10:58pm




The night was still, as if London were holding her breath around the corner of Great Scotland Yard. Streets away, cars passed by Charing Cross, and the tube rumbled and squealed through tunnels deep below ground. Life continued obliviously for Muggles, unhindered by the happenings of their magical cousins, save for the escalation of depression since the dementors had begun to turn. The residents of Devon and Cornwall[1] were feeling altogether cheerier what with the warmer weather and the hint of summer right around the corner so soon after March had departed.

The sloe tarmac beside an unassuming red telephone box was devoid and dry. The paving stones of the pavement it stood on were swept clear of spring debris and London litter. The corner had always seemed rather more trim than other corners of the city. Muggles never perceived, they went straight past, barely aware of the box.

The yellow-white light from within the currant-red box cast shadows in three directions, a warm, welcoming light should anyone wish to step inside and place a call.







Four hundred and thirty days.

Lawrence’s battered boots found the pavement without stumble from apparation. His shoulders were rounded on arrival, poised and fearing an immediate attack drawn by his warning[2]. The Ministry would have had hours to prepare for whatever they thought he might do. It was one way to confirm a welcome party, to indicate his impending arrival, and to commit to the plan. It would have been a dismissal of his pattern to fail to write, especially as a note to Edwin was how it had begun[3]. When an attack did not land, Lawrence drew himself up properly, albeit with physical exhaustion.

Long brown and grey-streaked curls were tucked beneath the deep green hood of a cloak which reached his ankles. It shadowed his face which had seen better days. His broken nose and eye socket from a fortnight ago were no longer swollen, but the shadow of bruising remained across his face and it still troubled him. His brown eyes were sunken, dark shadows from extreme lack of sleep beneath. His gaunt body was on edge, and he wanted to be sick right there on the pavement - not that he had eaten anything for days.

Instead, the dementors had fed. They had heckled him without rest since he had drawn them away from the south-west. For a man with no friends, no bridges left to use, they were his only alliance and as his situation became more desperate, they had turned on him. He had collapsed the night before unable to walk any further, delirious and unaware of his exact location, willing himself to close his eyes and never open them again. To end his wretched, miserable existence. This wasn’t living. This wasn’t even existing. He was a shell, and the only thing left was whatever counted for his soul for there wasn’t a blithe thought left in him.

He had poised on high ledges, stood on platform edges, made plans. They’d found him. They were not far from him now.

His decision to be here, right now, was fuelled from the last scrap of Lawrence, curled tightly inside to hide from the dementors. His crushed, near voiceless conscience and brought him here, hand in hand with desperation. If he did not do this, tonight, he would be dead tomorrow. He couldn’t live another day with them at his heels. If one could ever call it living.

He had made a plan, and like this one, he was going to see it through, because there was nothing left in life to do.



Half a mile away, the Cambridge Chimes[4] began to peal, signalling the approaching hour.




At this cue, Lawrence drew himself up on grim conviction, inhaled as best he could, and stepped forward. His remaining hand in a grey fingerless glove reached for the door of the red telephone box, pulling it open. The welcoming light bathed the dark green coat in warm light, revealing streaks of dirt, threadbare patches and damage to the shoulders where it had protected him from thorns and branches that week. Lawrence barely breathed, seeking out the shiny silver telephone unit inside the kiosk. It hadn’t changed after all these years.






The door of telephone box clicked shut behind him as Westminster fell into silence between the chimes and the hour bell. London held her breath as Lawrence lifted his remaining hand and dialled:

1.	April 3rd Devon Dementor-Free!
2.	April 6th In Calm Endeavour
3.	July 7th The Scene of a Crime? - Lawrence sends the location of the Birmingham werewolf fight to Edwin afterwards in a moment of conscience, as Edwin is an old friend, and at the time Head of DMAC
4.	Big Ben, in the Clock Tower, is within audible distance