So Deano was relieved to see a train station ahead of him. He looked up at the sign, squinting to force the words to stop vibrating, and saw where he was – Hockley, which was a village a few stops from Southend-on-Sea. He vaguely remembered getting on a train a few hours ago, because that’s what he had to do now, just so he could get a drink. In Southend it was becoming more and more difficult to find a pub or bar that would let him in; they all knew his face and refused to serve him, so he was forced to travel out of town.

He had no idea what the time was; all he knew was that it was late and he’d been on the piss all day, and he just wanted to get home and sleep. Deano prayed the trains were still running, but if they weren’t he’d find a bench to curl up on till morning. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Yeah, drink would be the death of him. Now his tears of frustration had dried in the chill of the night, he kind of knew he was on the escalator to hell. One day he’d drop dead of liver failure, or a heart attack, or more likely he’d pick a fight with some guy who was bigger than him. Quicker, stronger – more sober.

All these years later, he was still trying to live with the guilt of what he’d done. If he didn’t do something about it, the knowledge would eat away at him like a cancer.

Sometimes, Deano wished those others had called the police on him. He’d be paying the price. In prison right now, lying on his bunk after lights out listening to the wails and night terrors of the other cons, three years into a twenty-year stretch. But a life banged up had to be better than what he had right now, which was a living hell. Because she was the first thing he thought about when he woke up every morning and the last thing on his mind before he drifted into a sleep filled with nightmares.

And Deano’s drinking was getting worse. He was getting obliterated every night in an attempt to blot out what had happened…

What he did.

Sure, he had a temper when he was sober, but if he hadn’t been drinking he’d never have done any of the stupid things he had on his conscience. It was the booze that made him attack that random guy in the street all those years ago, it was the drink that made his ex call the police on him – and it was what finally made him a murderer.

Deep down, he understood that he picked fights with strangers in pubs because he had a death wish. He knew that one day he could be felled by a single, sickening punch, he may not even see it coming – and then it would all be over. He was sick of himself, he was tired of being Andrew Dean.