SMOKE
I shoved a piece of peanut butter toast into my mouth and left to catch the tube. It was a greasy London morning. I had to interview the butcher. He had information on a suspect. The prison was brick built it smelt of pain and sickness. They took me to the meeting room. Bluestone had killed for money and then for pleasure. The firms didn’t want him anymore. He was too wild to be of any use. He knew the language of blood and butchery better than he knew English. He held himself as if he were free. The walls of the prison had no effect on him. He could not be broken. The guards feared him. They didn’t like it when he was out of his reinforced solitary cell. ...