Fellgate Close
It was December 1978. I had met Edward Luckham in Curlers in Byres Road. He was aged around sixty, with silver hair, and was wearing a black cloak and an Ankh necklace. He directed me to Fellgate close. I knew it was a trap but I still went anyway. As I walked along the lane the streetlights popped out, one by one, behind me, plunging me into darkness.
My contact was coming up from London to do a handwriting analysis on me. They wouldn’t accept something by post in case it was someone else’s. I met them at the Station. They knew a remarkable amount about me, more than I even knew about myself. They had a complete list of 382 library books I had taken out from Cardonald library in 1972.
On my third visit to Fellgate Close, I took a short-cut through the park. The path was lit by street lighting but the lights just kept popping out behind me. I ran to a telephone box and locked myself in after I saw this girl approaching from the darkness.
My contact was coming up from London to do a handwriting analysis on me. They wouldn’t accept something by post in case it was someone else’s. I met them at the Station. They knew a remarkable amount about me, more than I even knew about myself. They had a complete list of 382 library books I had taken out from Cardonald library in 1972.
On my third visit to Fellgate Close, I took a short-cut through the park. The path was lit by street lighting but the lights just kept popping out behind me. I ran to a telephone box and locked myself in after I saw this girl approaching from the darkness.
