Dead Harvest

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Light spilled through the window of the pub as I watched them, casting patches of yellow across the darkened street but conveying no warmth. It had been three rounds now, maybe four, and Gardner had yet to pay for a drink; his reading tonight went well, and they were falling over themselves to share a pint with Britain's Greatest Living Author.

I fished another Dunhill from the pack, lighting it with the dwindling ember of the one that preceded it. The ground around me was littered with cigarette butts — I'd been standing there a while. But the moon was high overhead, and the night was getting on. I wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Finally, midnight rolled around, and the last straggling patrons were ushered out into the chill spring air, the barkeep locking up behind them. Gardner headed up St Giles, listing slightly. I took a last long drag off my cigarette, and then pitched it into the street, falling in behind him. I kept some distance between us, in case he looked back.

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