Thirty-oneBy the time Françoise reached the pub, the rain pounded down, soaking him to the skin. He burst inside, flapping arms and steaming breath, shaking himself like a wet dog. The few customers sheltering inside c****d eyebrows, scowled, wondered who this stranger was disturbing their sanctum. The barman, leaning across the counter, sighed loudly and stood up straight. “Can I help you?”
Françoise, shaking himself again, strode across the room, smiling. “A drink. Whisky.”
The barman did not look convinced and did not move. Françoise took the hint and snapped a silver coin on the counter top. Satisfied, the barman poured the drink and pushed it towards Françoise, who took it and downed it in one. He ordered a beer, watched it being poured and licked his lips in anticipation. With the
