Free Sacrifice by Paul Finch

and as the street was narrow and the industrial buildings running down either side of it were tall, gloomy and mostly windowless, no more than a thin slice of sky was visible overhead. Kate shivered as she loaded the last bundle into the boot. She would get all this lot down to the Whitechapel Centre on Langsdale Street and then hang around to see if they needed a spare volunteer for the evening. She’d put in a lot of hours recently, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t sleep easily tonight knowing there were people out of doors who’d be neither warm nor dry.
    She stubbed her cigarette out, pulled her Afghan coat on, wove a scarf around her neck and was about to switch the lights off inside, when she heard a loud, metallic
clank
from somewhere to the rear of the shop. She stopped what she was doing to listen. No additional sound followed. Assuming something in the kitchen had fallen over, she wandered into the shop to check, remembering that she needed to empty the bin while she was at it – but nothing looked to have been disturbed. Her knife, fork and dinner plate were stacked on the draining board, where she’d left them that lunchtime. Her coffee cup was in its usual place alongside the kettle, which was safely unplugged, its cable wound around it. The doors to the fridge and microwave were both closed; the dishcloth and sponge were in the washing-up bowl, the Fairy Liquid on the windowsill.
    Shrugging, Kate lugged the bulging plastic sack from out of the bin, tying its neck in a knot, and opened the back door – and only then did it occur to her that perhaps the sound she’d heard had come from outside. That wouldn’t be unusual, even though she worked here alone; this was a city, people did things at all hours, there were loud noises. And yet, fleetingly, she was hesitant to go and investigate the murky yard. The only light out there came from the interior of the shop via its grimy window and narrow back door. There was a faint ambient glow in the sky – the residue of surrounding street lighting, though no lamps shone directly down on the yard.
    Kate hovered on the step. From what she could see, everything looked to be in place: the wheelie-bin, the bucket and mop, the row of empty plant-pots. There was nothing suspicious here.
    Except that the back gate was open.
    That wasn’t a big thing in itself, though Kate was sure she’d closed it earlier. Was that the sound she’d heard? Had someone climbed over the gate to case the place, and had they then opened it to get away again?
    Good luck to them, she thought; it wasn’t like there was much here worth stealing.
    Her eyes had now adapted to the dimness, and she could see that she was alone. There was no dilapidated shed for someone to hide behind, no concealed corner where they might crouch unseen. Deciding she was being daft, she went boldly forward, throwing the rubbish sack into the bin and walking over to the gate. She even stepped outside it. The cobbled alley beyond wasn’t too salubrious, but they never were in this part of town. There were no other vehicles of course; no one was packing or unpacking goods. But at least that meant she could see clear down to either end of the alley. On the left it ran forty litter-strewn yards before halting at a wall of sheer bricks. On the right it ran further, eighty yards or more, and then opened into an adjacent road. Even down there, the street lighting was restricted to a narrow gap, where a caul of mist was slowly twisting.
    That was spooky for sure, but it wasn’t unusual either – even if Kate did stare at it for several seconds, as though mesmerised. They were very near the river. And it was only April, as she kept reminding herself. The main thing was that there was no one skulking about. She went back into the yard, this time ensuring to close and bolt the gate, then re-entered the building, locking the back door behind her, before turning the lights off and leaving the shop.
    Her car was years old,