Forty-TwoWhitburn on Sea, immediately afterwards
Was it an accident, a trick gone wrong? Or was it murder? Either way, the mess was on his doorstep, stinking to high heaven.
CHARLIE STAGGERS OUT THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR, his bottle of Jack Daniels clutched tightly in his hand and makes his way around the rear of the theatre, down then a narrow piss and vomit stinking side alley and then across the Promenade and down onto the beach. He is not noticed by the police pulling up the front of the theatre, or if he is noticed, he is just dismissed as another holidaymaker drunk. He leans against the rough, damp, seaweed smelling sea wall, trying to get his head together, but his brain seems to be coagulating, his thoughts as slow as a snail in treacle. Selene is dead, and I have killed her! Selene
