He imagined eyes watching him.

Through the scarred blind he looked about

the concrete yard, saw nothing different.

The exposed front door was the only

way out, down the hall, past other lonely


lodgers' rooms.  He chewed his uncooked

meal, swallowed each dry mouthful, reviewed

the plan, convinced nerve was held by

sticking to routine.  He rinsed the plate

rehearsing in his mind.  He would hate


to slip up.  He switched off the heat, checked

the time, opened the door, stared both

ways along the dead street without

turning his head.  He knew all the parked

cars.  At the corner phone a dog barked


a forlorn cry from a base animal.

Its echo raked those mean alleys like

a sinner's prayer, a treacherous lie.

Then the unseen car that would be found

burned, the gun, window down, that awful sound. 



Ian C. Smith 'Police informer's last rites'