Earlier, on Commercial Street, Carol had seen a black cat unlucky enough to have been hit by a car — or given a vicious kicking by some particularly stupid and sadistic kids. With cracked back and smashed head, the broken little beast flipped around like a landed fish in the middle of the road. Eyes rolled and blood sprayed from a shattered mouth, as the cat danced its violent death flip. Carol shuddered and moved on. Her universe, full of portents and signs, was marked by a sense of melancholy, isolation and the stomach-churning premonition that it is all going to go tits up. This is a bad sign, she thought.
By Richard Cabut.