A dark and stormy night. John hurried through the silent town, inhabitants asleep. He had familiarized the route, but occasionally he had to study the street signs. It was so dark, he could barely distinguish the letters. On two occasions he took a wrong turn and had to retrace his steps. But he was progressing nicely and soon found the right street: Pickford Alley.
He sighed with relief, but at the same time his excitement grew. Just a few more minutes and his mission was completed. A slight rain started to come down. He pressed forward, his heart beating with anticipation. At the garden gate of the house he stopped for a few seconds. All was quiet, no light in any of the houses. He opened the gate slowly, careful not to make any sound. He came to the door of the house, and took the key from his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he inserted it into the lock.
The key wouldn’t turn. He tried it again and then again, but the key obvious wasn’t the right one. What had gone wrong? So much time and manpower had been invested in his mission. Was it all wasted?
Suddenly, locks rattled, the door was pulled open and bright light spilled out of the house. A gigantic, bald-headed man looked down at him.
“For Christ’s sake John, are you frigging drunk again? You live next door, mate. Now piss off to bed and Daphne, she’s probably worried sick.”
The man threw the door close with a bang that could be heard across town.
Read more stories featuring John and Daphne here.