...Just one more photograph, Paul Lanagan thought, quickly moving out of the way as the huge chunk of meat was lowered down onto the gleaming metal spit. In his mid-twenties, Paul was a local historian and the ancient festival of Houghton Feast and ox roasting were his specialisms.
"Careful there," came a deep voice over the noisy engine of the crane. "Yer could get yerself killed."
Paul chuckled as he recognised the familiar grinning face. "You'd know all about that," he said to the departing lady.
He stepped to the side as the Rotary Club men busied themselves in wrapping the ox in layers and layers of shiny tin foil. The delicious smell of roasting ox would be soon drifting across Houghton and Paul clicked away for forty minutes with his camera, documenting the traditional event for future generations.
As was customary at Houghton Feast it was starting to chuck it down with rain and black clouds blotted out any trace of autumn sunshine. Paul quickly sheltered behind a huge lorry and packed away his precious Nikon camera. It might be dark but at least it won't get wet.
The sharp end of a well-chewed pencil entered his temple with such a speed that he was brain dead before the second one pierced his throat. He clutched out in a spasmodic fit, tearing clumps of blonde hair from his attacker's head.
Paul Lanagan was dead.
