Lucien Potts knew he was dead. It was the next bit he was rather foggy about. Death itself wasn’t a surprise – too much to drink, a narrow road and a firmly rooted beech combined to terminate the breathing part of his existence. It was while he was falling from the fourth branch that he became aware of someone -thing – next to him as he fell. The thing – let’s say ‘person’ because Lucien, in death as much as in life lacked many things – money, charisma, vocabulary – coughed in that waiterly way of wanting attention without any dramatic overreaction.
‘Sir? Mr. Lucien?’
Ver o post original 762 mais palavras