“The apartment had been locked since he left England. Dumping his case on the parquet floor of the tiny hallway he stood still for a moment, letting the place envelop him. There’d been moments when he’d feared he would never stand here again. He bent down to pick up the weeks of bills and junk mail splayed across the doormat, turned to close the front door then clicked on the overhead lamp to boost the pale daylight spilling from the living room. On the walls of the hall hung a few old square-ri...gger prints unearthed years ago in a Plymouth junk shop, together with a silent bracket clock that had belonged to his father. It displayed the hour at which its spring had unwound several days ago. The mental mauling he’d received at the debrief had left him bruised, as had the fresh prodding he’d just undergone at the hands of an MI6 doctor. Instead of lifting from him, his anger at what the Iraqis had done to him in Baghdad clung like varnish. The doctor had told him he should find someone to talk to, in order to get it out of his system.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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