttered. Plus, at the side of the plate, there was a miniature pot of strawberry jam. He hadn’t asked for it. It was complimentary. He didn’t like jam on his croissant. It made it too sweet.
He was reading a book he’d picked up from the library. Some inane crime thriller. Instantly forgettable garbage. He really had no idea why he had chosen it. But he had. And because he had, he felt compelled to read the damn thing, from cover to cover. A flaw of the mind, according to one of the many psychiatrists he had seen. Compulsive behaviour. Undoubtedly a manifest of earlier shocking events.
At the specific moment, at the crucial time, he could have had his head down, eyes glued to the book. Or he could have been looking in the opposite direction. Or he might have been distracted by the people sitting at the next table. Or he might have gone to the loo. A thousand mights or maybes. But he hadn’t been doing any of these. Perhaps it was fate. But at that moment, between lifting the coffee cup to his lips, and glancing at the adjacent street, he saw something which made him stop. Made him freeze. And an old memory came surging back.
He stared.
His attention was focused on a man, strolling past in no apparent hurry. In particular, the man’s face. The man walked by, oblivious to the attention, disappearing down the street, and was gone.
He placed the coffee carefully back on its saucer, closed the book, stood, and followed.
Thus the next chapter of his life began.