The winged elephant swoops down Deansgate towards the ship canal, its wings glowing neon orange, a feral roar rising and falling unevenly in volume. A black taxi drives the wrong way down a rain-moistened street. A menacing urchin child with a dozen fingers stands in front of a disused steampunk factory, holding an outsized Victoriana bat.
Now there’s a bowler, who’s actually a wicketkeeper, who may actually be Jos Buttler in batting gloves. There are three batters at the crease, one of them in white and the other two in red. Aiden Markram runs up and bowls sideways. There is no ball in his hand. “Red in the dark, blue in the sea,” a haunting voiceover sings. The sun is out. The floodlights are on.
