y the faintest light of a dying streetlamp, BCG turned the padlock dials until the combinations clicked into place. The lock snapped open with a metallic crack, and he rolled up the shutter. A wave of stale air drifted from the dark, damp interior. He paused, letting his eyes adjust – until the sharp angle of a raked windscreen and flat bonnet emerged from the gloom.

For a fleeting second, the grim set of his jaw relaxed. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, ever so slightly. He couldn’t help himself, despite what he knew lay ahead for him tonight.

Is this a story, or is it something else?