The Funeral
We just managed it, me standing in the pitch dark facing huge lights below the giant golden statue of Tony’s ancestor. A microphone blared out my words to the crowd of reporters there. “No one will harm you. Return to your homes if you love your lives,” I said. “And stand by your Family in our hour of need.”
The papers loved it.
Someone had managed a photo of me standing out in the front garden bereft, and it appeared on a tabloid with the words OUR MOTHER IN HER GRIEF.
But most of the tabloids talked about me taking over, and it wasn’t all good. One put it:
A POT RAG TO LEAD US?
Another put it more bluntly.
ANTHONY SPADROS: DEAD, OR GELDED?
I had that particular establishment found and burnt, including every copy, before Tony might see them.
But Mr. Blackberry had wor
