A single cough. A single shuffle. A single breath. That’s all it takes for him to realise you’re there. A single sneeze. A single stretch. A single glance. He edges towards you, he creeps forwards quietly, masking himself in the emptiness of the shadows. A single roll of the eyes. A single kick at an unsuspecting stone. A single crack of the knuckles. He lets you know he’s there, now, although only so there’s that inkling at the back of your brain, something that wants to shut the thought down with an accusation of a wild imagination. A single trip on an uneven pavement stone, a single crash of the boot as pace speeds up, a single sharp inhalation as it dawns on you that you shouldn’t be walking alone. At night. His bony fingers curl around your shaky shoulders. They drain all the balance from your unsteady stance. You fall in a crumpled heap on the harsh paving. All you have left to give is

A single cough