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Cass was on his way to see Irene that afternoon. She was getting tired of Frankie.


‘He’s just a typical biker, Cass, whereas you’ve got style. You’re sensitive. Them articles and things you write are great.’


Irene liked to read the stories, articles, and jokes Cass scribbled in a hardcover notebook which he used as a diary. 


He looked up at the window of the flat. The flower pot was there, and when the flower pot was on the sill, that meant Frankie was out. 


But today it was on the right, not in the centre, where she usually put it.


Cass decided to forget Irene for now and keep walking.

He turned at the corner to look back, and the curtain twitched. 


Then he saw the orange and black motorcycle tucked under an archway near the car park across from the flats.



Cass’s stomach dropped into his trainers.


Irene must have put the geraniums on the window sill and got herself ready for a ‘tea ceremony’ as they called it, when Frankie came home unannounced. Obviously, she couldn’t take the flower pot off the window sill, that would give the game away. So she must have just slid it to one side.


‘I never liked your sort, Slocum.’


There stood Griz, Frankie’s shadow.


‘You never liked my sort?’ said Cass. ‘And yet here I am, so full of admiration for your many accomplishments.’


‘I saw that look on your face just now when you were gazing up at Frankie’s window. We’ll see what expression Irene has got on hers when you come walking in.’ 


He took Cass’s arm and they began plodding towards the doorway that Cass knew so well.


This was a dodgy situation, but Cass knew he must face up at one time or another to whatever Frankie felt like dealing out to someone he discovered fishing in his pond.

Along with his stomach, all Cass’s strength had gone into his trainers.


Griz pressed the buzzer and Frankie opened the door.

Irene groaned when she saw Cass. 


Frankie had a black hardcover notebook in his hand.


‘We’ve been looking at some interesting readin’ material that was under the cushion here. Seems as if we’ve got the next William Shakespeare amongst us, Griz.’


The night before, Cass had been showing Irene some pieces he’d been working on, including some erotic stuff about their adventures, and he had forgotten to pick the diary up when he left.


Cass turned to the door. Griz was in the way. 

Griz pushed the bolt to and turned back with a smile. 

He made as if to punch Cass in the gut with his left, then let loose a right hook that seemed to Cass as if it came up into his jaw from nowhere.

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