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It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er.
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