In my new novel, one of the characters escapes from captivity. The following describes the point where he makes it to freedom. I like it.
He settles into a pace fit to carry him to world’s end and back. The road meets another in a T, black-on-black in the tattered darkness, and he swings left without thinking. A childhood memory levitates unbidden: warm sun on bare backs; baby-buggies and rucksacks; cobbled streets and the nearness of traffic; tall girders and ice cream; shuttling boats and a raucousness of gulls: a day out in Queensferry. The old buildings huddle in to him as he passes. The high, sharp smell of ozone, the dull undertow of bad drains; cobbles through slush; lancets of once-bright window glass. He is the only moving spirit in this scarred-scape, feels like the last free-man in a world gone to wetness, wild wind and grime. But, as the defile of the town street drops behind and he feels the inky mass of the rail bridge towering on his left hand, at least he now knows where he is going.