Peterboro

In Peterboro I met the man with clicking hands. Visibly extended they gripped his cane and pipe with infernal vigour as he strode through the crowd. I stopped him, grinning, and listened to his arms. The signal ran loud and clear through each and every vein and artery, morse code like they used in the war, morse code like they used to speak before words and accents and slang and rhymes.

He shrugged himself away from me but I followed and followed, down to the river and beyond. I kept my distance, but I knew he was tracking my progress because every few minutes he would dart into an alley or through a hotel foyer in attempt to shake me off. Eventually he began to tire, and I made my approach.

All I wanted was to listen to his arms, but now I have blood on my hands and the sounds have stopped.

This is not a confession.