A Month to Kill
A Month to Kill annie cartwright stories

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A Month to Kill

Sam heard the faint whizzing of a Catherine wheel as he walked the damp route back to his flat.

He heard the excited cry of a group of kids that quickly faded to disappointment as the firework fizzled out into the rain.

He hoped internally none of them would try to light it again, but he was fairly certain the explosive was half hand-made anyway, loosely packed cardboard and gunpowder,

not much cop on a twenty-first century firework anyhow.

The amber glow of nearby lamp posts drew angular lines in the rain, shining up against the dull brown brick of buildings and the scuffed pavement beneath his boots.

It was cold, his hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and his eyes were on the ground shielded from the drizzle.

He'd left the party early. It was barely eleven, but he'd had enough of the ridiculously enthusiastic celebrations currently going on in CID. He was glad for the onset of 1974.

For some reason he felt like it would truly cement himself in his new surroundings and he could finally keep a grip on things,

but even he wasn't so excited as the excessively loud and obnoxious crew down at the station. Annie had hung around briefly, but even she'd left once the first fight began.

Why on earth the mid twentieth century man was so obsessed with violence Sam would never truly understand. He shook his head to clear those thoughts.

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