‘I think those must be the undertakers,’ I hear the man from behind me say grimly as four men intently cross the road formerly known as The Murder Mile, eyes dead set on the café where we sit. The men’s heads bear matching short- very nearly shorn- haircuts in varying shades of grey or balding.
The awning bounces violently up and down as they make their approach, each uniformed in pressed pin stripe black trousers and black wool overcoats on top of white shirts and ties clasped perfectly around their necks. The man with the black gloves steps in front of the others and looks into the window immediately to my left where I sit, now nervously typing.
Over his shoulder the noon sky continues to darken and the wind picks up, the tarpaulin on the building over the road flapping about the skeletal scaffolding surround. Cautiously I laugh in response, adding, ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ trying to be nonchalant about discussing the four hovering, menacing men who are focussed on the general area where I sit.
They gather round the menu displayed in the window next to me, scanning the café inside. With resolve they suddenly turn on their black heels to cross the road back from where they came.