Rain drills the surface of the black canal. It’s too dark to see properly, but the girl can hear it. Ahead of her, the narrow footpath is nearly blocked with rubbish tipped over the motorway embankment. The girl doesn’t go any further. She’s waiting for someone.

This is a bad place.

She knows it in her bones. She doesn’t want to be here. Every nerve is telling her to run the other way. She peers ahead into the gloom, looks up at the dark windows of the warehouses, looks down in the gutter, looks over her shoulder. Her hands tingle as if they are on fire. She can’t shake the feeling there is something or someone watching her.

But she waits anyway.

*

It hungers, always.

It takes shape after shape as its own, and each body it puts on is as hungry as the last.

It crouches on slick tiles above the black canal. In the faint glow of the motorway lights, it can see the prey it has been seeking for the last three days. It makes the leap from slippery rooftop to wet street without a sound.

*

The rain is relentless: the thunder of it louder than the swish of invisible traffic passing high above. The girl shivers. Water is seeping down her neck. She pulls up the collar of her jacket and looks behind her again. Nothing there. She waits with hunched shoulders and wide eyes, straining to see in the dark.

The girl jumps when the silent shape comes towards her along the footpath. For a moment, instinct tells her to run. But then she sees the face. She gives a little cry of joy and relief.

‘You took long enough! What a place to meet!’

She holds out her hands as she steps forwards. It’s a face she loves, a face she’s missed. How long has it been? More than a year. But he’s here now. He’ll know what to do.