Beginnings, of a sort…

The rat scurried along the dark passageways, having made its way up from the harbour tunnels. At low tide, the pickings on the sand were good but fraught with gulls trying to grab at the fishermen’s cast-offs. There was always something in the mud worth eating if you could get ahead of the screaming birds. Now, as the tunnel turned into a passageway, the rat negotiated the dark walkways without the need for light. Its whiskers providing navigation, its long tail, balance.

It climbed over old forgotten sacks and piles of bricks from a collapsed wall. Ahead, the passageway narrowed as the rat navigated the bones wrapped in a rotting carpet. Any morsels on that body had long been devoured, and now it was simply another obstacle to overcome. As the rat continued its route, it emerged through a grating and off along the cobbled lanes of Golden, careful to avoid passing feet and tyres. The ancient fishing village of Golden would always have rats and, from time to time, would also have bodies