December by Phil Rickman PDF

By Phil Rickman

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I didn't know. I didn't know it was gonna be you, did I? I've explained that. ' so what you're saying -let me get this right - is that it'd've been OK if it was some other poor fuck. You wouldn't be agonizing ... ' you're sooooooo full of shit, Dave, you hated me, man. John's thin lips were slightly parted; a small puff of white smoke drifted from his mouth into the clouds. Dave lowered his face into his hands. If you die tonight, who has the last laugh? Far above the bungalow, a seagull keened.

Picture the scene. God's at a loose end one afternoon. Spots Liverpool out of the corner of an all-seeing eye and He thinks, Yeah, why not ... Or - what about this? - He notices one of His less successful creations strolling along Whitechapel towards the guitar shop and He thinks ... that's bloody Dave Reilly, let's see if he gets the message this time. And then He glances at His watch (one of those fancy ones tells you when its teatime in Paraguay), does a little countdown, points His finger and He says, out the corner of His mouth, 'OK ...

Go find him, huh? ' Moira turning back towards the Abbey, the bastard place looking so benign with the glimmering lights in its downstairs windows. At this point, the session drummer, Lee Gibson, joins them. He's carrying a long, black torch and grinning. ' 'I cocked it up,' Dave says to Moira. ' She doesn't want him talking about this in front of Lee. ' Shaking his head from side to side. 'You know that. ' 'Not really, Davey. ' Keeps rubbing his eyes as if he's expecting to lose his vision again.

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December by Phil Rickman

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