Rupert drove that day as he had every day that week: along a road that looked the same each day, towards a place he had not been in ten years.

The small town he grew up in was a long way from the big city where he lived, which was the city’s best feature, he thought. It made him feel relaxed to live in a place where no one knew him, or what he’d done. A small town like the one he was now returning to was no place to live if you had done what Rupert had done.

He returned there now not by choice. If it were up to him he would never go back there.

But small town folks have long memories, and to hell with prisons – they have their own form of justice. So one of them had come looking for him. That one had, unfortunately for Rupert, succeeded. He had never wanted to return home, but a gun to your head, held by a person you have wronged, is pretty strong motivation.

And so, Rupert drove that day as he had every day that week: towards the town where he was born. Towards the town where he would surely die.