Sloane: I trust you, pop. Listen. Keep quiet.
It’s like this see. One day I leave the Home. Stroll along. Sky blue. Fresh air. They’d found me a likeable permanent situation. Canteen facilities. Fortnight’s paid holiday. Overtime? Time and a half after midnight. A staff dance each year. What more could one wish to devote one’s life to? I certainly loved that place. The air round Twickenham was like wine. Then one day I take a trip to the old man’s grave. Hic jacets in profusion. Ashes to Ashes. Alas the sleeting. The sun was declining. A few press-ups on a tomb belonging to a family name of Cavaneagh, and I left the graveyard. I thumbs a lift from a geyser who promises me a bed. Gives me a bath. And a meal. Very friendly. All you could wish he was, a photographer. He shows me one or two experimental studies. An experience for the retina and no mistake. He wanted to photo me. For certain interesting features I had that he wanted the exclusive right of preserving. You know how it is. I didn’t like to refuse. No harm in it I suppose. But then I got to thinking . . . . I knew a kid once called MacBride that happened to. Oh, yes . . . . so when I gets to think of this I decide I got to do something about it. And I gets up in the middle of the night looking for the film see. He has a lot of expensive equipment about in his studio see. Well it appears that he gets the wrong idea. Runs in. Gives a shout. And the long and the short of it is I loses my head which is a thing I never ought to a done with the worry of them photos an all. And I hits him. I hits him.
He must have had a weak heart. Something like that I should imagine. Definitely should have seen his doctor before that. I wasn’t to know was I? I’m not to blame.