Young Writers Society

A tall man was walking down the street, his steps the only sound in the darkness around him. He was walking quickly, with long strides and sharp taps, caused by the heels of his expensive shoes. The dim street lights flickered over head, casting an artificial orange light over the pavement. The sky above him was cloudy and moonless, and a light drizzle was falling; the kind of halfhearted rain that falls in such a way that it seems like it wanted to do the job properly, but couldn't quite be bothered.

He stopped in front of a three story, red bricked terraced house, and checked the number on the front door. He looked around, and, seeing that there was no-one peeking out of their windows at him, he ascended the steps and stood outside the door.

There was a large white doorbell, but the man did not press it. Instead, he pulled out a mobile phone from his coat pocket and tapped in a few keys. There was a near silent buzz as the phone connected, then one dialling tone before someone picked up at the other end.

The tall man spoke at once.

"Farwell, open up, I'm here. Yes, I got it. No, no I don't think so," on this last sentence the tall man looked around him again, as though he thought someone was following him. "No, there isn't. Now just open the door, I didn't come to freeze to death."

He hung up, and replaced the mobile into his pocket.

A few moments later, a yellow light flicked on behind the translucent door, and the next second, a bolt was withdrawn and the door was opened.

"Peters," A small, chubby man was standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of brown courderoy trousers and a white shirt. He squinted at Peters with his small, watery eyes. He had blonde, curly hair and thin lips, and looked rather like a fat fish.

Peters nodded and Farwell stood back to let him in. The door was shut, and the patter of the tiny raindrops outside were cut out.

The hallway cast light on Peters' long face, with its small brown goatee and large grey eyes. His hair was brown and wet, and he had thick, dark eyebrows.

They were stood in a small dark hallway, about a metre wide, with doors all the way along the right hand side wall, and a staircase at the end. Peters looked around, and unbuttoned his coat.

"This way," Farwell said, hobbling down the hallway. Through a gap between his trousers and his socks, Peter could see a metal leg. He frowned, but said nothing, and followed.

Farwell led him into a kitchen, as dark as the hallway and spotlessly clean. Peters sat down on one of the wooden chairs which surrounded the table, and Farwell sat opposite.

"Well?" Farwell raised an eyebrow. Peters didn't respond straight away, but removed his coat onto the back of his chair. Then he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a big white envelope with the number '6' written on it in red ink. Farwell's face displayed great excitement.

"It took me a long time to find this, Farwell. I hope my work is appreciated."

"Much so." Farwells eyes were glinting. "Dammit, Peters, open the darn thing!"

Peters held the envelope and slit it with long, thin fingers. It opened, and he removed the contents and laid it on the table.

Farwell looked at it and sighed. His eyes roamed over the letters and data sheets, and finally rested on a small laminated colour photograph. He picked it up.

"This is it?"

Peters nodded.

"That's it."

***

Amy McHugh awoke with a gasp, from the dream in which two men had been studying a photograph of her.