TEN
BELBROUGHTON
Hugh walked from the kitchen, checking on his two sons. They sat there quietly, munching on biscuits as a children’s program kept them mildly entertained. The man turned back to the kitchen as the kettle announced it had finished boiling. Shuffling across the quarry-tiled floor, Hugh prepared himself his fifth coffee of the day, noting that it was closing in on noon. A small television in the corner of the room projected itself silently across the kitchen. Hugh had turned the volume down as the story of abducted villagers continued as the main story of the day on the news channel. He sat heavily at the table, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. Where the hell you babe? he thought as he sipped at his milky drink. You can’t have gone far. It can’t be terrorists
