The estate is quiet. A determined and ignorant quiet; a sound sucking and soulless quiet of neighbours turned inward, each hermetically sealed from the other. The carefully tamed lawns and concrete paths of the estate scream this: here is vacant space devoid of life. The feeling is palpable. The scattered lighting is radiant pools of yellow. The shadows are deep and mismatched. Marsh Street is a lurking menace; beyond the urban wasteland waits like a hungry beast. Even Broadway has quietened to an intermittent snarl. Muir Way, framing the western edge of the estate (where Marsh Street forms the east) is positively cowering under its canopy of trees.
There is nothing to see here.
A few nights back, the edgy danger of the city crept into the estate. Two men died; one flung from an upper storey window. The herd is spooked and determinedly secured inside their concrete cocoons.
There is nothing to see here.
But there are others beings moving in the night. And they are taking advantage of the situation to conduct their own investigation into what transpired in that upper storey flat...
There is nothing to see here.
Rina Yui Cabochard Brownlee Thomas Galilei David Regan Casitive Michael Redfill Matamune