Kane (2024)

Chapter 1: Two Halves!

London, 1985. The city had long shed its post-war shine, settling into a routine of rusted infrastructure and cracked pavements. It wasn't the glamorous London seen on postcards; instead, it was the everyday London where people did their best to get by. Alistair Ace was one of those people. He wasn't special in any obvious way, but he was a good man, a fact that rarely made the world any kinder to him.

Alistair worked as a postal sorter at the Royal Mail depot in Vauxhall, sorting through piles of letters and packages before the sun had fully risen. It was a job that paid the bills and kept him in a modest flat in Battersea, one he shared with his elderly mother, Marjorie. The flat had seen better days, but it was home, a place where familiarity outweighed the peeling wallpaper and drafty windows. Life, for Alistair, had become a cycle of routines - predictable and safe, just how he preferred it.

This particular morning was like any other. Alistair's alarm buzzed at 5:45 a.m., and he slipped out of bed with a groan. The chill in the air was sharp, and he quickly threw on his clothes: a plain shirt, navy trousers, and a wool jumper his mother had knitted for him last winter. It had holes in the elbows, but he didn't mind. After washing up and ensuring his mother had her morning tea prepared, he left for work.

The streets of London were still waking up. The sun, barely a sliver on the horizon, struggled to break through the thick cloud cover. Alistair walked briskly, as he did every day, towards his usual stop-a small café near the station that sold cheap, lukewarm coffee. It wasn't much, but it was a small comfort before the grind of the day began.

As he pushed open the door, the scent of weak coffee and the faint sweetness of stale pastries greeted him. The café owner, an older gentleman named Bill, nodded at him from behind the counter.

"Morning, Alistair," Bill said in his usual gravelly voice, already knowing Alistair's order. "Same as always?"

"Morning, Bill. Yeah, just the usual. Keep it simple," Alistair replied, pulling out a few coins from his pocket.

After receiving his coffee, Alistair dropped the spare change into a small donation box near the register. Just outside the door, as he did most mornings, he handed the extra pound or two he had left to a familiar homeless man who always lingered nearby.

"Thanks, mate," the man mumbled, his hands cupping the coins with gratitude.

"Take care, alright?" Alistair offered, giving the man a gentle pat on the shoulder before heading toward the station. It was a simple gesture, but in a world as tough as London was becoming, every bit helped.

The train ride to Vauxhall was its usual cacophony of tired commuters. Alistair kept his head down, listening to the soft clinking of the rails as the train swayed through the city. His mind wandered, as it often did, to the day ahead: another shift at the depot, followed by a quiet evening at home with his mother, watching television while the world outside descended further into chaos. There was something comforting about it, even if it wasn't glamorous.

Work at the Royal Mail was uneventful, as it always was. Stacks of letters passed through his hands-bills, postcards, packages, small pieces of life that found their way into homes across the city. His colleagues were the same crew he'd seen every day for years: older men who'd been with the postal service their whole lives, younger ones just passing through, and a few women who handled customer service at the front counter. None of them had lives particularly different from Alistair's, though there was a silent camaraderie in their shared monotony.

By the time Alistair clocked out, the sky had darkened, though it was only mid-afternoon. Winter was creeping in, shortening the days and making the city feel even more grim than usual. On his way back through Battersea, Alistair decided to stop by the corner shop to pick up a few groceries-bread, milk, and a tin of soup for his mother's dinner. As he was paying at the counter, he noticed a woman standing by the magazine rack, her blonde hair tied up in a loose ponytail, studying a newspaper.