Autumn sailed in on ghosts, it’s trail of crisp red leaves embedded faintly in the remnants of summer; heat loitered in the musky night. Dark heavy smog settled in the city, the stir of metal had kicked it around in the morning, but deflated by an inactive underbelly of traffic, it swooned into the crepuscular city streets. The sun plunged into the toxic horizon, harvesting deep veils of scarlet.
London was a crushed neon light, throbbing faintly in the dusk as a velvet curtain of midnight blue swathed across the skyline. Bursting in a reverb of activity and chaos, the city streets bustled in a mesh of noise.
Covent Garden was brimming with shops and lights, stalls that sold next to nothing at all, trite objects and worthless souvenirs.
Feet sifted through the circus, bleached denim, frayed cotton and bizarre plastic garments adorned the shuffle of movement. Neo-punk hair styles graced the heads of many; bright dyes and spikes, ultra violet beads and strands riddled haphazardly in front of apocalyptic make up; black eye shadow delineating foggy white eyes, cracked in blood shot spider webs.
Between the bright clusters of anarchist voices, dark leather shifted like a school of fish, flowing and ebbing through the crowds.
Voices splashed in unfathomable sounds, cacophonies ruptured in anger, excitement and panic. The crowd of sound bounced up the bright buildings, gasping for air in the night. Tensions of white noise, crushed in the swarms.
Dark alleys coiled in deceptive angles away from the luminescent social hub.
Amateur graffiti lay dormant down the crumbled dark walls, repressed visions displayed hastily in a scrawl of handles and anarchistic slogans. Gloved hands drifted along the crush of words, eyes, grey and sharp, glistening like metal, peering deep into their meaning, looking for a sign.
Eoin had left his car at the edge of the city, the traffic, as per usual had been horrific, he had wasted too much time in his car and decided to leave it parked in a quiet street of the suburbs, avoiding the congestion charge. Taking the tube to Covent garden he then made his way by foot past the neon explosion of Picadilly circus, through the surging crowds, swarming about the Trocadero. He stalked slowly down back alleys as light succumb to the darker hours.
When Eoin finally reached the large complex night had swallowed the city. The days were drawing in quicker and the dampness of the autumn mornings were lingering through until evening, just enough to leave a chill in the air. Between each muggy breeze, a dry cool blast would instigate the owners of jackets to make the most of their garments.
Eoin swept his dark hair behind his ears, the stark light reflected in his eyes, gracing them with an ethereal silver varnish. As Eoin climbed the steep concrete stairs that carved a path up the side of the tall building, his heart pounded, what could be so important that Kendrick had requested his immediate presence.
Upon reaching the 27th floor, Eoin felt a chill pass him, something wasn't right, he couldn't imagine why he was here. As he stepped into the center of the large, ill lit room, he heard, quite softly, a few padded foot steps behind him.