I didn’t notice him at first.
The driver in the combat jacket called from his crawling car, asking where Dafoe Way was.
‘Defoe Way,’ I corrected.
‘Yeah, De-Foe,’ he said, checking a scrap of paper in his grip.
I’m awful at directions, but I like to help. Soon I was in the passenger seat, pointing left, then right. It wasn’t far, after all.
At Defoe Way, he thanked me, removing a sledgehammer from the boot. Pacing away, I shuddered at every ferocious impact of the hammer; caving in the door of a nearby house.
I wasn’t even heading that way.