So he kept on running.

The pavement beneath his feet was slick and slippery, lit only by moonlight. But it wasn’t raining, and Callum didn’t dare look down to see what made it wet. Where was he?

Nothing was familiar. The buildings he ran past were old and decaying, their windows hollow black cavities or nailed over with rotting boards. He came to a crossroads and turned blindly. Any street was better than this one. But after ten metres he knew he’d gone the wrong way, and had to turn and backtrack. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew which way he had to go.

He was looking for something.

Callum ran without tiring. His rugby boots struck rhythmically against the paving slabs, and hollow echoes bounced off the black and ruined walls. Nothing around him changed: same empty, nameless streets; same faint moonlight; same hard pavement underfoot. But deep within him, Callum felt a needling sense of urgency, pushing him forwards and making him more and more nervous with every step. He was wasting time; he had to move faster.

Callum forced himself to stand still. He wasn’t at all out of breath but he needed to think. Maybe his Luck was guiding him, though he couldn’t remember it ever driving him so hard before.

He began to run again. Suddenly now he was barefoot, and could feel the wet concrete against his skin, faintly sticky to the touch. It was horrible, but he had to keep going. Now the only sound was the soft slap of his feet as he ran.

There was a light over the streets ahead, the glow of motorway lamps, and Callum ran towards the bright line with relief. Now he was running alongside a canal beneath a motorway embankment. The light from the motorway was so far above him he couldn’t see it reflected in the water. Something terrible had happened here in these shadows; Callum could feel it – hear it, like an echo. Dread filled him and he thought about trying to double back, but his internal navigation system wouldn’t let him.