Blood Worm

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It was one of those desolate London days when the light was grey and the blackened leafless trees seemed to claw at the sky. By the calendar, winter was already over though as yet there was no hint of spring in the air.

Grumbling to himself, his bones chilled to the marrow, the tramp picked his way through the rubble strewn over the short rump of road leading to the old school. On either side the houses were boarded up and empty. Every couple of yards he stopped to get his second wind. Not the man he used to be, he wasn’t. Who would recognise him now?

For a start he had too much kit with him, stuffed into old shopping bags which he had to lug around everywhere, growing heavier with every step. He hadn’t the strength to go any faster, not like the days in Burma when he’d led his platoon through the jungle for three months before those jap planes had machine-gunned the lifeblood out of them. All but three. No, he hadn’t the strength now.

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