i knew there was someone living in marthas house. i wasn't delivering any personal mail to the address.
two days after rescuing the cat, on a thursday, a day the bombs fell the least, i cut my index finger on the rusted lip of marthas letterbox. i wrapped it in a page from my receipt book and rode back to work. i received thirteen stitches and was stood down on a standard flat-rate. dave trimble , twenty one year-old student desperado and want to be big time ot earner, took my run and that afternoon was killed when he went under the tracks of an allied troop carrier. he had lost control of the bike when it slid on oil from a wrecked vehicle. at the funeral ray morrin called me a lucky bastard and i punched him. daves mother walked over and slapped me. her face was twisted in a pain i saw too often.
i called the cat dave even though i was unsure of its sex. it bit me once then settled in.