wondered, would Mordan strike? Here, in the crowded street? Or would he wait
until he, the tightly wound agent, passed into the lonely darkness of Potters
The crowds, he
noted, had entirely disappeared now; all safely behind their bolted doors he
thought bitterly. With unfaltering step he sauntered into the deserted suburban
street. Behind the sharp eyes and deceptively casual movements his heart
hammered like a bass drum.
A cat, black,
sleek and shiny-eyed, leapt from the shadow of a privet hedge; his heart did a
peculiar little flip and nearly stopped. Despite his outward calm, the fear
grew and his pace quickened. It took a conscious effort to slow himself down;
he must not let that evil monster see that he was afraid.
He tried to
whistle a casual tune, but his lips were dry and all he could manage was a
nervous, tuneless, blowing of air.
he veered outwards until he was walking in the centre of the road and as far as
he could get from the dark, menacing shadows of the pavements. Here at least he
would have some warning of Mordans attack.
Only a few more
yards to go. A dog growled softly and the hair prickled on the back of his
neck. Like a blinding flash the thought exploded in his mind! The dog!
Mordans devilish hound!
his legs broke into a run, with practised ease he vaulted the low wall and
dashed up the narrow pathway. His back slammed against the panelled door as he
turned to face the darkness and his vile enemy. His fist rapped out the signal
with frantic urgency.
footsteps beyond the door seemed to take an eternity. Suddenly the door gave
against his pressure and light, warm, safe, light flooded across his swiftly
Hello, said his mother, Good film was