NINE
He looked down at the street through the grimy window. The outside world carried on in its mundane fashion while he watched on with envy. People passed by, muffled against the chill wind, the odd motorcar purred past and even stray dogs roamed freely. He groaned softly as though suffering from some grinding abdominal pain. But the agony was in his mind rather than a physical ache. He was going crazy cooped up in the attic room like a b****y prisoner. Part of him wished that Marshall would find him and the whole business was over. In essence, he was living on borrowed time as it was. He was dead really. To die again – properly this time – might be for the best. It couldn’t be worse than hiding away indoors during the daylight hours, frightened of noises, shadows, men in black felt hat
