Not a runner.

By William Jaggs

I may not be a runner, but I still have this place. I don't think the cameras have seen me yet. The buildings glint in the sunlight as wind strokes my hair, the ground is far below. The lights in the Shard blink in the distance and I can't help but feel struck by the elegance of our city. Standing up here I can see everyone, dwarfed by the beauty that surrounds them. Not for the first time I feel empty.

A small bird circles the rooftop I am standing on. Like me, it's been here for a while. It seems to be showing off, enjoying this rare bit of human attention.

I can't explain this feeling. I know the cameras are watching, but I am not afraid. It's like I've walked into somebody else's life. The city, for all its grace, is empty. You used to be able to hear traffic and noise, music and laugher. Now, nothing. It's all so white and clear. The air is fresh and the sky vast, but all hope has gone.

On this roof I hear sirens in the distance. I know there is a runner who's been in trouble. Something about the mayor, I think. The sounds fade as the fight gets further away. I see the blue sky go deeper. The bird leaves me and heads towards the noise. What must it be like to be one of them? To feel your heart and your lungs, the pounding of your wings. I'll never know.

On some days I see runners from the ground. They exist high above us, like spirits. You can usually only see them for a second, a blur of colour against the sky, darting amongst the buildings. Far beneath them, I smile.