IX of Swords

They called him the last escapee, but he was just another god in leather and black, running from the shadows and the song.
I was living in a garret in Battersea; it was a spring morning, and the light was like opals and pearls in the air.
I checked the news on the BBC website when I switched my computer on, and there was the story. It was worse than the day Diana died, they all said afterwards, half the golden girls and boys hauled out in black bags.
Alex never meant to make it out alive; all he wanted was another place, somewhere brighter and full of air. He picked a bad day to run. They hounded him, the men with guns and the freelance Fourth Estate. All he wanted was, well, never mind. They shot him down whatever the dream.