Battersea bridge

Matthews wasn’t quite sure what had happened. He remembered the sharp glare of moonlight of the edge of thirty or more drawn razors. The taste of London smog, smoke and dust, had been thick in his mouth. He’d seen grimy grey water spreading out as he fell towards its surface, or else it had fallen towards him.

Whether he standing, lying or still falling he didn’t know. He could feel the whole of his surroundings spin around and stay deathly still all at the same time. His eyes weren’t opening and that was a concern, but Matthews felt relaxed in spite of it.

He groped towards his chest and his movements were sluggish in spite of his desperation. One finger met with coarse fabric and found it damp. Relief washed over Matthews with the realisation that he was bleeding. It answered some of his questions and at least, he thought, the doubt was gone.

Now he did open his eyes, groping through the clouded darkness for some sign of light or life. An object swam towards him, a crumbled deck sprouting a decayed mast of brackish timber. Matthews tried to breathe sweet, crisp night air and inhaled foul Thames water. It burned in his lungs, but brought with it a certain peace.

“So that’s where I ended up.” Matthews thought as light shone blinding in his eyes.

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