Eyes of the Conscience

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‘Just my luck’, I mumbled to myself, pushing my top hat over my ears. It was raining again. My clothes were soaking. I was far away from home and, just to spite me, there wasn’t any coach. I turned into Kensington Way and hid from the awful weather in the corridor of a brick-red council house. I checked the time on my gold watch. It was half-past seven. The October twilight had started embracing the world with its dark arms. My nostrils were suddenly attacked by the heinous stench of putridity. I looked back over my shoulder. My eyesight met the glow of azure irises. In the corner sat a humanoid shape of indeterminate gender, wrapped in dirty rags. The ‘thing’ fixed its gaze on my barrister’s bag. ‘Could you spare a few…