Instantly, he felt the savage wind, hurling rain as hard as grit against his face. Later today he’d be in Spain, in the sunshine, out of all this shit weather. He lowered his goggles over his eyes and the night turned bottle green. He climbed out, slowly and carefully, onto the narrow metal platform. All around him the wind screamed. He could see the ambient glow of Brighton’s street lighting, a vivid green haze. Steadying himself, he once again rehearsed in his mind the short journey ahead to the Grace house. Fourteen paces along the three-foot-wide metal fire escape, with a single handrail to the right for support. Then the dog-leg left, ducking to avoid the satellite dish. Eight more paces and he would be alongside the Grace house roof hatch. And then, if all went well, he would be in their loft. In their house. In their baby’s face. Right in it. Making it smile for the rest of its life!
