Sits in the straight-backed chair opposite the door in the wall, shotgun across his knees, glasses on the end of his nose, and rubs at an itch above his eye.
They will come by night when the building settles around the central stairwell and all the old ghosts have returned to their bones.
They will come by stealth and tiptoe, with torchlight playing across the graffiti, and shadows dancing over the cigarette butts and beer bottles They will come with the Lord in their right eye and the Devil in their left. They will be gentlemen about it of course, but force of arms will be with them and a terrible righteousness
He does not think he can keep them out and he is not sure he can take them with him. In fact he is not even sure he knows what he is doing. His heart is weak and his head is heavy and he can't see so good anymore. If only he had a dog. If only he had a radio and music, something old and smooth and sad. If only he had a smoke.
Midnight passes with the moon, and behind him the curtains stir and a paper bird takes wing. It is surely past time. He is thirsty and his bowels ache and his legs are cramping. How long does it take three dread men to climb some stairs. His fingers twitch and he hears a rat's sound. Death comes slowly.