All I could smell was my shoes, worn from years of wear and smelling like that was the case. I’d never really noticed the smell before but now, here in the wardrobe, scrunched up into a tight ball, I could smell and hear more than I think I ever could before.

I heard the scuffle. I heard the shouts. I heard the gunfire and the screams and the commands. And then I heard nothing but empty, oppressing silence.

I inched the wardrobe open. What time was it? It was dark when I had been shoved in there by my father and told not to come out until he said so, and now the sun was high in the sky.

I already knew protocol. I was not to make a noise until I could see my parents. Anyone could still be hiding in the shadows.

There they were, spreadeagled on the floor, blood already congealing. My father had his eyes wide open, staring off into nothing. I took his cold, stiff hand in mine, stretched across to hold my mother’s and sunk to my knees. I took one deep breath but it caught in my throat and I wept until my eyes were sore from the tears.

I watched him enjoying his coffee with his paper sitting unread on the small round table. Double espresso and the Daily Chronicle. The same every day when he was in the country. 8am. Always the same.

I knew he worked for MI6 as a field agent, but what exactly he got up to in those missions was beyond me. All I could think about as he took a sip of his coffee was what I had seen on the CCTV in my childhood home. His face, and two others. Murdering my parents.

I sat back against the counter drying my hands. It wouldn’t be long.

He undid his tie. Wiped his forehead. I could his trying to steady his breathing. And then he collapsed, taking chair and table it’s him, spilling coffee over his neighbour.

As others rushed to him, I dialled 999 from the shop’s landline as I picked off the second of three names on the list in my head.

Harry Graves. Tick.

Jack Bones. Tick.

Tina Ray