Back.

Back, says he, and says himself there, and where were you?

Somewhere. Or nowhere. Or somewhere. Lost, bit, s’pose.

And alright?

Alright enough in myself, aye.

Hmm. Alright enough, so.

Five and three quarter hours later he’s stood in the hallway, barking and braying at his breath, singing then about this soldier that died, and the halo that hangs on your woman’s stairway yet.