Jack Vettriano The Runaways

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There was a figure outlined against the afterglow of the sunset. Teppic paused alongside a particularly repulsive gargoyle to consider his options.
Fairly solid classroom rumour said that if he inhumed his examiner before the test, that was an automatic pass. He slipped a Number Three throwing knife from its thigh sheath and hefted it thoughtfully. Of course, any attempt, on the gargoyle, and hastily pulled himself together. What is the sensible course of action at this point?
A party of revellers staggered through a pool of light in the street far below.
Teppic sheathed the knife and stood up.
'Sir,' he said, 'I am here.'
A dry voice by his ear said, rather indistinctly, 'Very well.'any overt move which missed would attract immediate failure and loss of privileges*. (* Breathing, for a start.) The silhouette was absolutely still. Teppic's eyes swivelled to the maze of chimneys, gargoyles, ventilator shafts, bridges and ladders that made up the rooftop scenery of the city. Right, he thought. That's some sort of dummy. I'm supposed to attack it and that means he's watching me from somewhere else. Will I be able to spot him? No. On the other hand, maybe I'm meant to think it's a dummy. Unless he's thought of that as well . . . He found himself drumming his fingers