Cockermouth Drive is an unremarkable street, situated in a leafy suburb of middle England. Although no longer the home of impeccably stripped garden lawns, tea mornings with the parish council and staunch English values, the street has remained a quiet, consistent hamlet where nothing unusual went on, or at least nothing that wasn't brought to every resident's attention. Mr. Prendergast was very proud of this. He'd lived in the same house, on the same street, for the majority of his life and other than the odd British beach holiday, he never ventured far. His home was Cockermouth Drive and he kept care of it and its residents, day in and day out.
On this particular day he was sat at his worn writing bureau, cup of tea steaming, diary turned to that day's page ready to make his mid-morning report. He took the upkeep and protection of his street very seriously. If a new car was parked on the street, the registration was noted down. If a dustbin was not taken in at the end of the collection day, notes were delivered. If a child broke a window with a stray football, a mark was made against their name. Nothing happened without Mr. Prendergast seeing. This caused some annoyance and suspicion amongst the residents of Cockermouth Drive but on the whole it was accepted. After all, like the royal guards standing sentry at the palace, Mr. Prendergast had been keeping guard of the street for as long as anyone could remember.
Positioned at his post, a meter back from the first floor bedroom window, he had a commanding view of Cockermouth Drive taking in all of the house fronts. Scanning the street he started his report; 11.00am, street activity, nothing to report. Vehicle activity, all accounted for, no suspect vehicles. Resident activity, all employed residents exited the street between 7.30am and 8.45am. Remaining residents total: 13.
