‘What exactly are you doing in there?’ said Linda.
‘Opening a bottle.’
I closed the album Xavier Doyle had decided he didn’t need, put it in the cupboard with the dud French frying pan that had a hot spot, opened a bottle of Seven Hills.
‘I’m not finished with you,’ said Linda.
‘And nor am I complete.’
I took the bottle and went next door.
‘You’ll tell me,’ she said, athlete’s legs on the arm of the sofa, bare. She opened my old dressing gown, revealing more flesh.
‘I’ve taken an oath,’ I said. ‘You must respect that.’
‘Put that down and come here.’
‘It’s late. I run in the mornings.’
‘Come here, sunshine.’
All bad things come to an end. Almost. Now all I had to do was get justice for Enzio and the Meaker’s gang. I put this out of my mind for the moment. A long moment, but not long enough.