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He died in pain, that’s what it looked like, clawed hands and a screwed up face. The autopsy said the hernia killed him, a twist in the bowel stopping things getting through. She said it was dried blood looked like coffee but it was his own shit he brought up.
If I hadn’t found him she would have and as it was she cried all day. I dreamed about it the night before like I dreamed a plane flying into the flats the tenth of September.
We made a notice about his death said when the funeral was. We asked to put it up in shops and pubs and the bookies near where he lived.
Some people didn’t want to hear what had happened and someone came round to see how he was, was upset when we told her. She’d known him forty years she said. ‘He was a lovely man,’ she said. Other people said that too.
The woman stood between the parked cars however, said, ‘Fuck off,’ to the man leaning on his bike. ‘Fuck off and die,’ as she walked away towards us. He rode the opposite direction to her and never looked back.