As the moon settled in for an evening view of the city, a curious eye looking down on London, the human inhabitants slowly deserted the streets. The moon shone innocence and purity, a white light of security leading the last few to their homes. To the left, off the main street, a young gentleman and his sweetheart, hand in hand, walked down a floodlight path towards a white building. On the other side a family of four, one child wide awake and full of energy tugging on his mother’s hand, and the second fast asleep in his fathers arms, moved contentedly towards their cozy home.
Of course the streets of London are never truly deserted. As the humans left, the night-time inhabitants began to invade the streets, scurrying, gnawing and screeching their way along and around the web of the city. By the time everyone had settled into their homes, the night had darkened and the clouds began to obscure the bright moon. Now all was black, except for the lengthy main street, dimly lit by the sickly yellow light of the gas lamps towering overhead. The lampposts, found at regular intervals, were tall and gave an artificial but eerie feel to the area. They gave off a peculiar energy, as did the famished little creatures now swarming the streets.
A decaying wooden door in one corner of the long boulevard creaked open and out onto the pebbled doorway stepped a handsome man in his forties, with a somewhat familiar look. He wore a long, black, leather coat and bore a hat on his head. In his left hand he clasped an intense orange flare, the naked flame of which offered a vivid source of light. As it danced and flickered the flame felt by turns almost romantic, and then hellish.
In a dark alleyway, close to the house of the oh-so-happy family of four, a ragged mongrel dog rummaged though the filth in competition with the other pests, in order to get its supply of food. The animal was almost furless and bony, with an evident insufficiency of nutrition. It trembled, its nose hopeful for a smell of meat, sniffing all the way to the main street, it encountered a gutter where it successfully found a few more scraps, some fruit peelings and the sad remainder of a fish, and ate hungrily.
The gentleman continued his walk down the lane, appearing relaxed and casual under the cover of the night, like never in the day, with his flare held high. It was now in his left hand. The flame flickered, offering alternate images of peace and torment as it burnt the oxygen in its surroundings.
When the gentleman approached the gutter, the dog began to howl. The wind at that moment howled harder and the dog was in no luck, howling so loudly but not loudly enough to be heard. The competition this time was far too strong. The fight was lost. The flare swung round once. Then again, and the howling continued, but the dog struggled against the flame and against the sudden gale. It was as if the evil deed and the weather itself were working hand in hand….