Soon the woman’s craving re-appear so I follow her outside like Jeff suggested and sit at the table beside her. I can see Jeff winking at me through the window. Struggling to get her lighter to work, the woman looks at me as if I might offer to help. Move, Becca, move.

‘Are you looking for a light?’ I say in a posh sounding voice, don’t know where that came from.

‘You got one?’ she says, watching as I rummage in my jeans pocket.

‘Hang on, I must have left it inside.’ Walking back into the bar, I rush over to Jeff.

‘Have you got a lighter?’

He does. I hurry back outside and hand it to the woman.

‘Thanks,’ she says.

Speak, Becca, speak. Ask her something, anything.

‘Are you from around here?’ I say.

She puffs on the cigarette a few times before taking it out of her mouth.

‘Why do you wanna know?’

‘I was just wondering about the place, it seems a nice place to live.’

‘It’s a shithole.’

‘Oh.’ What can I say to that?

‘Spent thirty-five years of my life serving beer to beggars in this shithole.’

I move my chair closer to her table.

‘So you must know everyone who lives here,’ I say, taking a sip from my glass.

‘I know most folk, all beggars and liars.’ Wow, this woman does not like her neighbors. Something hard has bitten her soul. ‘I have twelve guns,’ she adds, wriggling her shoulders, real proud.

‘Wow.’

‘Yep, twelve guns. Plan to use them all before I die.’

‘Oh,’ I say, craning my head to see if Jeff is watching. ‘Hope you’re not planning to use one on me,’ I chuckle, but she just glances at me and goes back to her cigarette.

‘Did you know the girl who died?’ I say.

‘Which girl?’ she says. ‘Everybody dies.’

‘The girl who died in Boston. The colonel’s wife, Katie Collins.’

‘The murdered girl.’ Clearing her throat of phlegm, she struggles to catch her next breath and says, ‘Not everyone gets murdered.’

I’m remembering her twelve guns and her plans to alter the statistics.

‘I knew her,’ she says.

‘You did?’ My heart jumps, my stomach joins it. I’m completely focused.

‘Sweet girl, I spoke to her once.’

‘Where did she live?’

‘Someplace down at Houston Street, I think. Lived with a bastard. I might use one of my guns on him.’

‘And where is Houston Street?’

‘Why’re you so concerned about this kid? She a friend of yours?’

‘No, I just…’

‘You the media?’

‘No, I’m not the media, I… I’m just interested.’

‘I hate the media, bastards. Tells the lies they do, tell the lies.’ She stands up from her chair to leave. I stand too.