The small café was buzzing. Waiters hovered here and there, taking orders, sweeping plates off the tables, whilst customers chatted and the occasional bark of laughter scattered across the room.

The café owner clearly had the sense of spending a lot of money deliberately trying to make it look run-down. Each table was made from rough planks of wood all drilled together to make a picnic bench. Placed on top of the tables were chequered napkins and an array of sauces.

Around the room, idyllic pictures hung on the walls. Close-ups of flowers, horses galloping into the horizon, a butterfly perched on a stem. Beneath this picture, was a stack of crates painted blue and seated at one of the tables near them were a boy and an older woman.

The teenager had a shy look about him; his body hunched over the steaming mug on which he warmed his hands, and his dark eyes darted back and forth, surveying the room with a sense of uncertainty. The woman sitting opposite him was much older. Her face was filled with wrinkles and her skin sagged in places, but she sat erect, hands placed out in front of her, laced together. She observed the boy, eyes unblinking and hard. And then she began to speak, keeping a voice low in case anyone heard.

"Seven billion people," she said.

"Yeah, but—" started the boy.

"Seven. Billion. People. And you're worrying because we killed one man?"

"But—"

"Pipe down and drink that chocolate."

There was a pause as the boy obediently took the steaming mug in his hands and then another as he blew on it gently.

"Drink it, Howard," repeated the woman.

"Will do, ma, but it's hot."

"Why do you think it's called hot chocolate, then?" she shot back, eyes as sharp as daggers points.

Howard did not reply. Instead, he was concentrating on downing the drink without burning his tongue off. The last thing he wanted his grandmother to do was complain about the smell of cooked mouth. Which, he was sure, she would.

"Now," his grandmother continued. "Back to this topic again. One man down, three to go."

"You make it sound like we're going bowling," grumbled Howard.

"Might as well be," she replied lightly. Her fingers laced and unlaced. "But what we have to do is be silent. Stealthy. No one must find out anything."

Howard nodded into his mug, threw his head back, and tipped the last dregs down. He placed the mug back on the table gently, took the napkin from the middle and carefully wiped the chocolate from the corners of his mouth.

"Next destination," said the woman softly. "Tenningway House."

Her grandson nodded again, as though he understood. But there was an uncertainty in his eyes.

"Tenningway House," he repeated.

"Ten o'clock tonight," said the woman. "And we bring the shovel."