The cop made a grab. For what, Connor wasn’t quite sure. He seemed to be going for Connor’s legs at first, changing direction when he saw a kitchen knife under the blackened remains of the Kelvinator double-door fridge-freezer Francina – the bitch – had insisted on buying during her first and only domestic goddess cooking phase.
Connor kicked the helpful police officer on the side of the head as he turned and sprinted back towards the door to the cellar. Said door clicked shut behind him two seconds before the gas grenades whooshed into the lounge, bringing their flash-bang friends along for the ride.
Down the rabbit hole. Thinking about a masked woman in tight black clothes. Curiouser and curiouser. He wasn’t used to people sneaking onto his property in the middle of the night. Not anymore. Not since the bad old days, before lockdown. The secret days. The violent days. The days he had walked away from, swearing that he would never go back. Before he changed his name. His face. His fingerprints, even.
The rickety wooden cupboard at the far end of the cellar swung open without a squeak and Connor pushed through the shirts and jackets he’d bought at a charity shop to reach the tunnel that ran from his house under the garden wall to the neighbour’s garage.
He’d been bored that month.
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