5.

London Fields is quilted in fog, piling up in a great soft eiderdown. Crossing the park I am isolated, caught between the orange pools of the streetlamps. The mist dissolves the landscape, tricking the vision into premature blindness. I can see my hands and my feet quite clearly. If I stray from the pathway I may drown in quicksand air or vanish in the grey. There are shadows moving in the distance, lone walkers and beasts darting low to the ground. The hum and click of a bicycle leaping into focus and fading back into the emptiness. The Fields are eerie in the ghostlight. This is where one place slips into another in the quiet corners. This is where murder lives. This is where soul and body are divided and wraiths gain life. There is subtlety in the darkness. I stand bathed in amber, washed in syrupy light. The dark and the fog rise up around me and I breach them smartly, clicking heels telling the tale of my passage. I open my mouth and my breath spills out in a great rush: my lungs are empty and I breathe in smoke. My shadow is lost in the sodden evening.