TWENTY-SEVEN
Brian Armstrong sat in an old but comfortable armchair in one of the rooms that the disused apartment had to offer. The stiff maroon coloured cloth had a stitched pattern, possibly very old, but probably art deco. He didn’t care; the straight back gave him lumbar support and the cushion was soft enough, giving a pleasant contrast. He sat alone, reading a book he had found amongst the many that lined a bookshelf to his right.
The room was small – it had probably been a child's bedroom or a study before the gangs had taken it over as a safe house. The whole apartment was sparsely furnished with a couple of beds and sofa beds in the rooms, trying to create sleeping quarters the best they could. One of the rooms had been made out into a sort of sitting room – or lounge – in whic
