It was an autumn evening the first time a man with an axe ran at Richard Biddle. He was on the long, often-melancholy walk home from Watford tube station, the streets glistening from recent rain and completely empty. The only sound was the echo of his own footsteps, and then faintly, from behind him, came a second pair, running. Richard Biddle walked on, aware of the noise in the unheeding way you take in the rumble of distant traffic.

The sound grew louder. Richard Biddle turned back, but could see nothing. He'd just come through the dense shadow of the underpass, and on this side, the first few streetlights were out, extending the shadow along the road towards him.

A scream began.

...

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