With nostrils flared, Jake pounded his fist on the table. Luckily, he was back home for work commitments and alone, because he was spoiling for a fight. Liffi had gone out shopping and so was saved from the snapping and sarcasm and other irrational reactions provoked by his old and inconsequential adversary, Bill Backhouse. The tabloid journalist had succeeded once more in triggering Jake’s wrath, which—this time, at least—wouldn’t be directed at an innocent bystander.
Jake snatched up the newspaper and looked over the headlines again—DESECRATION OF ALL THAT’S HOLY.
’He wrung the newspaper as if it were a wet towel, only stopping when the muscles in his forearms ached. At that point, he flung it to the carpet and stamped on it, pretending it was the head of the hack journalist. Still tre
