His head was still in a mess, and everything hurt. If he was going out, he needed to change his clothes. What had he seen in the bedside table upstairs? He went back up and yanked open the drawer. Yes. Clippers. They would do.

Thirty minutes later, a clean-shaven white man with a fresh crew cut and grey beanie walked out of the front door of the semi-detached house in Abbey Wood. His eyes traced the lines on the pavement and the feet of the few passers-by as he made his way down the quiet avenues into Heron Hill.

Don’t look up, don’t be seen. Don’t look up, don’t be seen. He walked in time with the mantra. The words were a dam that kept the memories back and let him focus on what was happening now.

‘Watch it, mate. Look where you’re going.’ The voice was indignant. Fletcher glanced up. He’d walked in front of a man in a suit and overcoat, forcing him to step into the gutter. The man glared angrily at him. Fletcher mewed a weak ‘sorry’ at him, then scurried on. The man stopped and stared, before shaking his head and continuing on his way.

Don’t look up, don’t be seen. Don’t look up, don’t be seen.

He turned left into another tree-lined street, then right. Ahead he could hear the engines and splashing of tyres through the puddles from yesterday’s rain in the high street.

He knew there was a garage with a cashpoint close to the Indian takeaway. He reached the high street and kept close to the shops and offices, his collar up against his neck and his beanie pulled down.

The four minutes to the garage were the longest of Fletcher’s life. His thoughts were racing back to yesterday. Eight dead, they’d said on the news. They fucking deserved it. It wasn’t killing people. It was clearing out vermin. He was a hero and others would follow him.

At the ATM, he fumbled for his bank card in his back pocket. A woman appeared, standing too close behind him. He stepped back a little, forcing her to move out of the way. He should have been paid the day before – maybe they’d held it back. But no, his account had had £478.90. What was his limit? £300 a day or £500? He sensed the woman’s impatience behind him. He tapped in £470, stuffing the notes into his coat pocket.

Five minutes later, he was back at the house, breathing heavily and with blood thumping through his splitting head. Had he been seen? Fuck knows. But he decided there and then to lay low for a day or two. Then he could move. That gave him some time to plan his next move. Pete kept his computer in the spare bedroom, and Fletcher knew the password from their post-pub sessions playing games until the early hours. He fired up the machine and started to search the web.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London