Here Comes Charlie M

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The third turning would mean he would be going back the way he had come. He took it as a test and when they kept in step Charlie Muffin knew they were following.

The fear belched up, sour in the back of his throat, like the brandy sickness every morning.

‘Oh, Christ,’ he said, desperately.

So it was to be disguised as a backstreet brawl. Scuffling, grunting men, fighting expertly. Back against a slimy wall. No escape. Clawing for the knife-hand, stomach bunched and tight against the first searing burst of pain. No sound. Not words, anyway. Only in the end, perhaps. Before they fled. Traitor, they’d say. So he would know they’d got him. At last.

The road was narrow, hardly more than an alley, leading back towards the Sacré Cœur he could see outlined blackly on top of the Montmartre hill. High, anonymous buildings either side. No people. And dark. Jesus, it was dark.

He’d actually made it easy for them. Careless again. Like Edith kept saying.

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