Throw Him Away and Get a New One

Tomorrow he would take action. He’d somehow get together enough money to buy a revolver and then – court order or no court order – he was going home to Acacia Avenue to take back what was his.

And if he couldn’t afford a gun, he’d use the axe in the garden shed. Or the club hammer. Or his bare hands...

Eventually the cider numbed his mind enough to allow him to fall asleep. When he woke up, the light was on and a man was pacing the floor.

“It’s a crock!” spat the man. “A total and utter crock!”

His suit was crumpled; his tie was at half mast. He had the look of someone who had seen terrible things.

“Do you mind?” said Angus, propping himself up on his elbows. His stomach churned from the effects of the cider. “I’m trying to sleep.”





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