‘Not with a bang, but a whimper’. The words were almost a tangible presence in the still air. He found himself humming whilst forcing one foot before the other; ‘This is the end, my only friend, the end’. He battened down, drowning the lyric in the endless emptiness around him. He strained, concentrating every inch of his being on trying to hear any sound but the leaden thud of his feet. In the hollowness of isolation he walked on. The town was small, perhaps ten thousand souls, and the ghosts of those souls inhabited the houses and streets still. Washing fluttered on lines in yards, teasing clues to the personalities of households, families. Demonic prints on black tees, a moody teen with Goth pretensions. Work overalls streaked with oil, oil that probably never quite left the rims of fingernails, became ingrained in skin folds. Skimpy thongs caressed by stylish boxers, a new marriage which would never age. Snazzy sports numbers sat next to soccer mum cars on drives cr...