The wind whistles up Whitefriargate.

It finds every gap in my clothing, slips beneath my collar and crawls down my back with icy fingers. I stand motionless at the edge of the street, my shoulders pressed against the cold stone wall, trying desperately to become part of it.

Invisible.

Non-existent.

Just another piece of the city's architecture.

Unfortunately, my chameleon circuit isn't working.

I close my eyes.

Time slows to a crawl.

My breathing is still ragged from the run, but gradually, painfully, it begins to settle. I concentrate on each breath, willing my heart to stop hammering against my ribs. I dare not open my eyes. I don't want to know whether I'm being watched.

There is something particularly terrifying about not knowing if your pursuers are ten feet away or ten miles away.

I wait.

Nothing.

Another minute passes.

Then another.

Slowly, I open my eyes.

Winter sunlight explodes across the street, harsh and unforgiving, reflected from the windows of the bar opposite. It is closed now, dark behind its glass, but in a few hours, it will be packed with happy, excited people. People laughing, drinking and shouting over music. People who have no idea they are sharing their city with someone hiding from his own demons.

I scan the street.

Left.

Right.

Nothing.

I look again. Still nothing.

I allow myself a small smile. It disappears almost immediately. The threat is still out there.

I can feel it.

Perhaps it is lurking around the next corner. Perhaps it is watching from a doorway. Perhaps it is standing somewhere behind me, patiently waiting for me to make the mistake of looking.

I turn my attention to the street.

A busker is singing half-heartedly, welcoming us to the Hotel California. His guitar sounds as though it has travelled considerably further than he has. At his feet, a dog whines mournfully.

The animal is some sort of greyhound-like creature, thin and long-legged, and somehow looks in considerably better condition than its owner. Its head remains perfectly still while its eyes follow everyone who passes.

A crisp packet scuttles along the pavement.

It catches against my shoe.

For a moment I jump.

Ridiculous.

I glance down at it, then up again. Nothing.

Above me comes the familiar squawk of seagulls. The gathering cry. They have spotted a group of students eating chips. The call goes out.

Within seconds the sky seems to fill with wings.

One gull dives towards the students, snatching a chip and sending another dozen flying. The students scream with laughter. More gulls descend, squabbling and snapping at one another. The students eventually move on, leaving behind a battlefield of discarded chips and paper.

The gulls fall upon it.

A lone pigeon waddles around the edge of the scrum, patiently pecking at whatever morsels escape the razor-beaked predators.

For a few seconds, I watch them.

It is almost peaceful.

Almost.

Music drifts from one of the many vape shops. The usual sort of music. The sort nobody has ever deliberately chosen to listen to, yet nobody seems sufficiently offended by to turn it off. It simply exists, filling the air.

Whitefriargate has seen better days.

The old Georgian buildings stand stubbornly along the street, survivors of everything history has thrown at Hull, including Hitler. Their façades are blackened and tired, stained by decades of soot from factories, buses and the endless procession of cars that once travelled along this now pedestrianised street.

The city has moved on.

The centre of gravity has shifted several times over the last fifty years.

Whitefriargate has been left behind. Once a place people came to, it now feels like somewhere people pass through.

I notice the young man sitting on the pavement. He can't be more than thirty. His face is vacant. Not sad. Not angry. Empty. A cap lies on the ground in front of him. There are a few coins inside, but copper doesn't even threaten to cover its bottom.

People hurry past.

Nobody looks at him. They seem frightened of meeting his eyes. The world has taken him, chewed him up and spat him out somewhere along the way. His clothes hang from his thin frame like rags, making him look fifty rather than thirty. The contrast is striking. Smartly dressed solicitors' clerks hurry past him, briefcases tucked beneath their arms, shoes clattering against the paving stones.

Black beetles returning to the nest.

Nobody stops. Nobody notices. Or perhaps they notice and have simply become very good at pretending they haven't.

I look west.

Victoria Square lies ahead.

Beyond it stands the City Hall, its neo-classical architecture rising proudly beneath its blue-green copper roof. The winter sun catches the roof and throws a splash of colour across the otherwise grey and brown landscape. It looks almost unreal. Beautiful, in a way.

From where I stand, however, Whitefriargate resembles the trench of the Death Star. An obstacle course stretching between me and safety. Benches. Bins. Lamp posts. Street furniture. And people. So many people. They come towards me in waves. Any one of them could be watching me. Any one of them could be following me.

Luke Skywalker had it easy.

I pass the empty store where Marks & Spencer once stood. Another casualty in the endless struggle for profit. It left a few years ago, taking another piece of Whitefriargate's identity with it. The store once inspired Philip Larkin. Now it is simply another empty space. Another reminder of what has disappeared. Across from it stands the garish yellow of Heron Foods. Food for the masses. I keep walking.

My footsteps sound unnaturally loud.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I glance behind me.

A couple are walking towards me. Nothing unusual. I look again. They have stopped. My stomach tightens. Then the man points towards a shop window. The woman turns. They carry on walking.

I breathe again.

Keep moving. I'm almost there. The end of Whitefriargate is getting closer. The sunlight ahead is brighter now, spilling towards me from Victoria Square.

As I step away from the shelter of the buildings, I feel suddenly naked. Exposed. The sunlight hits me full in the face. To my left stands Prinny Quay, that late-twentieth-century monument to consumerism, perched on stilts over the old dock. Concrete and glass, cold and imposing.

To my right are the remains of Beverley Gate, where Charles I was famously turned back during the Civil War. History everywhere. People everywhere. And somewhere amongst them, my pursuers.

I take another step. Then another.

My eyes are drawn to the Burton building. Black tiles. Art Deco. Elegant. Imposing. Lovingly restored and now home to a Pizza Express. Someone has poured a great deal of love into this building. It deserves it.

I stare at it for a moment.

And then I hear it.

A sound that cuts through the traffic, the chatter and the distant music. A caw.

I stop. Another.

Closer.

I slowly turn my head.

The crow is sitting on the edge of the wall. Black as coal. Its feathers barely moving in the wind. It is looking directly at me. Not at the people passing. Not at the food. Not at anything else.

Me.

Its eyes are small, dark and unnervingly intelligent.

For several seconds, neither of us moves. Then its head tilts. It has spotted me. My stomach turns.

The crow opens its wings. I know what comes next.

Soon the others will know.

I don't wait to find out how soon. I turn and run. I pelt headfirst into Victoria Square, narrowly missing a bus as its driver leans on the horn. Someone shouts after me.

I don't stop.

Behind me comes another caw. Then another. The sound follows me across the square. They're coming. I can hear the beating of wings.

I run faster. The sunlight that had seemed so welcoming moments ago now feels like an open target. I have left Whitefriargate behind.

But whatever is hunting me hasn't. I glance over my shoulder. The crow is still there. And above it, against the cold blue sky, other black shapes are beginning to appear. I turn back towards the square. There is nowhere left to hide.

I need more than luck this time.