55
The long road through rural Hampshire was devoid of any other traffic, and John Wilkins’ mind began to wander. Increasingly it focused on the meal he had waiting for him when he got home, not to mention thoughts of a nice glass of cider, rather than on the road ahead of him, or on his surroundings.
He was snapped out of his reverie by a noise that dragged his attention back to the here and now, a noise he recognised all too well – a gunshot.
Though he was sure of what he had heard – he had heard enough gunshots during his time in the army to recognise one when the sound of it reached his ears – his brain reminded him that he was no longer in the military, no longer in Afghanistan or Iraq; no longer did every noise signal a threat to his life. Just to be sure, he reached down to turn
