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No One Is Innocent
Wayne Robinson got out of his Mini Cooper, locked up the car and, with Sisyphean resignation, slowly trudged up the hill. He shivered and pulled his long black overcoat close to him. His short breaths appeared in front of him like spectres. The moonlight oozed across the city’s dank cobblestones like quicksilver, creeping between the cracks, and crawling into the gutters. As he got closer to Marjorie’s Bar, he took off his black woollen hat. The cold night air bit at his shaven head. He carefully pushed open the bar’s large oak door. The room was suffocating in red velvet and leather. Chandeliers hung from a mirrored ceiling, but there were no other customers. Just the way he liked it, these days. His brother Kevin had texted him to say that he was going to be late, but Wayne didn’t mind
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