It’s still the same rat’s-nest tangle of bling and junk. The bed is unmade and, although a double, looks to have been occupied only by one.
The rifle in my hands, I slip inside. Two doors - the first to the dressing room I saw on my first visit here. I set it ajar, just in case I need to slip out of sight quickly.
The second door, leading to the lounge beyond, stands closed.
Then, rifle in hand, I stand and listen…
Nothing.
Street traffic: check.
Cicadas: check.
Human activity… not a thing, not even the sound of the TV I thought might be playing.
The muzzle of the rifle hanging low, I inch my way to the lounge door, c*****g my ear.
Still nothing.
Slowly, cautiously, muzzle aimed outward, I turn the handle, peer through the crack…
Three seconds later, I lower the gun and step thr
