Duffy leans against the sink. It creaks and squeals as he turns the rusty tap and releases the shitty brown water. He splashes it on his face.
‘The sad f**k had nothing to lose, I suppose,’ says Dragan, ‘apart from his balls.’ He snorts and lights up a large Havana cigar. ‘i***t accountant thinks he can rip me off.’
‘Well, he got away with it for long enough,’ says Duffy.
‘Did anyone see you?’ he says blowing a perfect trio of smoke rings. ‘Any spies? Any mercenary eyes?’
‘Around here? No,’ Duffy says. ‘No. There’s no one around here.’
‘Ha! So, you say!’
Dragan’s increasing paranoia is like finger down a blackboard to Duffy these days. He clenches his fists; digs his nails into his palms.
‘We’re in the middle of the f*****g countryside. On Christmas f*****g morning. Who’s going to s
