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The Forgotten: Dance of Death

During a brief and unsuccessful attempt at becoming a flaneur, and working off some excess weight, I found myself in an unfamiliar part of my city. Making my way down a street of boxy concrete structures, overshadowed by the ancient volcanic presence of the igneous mass known as Arthur's Seat, I become aware of footsteps echoing my own. Behind me, to my surprise, was a man in raincoat, snap-brimmed fedora and aviator glasses, a detective or secret agent from a dated B-movie, as out-of-place on this modern street as a capybara in a haulage firm's accounting department (not the most elegant simile, but it will serve). The anonymous figure shadowing me might have been dismissed as a lone eccentric, except that up ahead I espied three elderly figures, two women and a man, who was sat upon a low wall. As I neared them, I became aware of a strange

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