I wait for him to leave the house. To my surprise, only three days go by before the premises are vacated. Jonny struggles out of the door with several heavy-looking suitcases.
"Going anywhere nice?", I ask. "Spain? Italy? Swaffham?"
"Well," says Jonny, "Prague, actually. You know. Eastern Europe."
I wonder at the audacity of his pronouncement. He must know that I have him under surveillance. This vicious cabaret that we are performing is beginning to affect me, psychologically.
What is there in Prague? Guns. Prostitution. Gambling. Stag parties. Maybe JB is going to smuggle back an armed poker-playing lout dressed in a Borat bikini.
Unlikely, granted.
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