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He’d first gone there with Jenny when she was a child … after he’d come back from Northern Ireland. A sign on the window had warned customers that the proprietor used the old imperial weights and measures. Pounds and ounces. A Union Jack had been drawn on the bottom as if it were the seal of Her Majesty. There’d been two counters inside, one for children, the other for adults. To the left, jars of sweets containing Liquorice Allsorts, sherbet lemons, wine gums and sticks of bright pink rock. To the right, carved pipes, pouches of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes and matches. In the middle, a kindly man with a wide smile, always wondering which way to go. Michael had smoked in those days. A pipe. To give age to his permanently young appearance. Jenny would drag him along the pavement, one step ahead, her mind on the large jars of many colours. Even in those days she’d held his hand very tight, as though fearful something bad might happen if she let go. They’d enter the shop, Jenny facing the tobacco, Michael facing the sweets. The kindly man, hair short, sleeves rolled up, all homely in his long brown apron, would hesitate, not knowing who’d speak first. He seemed to be teetering, his face alight with expectation.
    ‘A box of matches, please,’ Jenny would say.
    Followed by Michael: ‘And two ounces of jelly babies.’
    He’d expected crossfire … Jenny right to left, Michael left to right, but they’d tricked him. When he got used to the pattern, they’d swap it round, just to knock him off balance. Just when he was sure the child at the tobacco counter wanted matches for her father, she’d ask for bon bons, sending him the other way, like a goalkeeper wrong-footed in a penalty shoot-out.
    ‘Don’t let go, Daddy,’ she’d say, as they stepped into the street, failing to appreciate that she, now, was trapped by a choice between two directions: the security of her father’s touch or having a free hand to dip into the paper bag. Back then, the choices had been so much simpler. It hadn’t mattered if you got it wrong.
    The shop was still there. The kindly man was now a kindly old man. He stood in the doorway watching life go by. There were trestles on either side of the entrance holding crates of fruit and vegetables. The windows were clean, the frames painted white. Inside – Michael had only glanced while scouting from the other side of the road – there was only one counter. The tobacco side had gone. It was all sweets now … but still in those big jars. The shelves along the sides and the back were crammed with them. Jenny would have loved it.
    You have to be calm.
    Michael rounded the corner. The sea lay behind him, restive, advancing, withdrawing, endlessly rolling forward and sweeping back. Ahead were the lighthouse and the pub. Dwarfed and open for business stood Number Nine St George’s Green. The locals had bought their fruit and veg for lunch. The kids were now at school. The streets were empty. The old man had just stepped back inside, limping slightly, an empty crate between his hands. He was still wearing a brown apron.
    His eyes are full of surprise … you can see it, just before you kill him. It’s the look of a newborn … and you can’t hesitate. You turn out his light
.
    The gun chafed against Michael’s spine. The flush of sweat on his brow had dried in the cold morning air. His heart was beating hard, hitting out at the ribs, wanting to escape and pump life into another less tortured body. Michael crossed the road, looking right and left. The old man was bending down, placing the crate beside the wall. In seconds he’d stand upright, place a hand on his back and slowly turn around – Michael had watched him, he knew the man’s routine – and Michael had to get there at the moment he turned. Moving with determination – not speed or nervous haste but with a cold purpose – he stepped onto the pavement, one hand slipping through his open overcoat and reaching behind his