Later that night, when the last drunk had sleazed home and the tang of booze and urine hung over the pavement, he started to walk across London Bridge.
Noticing a black beetle-like car approaching, his heart skipped a beat – The Police! The vehicle cruised to a stop and a metallic voice rang out.
“Who are you and where are you going?”
“Who, me? Just walking home.”
A blinding spotlight stung his eyes. “Get in the car,” the voice blared.
“Why, what have I done?”
“Get in the car,” the voice blared again, louder this time and he heard a menacing trigger-like click.
He got into the car which smelt of cigarettes and vomit. There was no driver. On a screen a humanoid face appeared. “Address?”
“Why, C-Carlton Street, n-number four.”
The car careened through darkened streets filled with emptiness.
It finally screeched to a halt outside a grand well-lit town house. The car door unlocked itself, he stepped out and the vehicle hurtled off into the night.
The front door opened, throwing out a river of light, and a woman dressed in white furs appeared. “Daahling, where were you? I was just about to call the police…”