Frankie McCafferty

Willie smirked.

Mrs. *** peeled a thin serial killer's smile.

He had a wild look in his eyes, Mr. Alexander had.

And I thought he looked a bit peaky myself and he wouldn't be what you might call a peaky man.

I shouted hello across the street and he didn't reply, didn't even salute me.

I thought that was a bit unusual and with him looking peaky, I thought I'd better ask.

Not that it's anybody's business, I just thought I should ask if he'd got a shock or something.

Willie poke her eyes, Mrs. ***, across the counter.

Slowly, reluctantly, she folds.

There's only the two of us now and Frank's appetite wouldn't be great.

Diverticulitis, you know.

Willie screwed up his face in the appropriate response and filled half a bag of round steak mince.

When the Gestapo leaves, he tries Cortland's mobile.

It rings beside the cash register.

Let down the shutter and come out here.

Willie does as he is told.

Cortland is standing to attention.

Rounding the bottom of the town and coming up the street slowly, solemnly, a hearse.

Toss McGuire, tyre repairman, fireman, singer, undertaker, effects a serious, weightful tone behind the steering wheel.

His hands are white-knuckled in the ten-to-two position.