Traitor

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Stratton dropped a tea bag into a mug and filled it with boiling water from a kettle. He pulled up the sleeves of the tatty old rugby shirt he wore and scraped some diced carrots from a board into a crockpot of meat and other vegetables. As he added some of the water a sound outside caught his attention. He brushed a strand of dark hair from his face and looked through the window. A pheasant, flapping its wings to negotiate the tall hedgerow bordering the back of the garden, landed on the grass, which was coated in thick frost.

Stratton took a piece of bread and quietly unlocked the back door, opening it just enough to toss out the crust. It landed close to the bird which looked at it. The sudden chirp of a mobile phone in the kitchen spooked the pheasant into flight.

Stratton shrugged as he watched the bird crash over the hedge. ‘Sorry, mate. I tried,’ he muttered, closing the door. He picked up the phone from the breakfast table and pressed the receive button. ‘This is Stratton.’

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