Suffering the Consequences
MIKE Sloane was still awake when the clock in the lounge of his flat struck 2am.
He’d lain in bed since 11pm, watching the light of the sign across the road blinking incessantly against the wall, suffusing his bedroom in a bright red glow, like blood.
He imagined tiny rivulets running down the wallpaper and forming pools on the carpet. He turned onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillow, but his mind dwelt on his violent plan.
A few hours ago he’d taken the hand-grenade from its hiding place in the garage and packed it carefully in a cotton-wool-lined cardboard box. He’d pierced the lid and looped strong wrapping cord through the eye of the firing pin.
Then he’d taped down the lid and enclosed the box in three layers of tough brown paper. The loose end of the cord was passed through a
