There is, in accordance with the universal law of balances, a worst that can indeed happen. Currently the worst that can happen is sat on the steps of St Christopher’s Hall in the darkest part of the night and considering its next move. There is a hint of overweight belly within the sensible shirt, a suggestion of buttock peering out behind the drooping blue jeans, a protrusion of sensible boot and, of course, the ubiquitous yellow fluorescent jacket. The worst that the world has to offer, the greatest killers that man has ever seen, sit and drink builder’s tea from polystyrene cups, and the night is silent in their presence.
One says, “Hey!”
One says, “Whatcha?”
One says, “You smell that?”
One says, “Heard it barking.”
One says, “Knockers!”
One says, “Lovely pair…”
One says, “She was here… but then she went.”
One says, “If the Friendlies don’t know…”
One says, “Is she hot?”
One says, “Great arse.”
One says, “What kind of name is that?”
One says, “Wankers.”
One says, and there is a certain relish in his voice as he reaches this conclusion, “Bloody stupid name.”
One says, “What’s she do?”
One says, “ ‘Divides the night from the day’, whatever the hell that bloody means.”
“Keeper of the Gate.”
“Our Lady of 4 a.m.”
“She Who Walks Beside.”
All four pause, and consider these words, and find in them nothing that impresses.
One says, “Let’s get her.”
One says, “Bacon fucking sarnie!”
One says, “Greydawn shit.”
And they smile.
Four faces–but all the same smile.