Bag of Weasels. Chapter 12

So it was off to the South and the crumbly slums and the bad-name districts and depots, eating the finest from the skips of giants. It was an easy zigzag route.
When forced, we flitted across open territory like foxes on night manoeuvres, clocking how clean and neat the streets were: the houses had been colour-coordinated; pink grey pink grey all the way. Cars parked in even spaces. It was Toytown.
We reached our next portal, pushed aside a broken fence panel and slipped into forgotten warrens of alleyways threading between back gardens, sheds and garages. Just us and the cats and the foxes.
It wasn't far to go, but we eventually ran out of track and emerged onto a sunlit stark highway.
I knew before I saw - the streets were watched, but soon enough I saw them; hiding in roadworks, portakabins and little grey vans; taking measurements, surveying the streets. Men in Grey; Authority Grey. I wheeled up the highway as clockwork as I could, playing the part of being part of it all. Southwark Bridge was near near near.