On a cold dark night, the car park is empty. The only movement is the rubbish that blows across the front of the shop.

The old man who buys a loaf of bread doesn’t see them. Neither does the woman who pulls up in a Range Rover. An old woman ties her dog to a post, and only her little Yorkie can see them. They play with it, and when she comes back with her milk, she admonishes the dog as it whines and strains on its lead.  

But they are there. They are there night after night, but you won’t see them. These lost souls hang outside the Co-op and sit on the railings and talk to each other.

They are angry, sad, and have regrets, but at least they have each other. And they joke, fancy one another, and never grow old.

These are the lost children. The dead. The people who lost their young lives to knives, guns, drugs, and horrific violence. They think they are too young to move on. Instead, they cling to the fragments of their short lives and hope that they will be returned to the living. It will never happen.

One by one, they will grow tired, and when they do, they are at their most vulnerable. That bright light will be too hard to ignore, and they will walk across that lonely car park and disappear forever. And then one night, they will all be gone