‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. The manager twisted his moustache. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. I hope that James will not be long with that whisky and Apollinaris. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. ‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. Then she moved towards the door.
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