He had thinning red hair underneath his bowler, that was pushed backward on his head. His face that looked like a rotting mackerel was miserable, benaeth his empty grey eyes were thick black rings.
He carried a briefcase overflowing with pink curling sheets of paper.
Stupidly because I was holding it in my hand; I told him I had a gun, but he did not pause. Something gripped me and I felt an irresistible compulsion to shoot but I could not. He stank like a sewer..
“Please don’t shoot”, he asked in flat tones that suggested he would not much mind if I did.
I asked him, what in God’s name did he want? He told me we had an agreement, I didn’t know anything about an agreement but I foud myself saying, nothing was agreed until all the details were made clear, or that’s what his colleague had told me.
He smiled slightly and stared like an idiot then spoke, he did not speak clearly, he had a strange accent, while he was speaking a lorry thundered past, followed by a fire engine, a plane was flying over, so were a flock of geese, someone nearby was mowing their grass. “Do you understand" he asked when he had finished, following the strange dream logic I said that I did.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked suddenly after a pause. I nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, our business in England is over, but sooner you than me!” He turned on his heels and left.
Then I dimly remember being a tea-trolley being pushed along a long corridor, then pushed through a door marked “Editor”. Then I was a bundle of paper being picked up off the trolley and to the editor, then I became the editor reading the sheet on top of the paper. The words rose up before my eyes and read themselves aloud.”