Saturday 24 November 2012

Sowerbutt's Eyes


Nero slipped into the docks a couple of hours earlier, flitting like a ghost past stacks of unloaded crates, huge cranes jutting into the afternoon sky and groups of noisy dockers. Nobody spotted him. Sowerbutt knew from long experience that the best shadows lose their physical presence and blend naturally with their surroundings. Like chameleons. 
Nero had watched wealthy houses in London for days without being noticed, even by the servants. He had kept an eye on large larders south of The River being loaded with black market goods without being spotted, even by the sharp-eyed criminals. He had watched secret police preparations to break up Blackshirt rallies in East London and had never once been caught.
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