Things started going downhill at exactly ten past eight the next morning. I'd been up for about twenty minutes and was in the kitchen making myself some toast for breakfast when the landline rang. It was Danny, which was a bit of a surprise. I hadn't expected to hear from him today. He sounded agitated.

'Dennis, what the fuck's going on?'

'What the fuck's going on, what?'

'Have you not seen the news this morning?'

I experienced the first stirrings of fear in my gut. 'No. No, I haven't. What's the problem?'

'The targets, that's the problem.'

'What do you mean?'

'They weren't who you said they were, Dennis. Just switch the TV on and you'll find out.'

I paused for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts. This wasn't what I wanted to hear. The most important thing, though, was not to say too much over the phone. 'All right, listen. Sit tight; don't worry about anything. I'll check things out and call you back later.'

'This is bad, Dennis. Very bad.'

'I'll call you back later, OK? Just stay calm and carry on as normal.'

I rang off and immediately looked around for my cigarettes. I needed to think things through, to try to locate what the fuck had gone wrong.

When I'd found them, I lit one, went through to the sitting room and flicked on the TV. I didn't hang about, I went straight to the news channel, but they were already on to something else. So I flicked on Ceefax, unable to suppress the feeling of dread at what I was going to see. I knew it was going to be bad; it was just a case of how bad.