CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURLaroche was given four years and nine months and seemed unmoved by the sentence. “This is me home, ’ere,” he gestured around him, taking in the bed, the cell, the view of the hospital wing. “’S where I live. ’S where me mates are; got me little ickle job in the library. Board and lodging, no rent to pay. Who needs the outside? All that trouble? All them rellies? Nah.” He resumed filling a carrier bag with his belongings. “Right,” he said. “Got the kanga to give me five. Sit down.”
Michael sat abruptly on the chair that was thrust at him.
“Don’t move and this won’t hurt,” said Laroche from behind him.
“What–?”
There was a rustle of plastic bag then a click and a buzzing sound that Michael realized too late was an electric razor.
“Don’t move.”
“What the–?” The first
