Mr Juniper lived alone at the end of Cotton Lane. The sprawling branches of an untamed Oak meant it always looked dark in there, even in summer; summer was the only time we ever went inside. He ran the athletics club, the papers said he was a state champion in his day.
We always used to change in the room at the back. Dust covered every surface. Above the blocked fireplace he had one of those big, ugly moose heads – it was a dump, but he was a good coach.
Mr Juniper now lives in the Morndale Penitentiary. I never saw the eyes move, but the jury were sure.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.