SAN FRANCISCO - APRIL 11:  A farmed Loch Duart...
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Haddock, cod, salmon and loads of other  fish that I didn’t remember the names of but it didn’t really matter if I remembered really. The point was that I had to live here now, above the bloody fishmongers and although I’d spent most of my life hating fish, the smell of it, the taste and the look and the texture of it, I had to find a way to cope now. After all, I would probably be here for years, maybe for ever, a horrible thought but not so horrible as going back. At least I was safe here and the hideousness of the fish was nothing compared to the hideousness of waking up in the middle of the night thinking I’d heard someone downstairs or being afraid to open the front door just in case it was someone coming to kill me.

Karen said I was being melodramatic, well, dear, you wouldn’t say that now would you, if you could say anything, you might be saying,  yes dear, I’m so sorry you’re right, I am scared, in fact more scared than you and can we go now, get away, like you suggested.

Didn’t get a chance though did she, poor cow. Borrowed my car, without asking, serves her right, obviously didn’t check it, not that she would have known how, or what to look for and then bingo, up in smoke.

Funny in a way but not really, she was harmless, if a little irritating. Didn’t deserve that did she, still, rather her than me frankly. It might sound harsh but who didn’t think like that, really, deep down, who didn’t want someone else to die rather then them.

Parents maybe, wouldn’t know, never been one or wanted to be one, all those snotty nosed little brats running around in the school near the old place was enough to put me off for life

Frankly what I want, what I really want, is to just be left alone. Not sure I would have chosen this dead end seaside resort in a flat smelling of fish day and night, but that’s why I left it to the experts. It might be a little bit unpleasant but frankly, not as unpleasant as getting your throat cut, like Greaves, or having your cock cut off and stuffed down your throat like Harrington.

No, in comparison a little whiffy fish seemed OK. Lately though, I’ve been feeling  a bit like I used to, back before I got involved in all this bullshit and had a normal life,  socialised a bit, had a laugh, spoke to people  without having to hide anything, well not too much anyway.

I fancied, yesterday when I woke up, I fancied a bit of a chin wag, with an old friend, someone like Graham Jenkins, good old Jenksie. Whatever happened to him? No idea, no idea about any of that lot. Once I joined the firm I left it all behind, they insisted and I was happy to, at first anyway, seemed totally worth it. The thrill of not being able to tell anyone. All a bit childish and like boys playing at war but so fucking what, that’s what I thought, so fucking what,  why not have a bit of a thrill.  If only I’d known.

Inspired by: http://www.writingforward.com/exercises/fiction-writing-exercises/fiction-writing-exercises-step-out-of-your-shoes

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