Terence looked up at the floor above the shop. A filthy dirty sign obscured most of the windows. "South London Press available here!" it promised, unconvincingly.
So this is it, thought Terence.
He looked down at the crumpled advert he still clutched in his hand. The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The chrome fittings. The pristine white carpet.
No, thought Terence. This can't be it.
If the windows had been a little less grimy, if the inside a little less dark, he might have been able to make out the little pair of eyes that watched him. The little pair of eyes that watched him turn and walk down the street, back towards the bus stop.
The little pair of eyes that had seen all that it had needed to see.
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