Forty-sixAlong the outside passageway that led to the rear garden, Curtis strained with the body of the militiaman. He took a breath. At the far end, huge, black trees creaked and groaned in the breeze, their silhouettes against the night sky making them appear like demonic, corrupted figures. Curtis had never liked trees; they always made him feel uncomfortable. He knew this was an irrational thought, that living down in the sewers amongst the rats and the filth was infinitely worse, but there was something about them – the way they groaned, as if talking – that unnerved him. When he took up the body again and went to the base of the first tree to drop it to the ground, he looked up and shivered.
It was a grisly task, what he was about to do, and he knew it. He pulled out his knife, test
