He tried to stretch. His back was pushed tight against the wall, his covered head snagged between two coat hooks. Every other breath brought with it the stench of foot odour and moth bombs.
He’d been in the flat for three hours, the last two of which had been in the wardrobe. Preparation was important. The woman was predictable, she would return after work, the husband less so. His behaviour was erratic of late. He’d been spending more time at the bar than at work.
He stretched once more, savouring being alone, going over the plan again and again until it was so embedded in his mind that it was almost a memory.
The woman arrived on time. His pulse didn’t alter as he listened to her move around the room, the strange noises she made, thinking she was alone.
Eventually she left the room. Realising he’d been holding his breath, he let it out in a rush, his lungs filling with the trapped, musty air of his hiding cell.
It was another two hours before the husband arrived. He heard the front door click open, the heavy steps as the husband walked into the living room, the muted voices
