What Dies Inside

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The city was asleep. Most of the city, anyway. Standing by the window, Gerry Durkan scratched the two-day-old stubble on his chin and looked down at the traffic speeding along the Great West Road. Breathing in, he exhaled slowly and listened to his heartbeat, calm and steady. He smiled; it was the heartbeat of a man in control of his own destiny. He yawned as a succession of taxis sped past on the dual carriageway below. Where were people driving to at this time of night? To the airport? He gazed towards the orange horizon in the west. Maybe I should have left the country, Durkan mused. Caught some sun in Spain for a few weeks. Got pissed up in Alicante and fucked a succession of hairdressers on holiday from Newcastle or Liverpool. That sounded like a plan.

You should have thought of that earlier, he told himself. Now it was too late to run. Sticking it out in England would be tricky. Even with the protection he would get, Durkan knew that he would have to keep his wits about him.

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