Concrete and Clay

0030 A black cab discarded roadside beside a sailors' retirement home, doors open like a stranded beetle on the kerb. Two men in chinos stagger along the road, arms outstretched, braying loudly like shamen. I try to cross the road. They kick me to the pavement, smashing my teeth against the concrete, again and again. Where's the police when you need them? I'm dead. They didn't see me. Thankyou, thankyou.

0045 A red estate car static half inside a huge hole in the road. Roadwork hazard signs run through, flattened cards. An empty, silent street exactly where Jack ripped his final victim. A streetlight flickers. Young kids carry pavement slabs up to the car and lay them on the bonnet ceremoniously like an offering. I will stop them. I will take a photograph of this driverless car being buried by youths and put it on the internet for the world to see. They have seen me. There are many of them. I walk, phone held. Faster, faster.