"End Of Beginning"

The cold had sharpened over the past week. Not in a dramatic way, just persistently, making the air feel too thin and the light too bright. The sky over Finsbury Park was a washed-out blue, the sun low but glaring, reflecting off car windows in sharp flashes. Raye squinted as she crossed the road, pulling her scarf higher.

She texted Djo as she walked: You around?

He replied straight away: Yeah. Where?

She waited for him near the bike racks outside the station, shuffling her feet against the cold. A busker played a keyboard loop that sounded like it was dissolving at the edges. A group of schoolkids filmed each other doing something that might have been a dance or might have been a joke. A man in a suit shouted into his phone about “the collapse of institutional trust.”

North London doing its usual impression of a city having a nervous breakdown in slow motion.

Djo appeared from the direction of Seven Sisters Road, hood up, hands buried deep in his pockets. His trainers were soaked through, their laces frayed. He gave her a small nod.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Define okay.”

He didn’t push. It wasn’t his style.

They fell into step without discussion and headed toward Stroud Green Road. The pavements were damp; the air smelled faintly of petrol and of cold bread from the bakery that always over-proved its dough.

“You eaten?” he asked.

“Does tea count?”

He snorted. “No, it doesn’t.”

They passed the charity shops; the vape store with its flickering sign; the café where the tables were always sticky. The sun was bright but provided almost no warmth. Raye kept her hands in her pockets, fingers curled tight around her phone.

She hadn’t opened the video again. She didn’t need to, because it was still playing in her head.

Djo glanced at her. “You look tired.”

“You look wet.”

He smiled, but only a little. “Just saying.”

They reached the corner where the pavement narrowed. A cyclist swerved around them, muttering something under his breath. Raye stepped closer to Djo without thinking. He noticed, yet chose not to react.

“You working today?” she asked.

“Later. Maybe. Depends if they call.”

“Zero hours life.”

“Yeah.”

They stopped at the crossing near the post office. The signal lights took ages to change. Raye watched the traffic blur past, the sunlight continuing to strobe off windscreens in a harsh, stuttering pattern.

She spoke without looking at him. “I got another video.”

Djo’s shoulders tightened. “When?”

“Last night.”

“You watch it?”

“Yeah.”

He waited, but she didn’t elaborate.

“What was it?” he prompted.

“Same path. Same coat. Same… everything.”

He nodded slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “You think it’s someone messing with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You tell anyone else?”

“No.”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Probably nothing.”

She looked at him sideways and saw the lie sitting just behind his eyes.

“Right,” she said. “Nuffink.”

They crossed the road and took shelter in a small café near the station: steamed-up windows, mismatched chairs, the smell of scorched milk and cheap coffee. Raye ordered a builders tea. Djo ordered nothing. They sat near the radiator and listened to its thermostat click as it failed to warm them up.

A woman at the next table scrolled through her phone, frowning at a video she kept replaying. Raye looked away.

Djo rubbed his hands together. “You want me to look into it?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, but she could see the tension in his jaw and the covert way he kept glancing at her phone on the table.

“You’re not telling me something,” she said.

He neither denied it, nor confirmed it. He just said, “You’re not telling me something either.”

She sipped her tea. It was too hot, but the steaming cup served to conceal her face.

They left the café when the sun dipped behind a cloud, the temperature dropping sharply. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of wet leaves and exhaust fumes.

They walked toward the New River Path. Raye hesitated at the entrance, which Djo noticed.

“You don’t have to go down there,” he said.

“I know.”

“You want to?”

“No.”

“Then we won’t.”

She nodded, grateful to him but not saying it.

They turned and looped back toward the station. A bus rumbled past, its windows fogged and its interior lights too bright. Raye watched it disappear around the corner.

“Feels like the end of something,” she said quietly.

“Or the beginning,” Djo said.

She shook her head. “Doesn’t feel like a beginning.”

He didn’t argue. They continued walking in silence, until they reached the point where their paths split: hers toward Green Lanes, his toward Manor House. The wind cut across the street, sharp and cold.

“You want company?” he asked.

“No.”

“You sure.”

“No.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

She hesitated. “Thanks.”

“For what.”

“For not pretending everything’s fine.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s not.”

“No.”

They paused a moment longer, the cold settling around them, the junction at a crossfire of buses, sirens, arguments, laughter and a throbbing bassline from a passing car. Then they parted company and set off in their opposite directions.

Raye didn’t look back, but Djo did.