On reflection, it might have been a better plan to have organised a taxi back this evening. This would usually be a last resort for Keith, who, as a student, preferred to spend what little cash he had on booze, but these conditions were pretty extreme by any standards. He could still try to flag one down, of course, but only after he’d drawn the money out for the weekend.

At least, one positive result of the downpour was the sluggish but steady return of sobriety. Keith’s head was getting the full, unrestricted brunt of it, his short straw-blond hair dripping wet even as it lay plastered to his skull. It was amazing what a reviving effect that could actually have on beer-laden thought processes. By the time he’d crossed Centenary Square, those familiar post-party urges to chuckle pointlessly at nothing, or sing out loud or kick at the occasional can had long departed. He now found himself walking steadily and in a reasonably straight line.

And at the same time, as he came back to his senses, he wondered if perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. His original intention had been to call at a cashpoint before they started hitting the pubs, or at least halfway through, when it wasn’t too late and when there were other people around. Keith wasn’t the sort of person who would normally expect to be robbed, but there was a particular story circulating at present that even he found unnerving.

He considered chucking it in and heading back to Edgbaston. But then another voice advised that there was a cashpoint not too far ahead, near the Town Hall, and if he turned around now when he was so close, he’d be an absolute idiot – not to mention a total wuss.

Keith puffed his chest and thrust out his jaw as he walked defiantly on. He didn’t play wing-forward for the university seconds for nothing. He was six feet tall, and though, at the tender age of twenty, not exactly solid muscle, he was on the way to getting there. He’d make a formidable opponent even for some loser like … What was it they were calling this bloke?

Oh yeah … ‘the Creep’.

Keith snorted with derision as he strutted determinedly past a row of silent shops, water pouring in cataracts from the canopies over their fronts. Even if the bastard showed up, it wasn’t as if Keith was totally on his own here. There were lights on in some of the flat windows overhead. He even fancied he could hear music. And if he could hear them, they could surely hear him if he cried out for help.

Not that he would be crying out, for all the reasons he’d just underlined to himself.

Of course, it wasn’t comforting that this guy – the Creep – supposedly came armed.