The city was quiet, strangely so.
Usually, at this time of night, there would be a dog or two howling across the spaces between the concrete skyscrapers. The rumbling of engines would echo down the emptying streets. Drunken shouts would pulse through the darkness. Periodically, a siren would shatter the sounds, wailing its two-note melody.
But tonight, all was silent.
Fog hung heavy over the river, spilling out over the asphalt like floodwater. The air was thick, moist. Breathing felt like drowning.
The lights in the skyscrapers, usually shining like stars against a smog-grey sky, were dull, if they were lit at all.
It was as though death had visited and swept all the people away.
Of course, that was not the case at all.
The final of Britain’s Got Talent was on.
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