51
John Lucas ran his finger along the blade of the carving knife inside his jacket pocket, the baseball cap pulled down low over his face, as he stood outside the Prince Albert pub, the building next door to Mildenheath Police station.
He could feel the whisky running through him, making him breathe heavily. It hadn’t dulled the anger at all. Nothing ever would now. He’d been wronged too many times, and this time it was his turn to try and make things right. Because no-one else was going to bother.
He didn’t care what happened afterwards. They could bang him up for the rest of his life for all he cared. What use was it being out here, anyway? He’d been safer on the inside. He’d known who to trust and who not to trust, known there were people there employed to watch out for his safety.
