Balance

Pelican Walk wasn't the best place for collecting souls. The setting was all wrong. Everything was a pain in the ass. Normally, the high bridge he stood on would be perfect for jumping to one’s death, a chill wind at your back. But the wind that blew across it was balmy. The sky had ummed and ahhed over its wardrobe, finally opting for a starry midnight blue that favoured lovers rather than murderers. The scent that lingered on the air wasn’t sulphur, but patchouli. Instead of a suicide rocking gently in seaweed against the rocks below, he heard the whistles and trills of a nightingale from above.  ​

 

The moon wasn’t helping either. Puffed out like the Pillsbury Doughboy, it drew light from everywhere, before throwing it back out again. ​Then there were the lamp posts: forty-five to be precise, each seemingly determined to outdo its neighbour. Kal could see his asset, one Leonard Jones, a street preacher and adviser to the homeless. He wore scruffy jeans, Nike trainers that had just shown their worth in marathon running, and a windcheater that had long given up all cheating.

 

Choppy light-coloured hair flapped around his head as he clung tiredly, shivering, to the 24th lamp post.​Leon Jones had a crime sheet longer than the Wall of Benin . . . but Kal had seen enough. The man's flippant remark ten years ago: “I’d sell my soul for a joint,” had been long forgotten. Kal’s appearance tonight had refreshed his memory. Still, he’d managed to pull away from his lifestyle. There was room for redemption.