I step to the right, hoping to get around the man. He’s skinny, shortish like me, only five two or five three. He has a hoodie up around his head. He waggles the meat cleaver at elbow height in his right hand; in his left, he’s chosen a silver fork.
The cleaver would’ve come from the sushi place, the fork, from the roast meat carvery.
He’s not lunging, yet, and not saying any words at all, though his body is telling me he won’t let me go to my daughter.
‘Juswannatalk,’ he blurts. Behind him, two pigeons with white bands on their little feet lift off and flap away.
Juswannatalk‘I KNOW WHO YOU WORK FOR.’ I chance a quick nanosecond looking away. ‘MUMSHIIIINE! HOPEY?!’
I could run for it, try to lunge past him. Instead, I quickly retreat a couple metres and grab the roundest, shield-est
