Richardson lurched forwards, peering into what was left of the lounge. It was covered in blood and bits of dark-red meat.
He put one hand against the wall and threw up in the snow.
It wasn’t meant to be like this: he was supposed to go in first. Flick on the lights. . .
No one else was meant to get hurt. Just him. Blown to pieces instead of lingering on, getting sicker and sicker. Watching his body slowly kill itself. IT WAS MEANT TO BE HIM!
He sank down against the wall.
It should’ve been him.
A cheerful blast of music came from his pocket. He dragged out his mobile phone: Sandra. Richardson switched it off without taking the call, covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
He should be dead now ? quick and painless ? and Sandra would get his death in service benefits, and his pension. A big chunk of money to look after her and little Emma. To say sorry. For everything.
Now all she’d get was the ?3,000 Dillon Black had paid him for the warning about this morning’s raid.
Life was so unfair.