He took the same route home, every night, without fail. He was more regular than the Balmoral Clock and you could set you own watch by him. The clock would strike five, the bells at St Giles would chime and he would walk up the High Street, through Roxburghe Close and down on to the foot of Cockburn Street towards his house.
Every night, without fail. The trouble with being regular is everyone starts to expect things. They expect the same things at the same time because that’s just what you do. That’s, how you roll. He didn’t know on the fateful night; how could he know? He took the route, whistling as he walked, cutting through the close and taking the same short cut he took every night. The same short cut he took every night for the last seven months.
As he passed through carrying his suitcase, he didn’t notice the shadows. He didn’t notice the two figures appearing from the shadows and he didnt hear the footsteps getting ever close. He could see the lights as he emerged from the darkness. He was almost home and then…
My latest artwork with a bit of oil painting on the go here. Brand new, world exclusive, you seen it here first folks. This is called “The Shortcut”