The screen flashes again.
Want to play?
My stomach tightens. I sip at the excellent whiskey. My fatigue is gone. My head is clear.
I’m ready.
Mitch?
Say goodbye?
I look towards the bedroom door: take in air.
No need to disturb her…
Then I kick myself back into self-honesty.
Don’t lie to yourself…
I don’t want to see any more of her tears.…
Knocking back the last of my whiskey, I tap my reply.
Where?
*****
It’s an old house, not too far from what’s left of Finchby’s old premises.
It rises above me: a gable-end property of a block of maybe a dozen tall, terraced townhouses; four forlorn storeys plus attic of brown-brick memorial to a lifestyle that’s passed on. No-one wants them now, certainly not here, in this area.
God knows there’s enough of these old places, here around t
