You hear them as you walk beneath halogen street-lamps that give light the color of brandy, as October air touched with frost becomes warm, heavy as breath. Your step is muffled, as if you walk on a wool blanket. The sounds come, as they have come before, while dusk deepens and stars spread across the dull suburban sky, while lamplight and the flickering blue of TV screens fill the windows of the houses you pass. Stiff leather creaks. Booted feet step. Chains hung from jackets clank. Keys dangling from out of pockets jangle. You are alone, surrounded by sound. Trying to walk away from it. The summer-heat falls on your back, your neck and your hands, which a moment before tingled with cold. You smell the scents of The City you left long ago. The humid, dirty air. The musk of leather and the skin of the men who wear it. Cigarettes and a blend of after-shaves sweetened by sweat. Under the brandy-light you feel, more than see, stars eclipsed by grey city sky.
