Lifers

It must have been quiet for him to hear the rattling. That’s what the noise first seemed to be: a sound like the clatter of dice in a plastic cup.
It was coming from the darkness at the far end of Back Half Moon Street. Preston pushed himself upright against a rusting roll-top bin and peered into the gloom. Now it was a stuttering chit-chit sound; something about it immediately wrong.
It made the space between Preston’s shoulder blades go cold, his back straighten and his stomach tighten. Preston realized his legs were struggling for strength. It was hard to see what might be down there – it was 2 a.m. and inkblack. Above him the outline of a fire escape. At his feet, a blown can skittered.