Albert gave up trying to see through the fogged-up window, and moved back to the feeble warmth of the one-bar fire.
Frank, wrapped in a blanket, was slouched on a threadbare sofa. He was picking at his toenails and farting.
Albert couldn’t be so relaxed. He had a job to do.
He’d got Frank out of Dartmoor, and had to stand guard over him in this dingy flat and wait for orders.
They hadn’t come. Whatever the plan had been, it had failed.
While he was trapped here with this muscle-bound simpleton, powerful folk would be very busy. They’d be making sure that, whatever the outcome, they’d feel none of the pain. Frank would have it all to himself.
It was a shame. Albert was starting to get used to the poor bastard, even though he was as unpredictable as he was violent.
At least he was quiet now, slumped in his seat and staring across the room. Perhaps he knew that this was his condemned cell.
Albert was standing near enough to reach out and put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, but he went back to the window instead, and looked down at the passing cars. They were blurred by the misted glass.
Invisible to him, huddled-up people were rushing along the pavement, dodging the spray from gritty tyres. He’d soon be free to join them.