Richmond Park was busy with joggers pounding their way towards Sawyers Hill. They passed women who pushed their buggies chatting about their busy days which invariably centered on their children. Everyone was wrapped up in their own little world on this cold October morning.

An old oak tree surrendered its final leaf to the breeze. It tossed and turned as it fell downwards; landing on the book belonging to a slim grey – haired man sitting alone in Poets corner. He muttered as he brushed it away with a flick of his hand, and then checked his watch, 11.45am.

A thin red ribbon was placed along the book of Psalms before he pushed it into his jacket pocket. The sunshine had been weak behind the grey clouds all morning but now random patches of blue sky allowed its rays to bathe the man. It was at that moment he held out his hands, palms facing upwards, closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer. All his thoughts centered on the impending event he had spent years planning. The bile rose in his throat as he remembered the injustices he had to endure these past decades.

 

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