At dawn the following day, the sky above Wigan was still a deep, unbroken grey. The crescent moon had all but vanished from the western sky, leaving the slate rooftops and cobbled lanes of the old market town in near darkness. A handful of stars, not yet swallowed by the creeping morning light, still pricked the sky with their cold, faint glow. It was that quiet, suspended moment between night and day when the world seems to hold its breath. The town was only just beginning to stir, its most familiar shapes slowly coming into view… the spire of All Saints' Church, the solid bulk of the Millgate warehouses, and the dark thread of the River Douglas winding southwards through the valley below.
