(SA) Killing Off Edgeway Road

This is the last one. The runny time. The windows in this place are endless. Well, now who's there? Oh, he's gone six. Nobody should be here at his time. He's not Mr. Wilson.

Hey, aren't there somebody else behind him there? What's there? He's got in his hand. It's a gun! He's got in a... I miss you! Can't car-and-do it! Hey! There is a real man. Nothing personal, you understand?

I'll keep an eye off the funeral. Let's dash down. Ta-da! In a small, badly lit room above a coffee shop in Soho, the man stared out of the open bay window into the street below.

Seven o'clock. And that sleazy corner of London was coming alive. The chattering voices of those in search of a good time in the beckoning calls of those whose business was pleasured. The man was dressed in a dark suit.

in a dark suit. Under a mop of black hair and bushy eyebrows were those deep set eyes, dark wells that absorbed all, and revealed nothing. Below them the misshapen nose and a moustache that concealed the cruel cynical mouth. A deep scar ran the full length of his pop-mart face curling up at the disfigured chin. He looked in from the window at the contents

of the room, a bed, a chair, a table with a phone. On the floor was a freight suitcase, the handle of which had held the tags of every major airline in existence. On the bed, open, and with its contents spilling out, was a large black attache case. His eyes focused upon the array of guns strewn across the quilt, his mind weighing up the pros and cons of each,