TWENTY-ONE
Johnny sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around the coffee mug, staring down into the still steaming liquid. Behind him, Stanley busied himself tidying the cleaning things away, whilst his wife sat opposite, elbows on the tabletop, chin in upturned hands. “It must have been terrible for you, officer?”
Johnny nodded. He wore only his underwear; jacket, shirt and trousers tumbled around in the washing machine, the blood and brains rinsing away. He’d left the two guns in the car. He would need to remember them if things weren’t to become even more complicated.
He’d rolled up an hour before, parked down the street, and watched the uniformed police officers moving from house to house. When they got to Norman’s, they thumped on the door and waited. And waited. They spoke to
