Subject: Re[17]:

From: Lou Murray <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2006 23:24:02 -0700

June 9th — short illness. Halfway through the cigarette, the room filled with smoke, he had heard her opening the front door.

"Crazy bitch, isnt that right? If anyone in his previous life (for so he had come to think of it, without even realizing it) had suggested he could work at such a pace, Paul would have laughed. There was a queer interval of silence, and Paul was frightened by what he saw on her face, because what he saw was nothing; the black nothing of a crevasse folded into an alpine meadow, a blackness where no flowers grew and into which the drop might be long.
But it was like being dead, and suddenly he needed his medication because it wasnt just his legs that hurt.

Only the name of the unfortunate Miss Charlotte Evelyn-Hyde, late of Storping-on-Firkill, the village just to the west of Little Dunthorpe, was sufficient to bring a scream tearing from her. "The oogiest part, he thought.

He looked at the barbecue pot, expecting the pain of what he had done — what she had made him do — to return. The cop currently unfolding himself from behind the cruisers wheel was about forty, with shoulders seemingly as wide as a barnbeam.