Giggling In The Attic

Larry McCulloch was a survivor, no doubt about it. Say what you like about him, (oh and they did) but the one thing you could never do was deny his ability to worm his way out of trouble. In his sixty-seven years, Larry had been shot, (twice) stabbed, (thrice) and beaten to a pulp, (too numerous to mention) but had always come out the other side smelling of roses, no matter what the bastards had thrown at him. He’d led a charmed life that was for sure, so how he’d come to find himself in this present company eluded him. Larry looked around at the three plain clothed officers he was sharing the car with as they drove through the rain and turned onto yet another dimly lit street. They were kids really, not one of them was over forty, and although he had only known them a matter of hours, he hated the lot of them already and certainly didn’t relish the fact that these three were his last line of defence against those who, most of whom he had once called friends, now wanted him very dead. Lewis, who Larry had already taken a particular dislike to, was in the front passenger seat fumbling with a hand drawn map. The man was thirty five at most, and looked like