Gentlemen and Players

who, when the mood takes him, has an uncanny recollection for some of the more extreme exploits of my distant youth.

Reminds me of the old joke about the pensioner convicted of murder.
“Thirty years, Your Honor,” he protests. “It’s too much! I’ll never manage it!” And the judge says: “Well, just do as many as you can

was feeling rather better by then—it’s funny how dealing with tedious business can still put you in a good mood—and after a bit of initial heavy breathing I delivered my poisonous message.

Revenge, I’ll admit, is a part of it. For Julian Pinchbeck, perhaps—for the whingeing, cringing child I was, hiding in the shadows and wishing desperately to be someone else.
But for myself? Nowadays I’m happy with who I am. I’m a solid citizen. I have a job—a job at which I have proved myself unexpectedly talented. I may still be the Invisible Man as far as St. Oswald’s is concerned, but I have refined my role far beyond that of mere impostor. For the first time I wonder if I could stay here longer.

And then I brought the boot lid down as hard as I could and heard that unspeakable—but nonetheless quite reassuringly familiar—crunch telling me that once again, I was a winner.

Come to think of it, I was probably doing the gene pool a favor.

Leon would have been proud of me, I knew; my twin problems of dispatch and disposal both sorted at a single blow.

a perfectionist. I like to have all the bases covered. Sometimes, however, it’s best to rely on pure instinct. Leon taught me that, you know, and I have to admit that some of the best moves I have ever made have been the unplanned ones; the impulsive strokes of genius.
So it was with Colin Knight; and it came to me in a sudden inspiration as I was passing the municipal park.

ess, in sheer unspoken malice, Knight is a natural.
A pity he has to go, really; but as my old dad might have said, you can’t make an omelet without killing people.

Give it five years, mate,” he said with mocking sincerity. “If they haven’t dropped by then, see me.”