Jacob looked out across the forecourt of the filling station, trying not to be bored. He was searching for anything even remotely out of the ordinary to take his interest for even a moment. He was sick to death of midnight to eight shifts. Keeping the door locked for security purposes meant that he never got to talk to any of the tiny number of customers. They did not tend to like being locked out either.

The person filling up a motorbike on pump five was annoying him. They had not taken their helmet off despite the signs. Through the drizzle and the bad sodium light he couldn’t see whether or not the car parked at three was even planning to take on fuel. The driver was still inside after five minutes – what was that about? He glanced back down at the till sheet that he was getting ready for the shift change, but when he looked up again there was a shotgun pointed at his head through the glass he knew to be less than shot resistant, despite the brave stickers claiming that it was. Of course it was the biker.