Did he run somewhere?
The Anchor Bar has cardboard pinned behind a broken window. There are bin bags full of once worn sweatshop clothes outside the Red Cross Shop. Seagulls wrench filthy chips from shattered polystyrene. Their shit streaks the expensive cars that everyone drives but nobody owns.
Is he deid?
There is nothing else for the pensioners, sad young mums and unemployed oil workers to talk about in the car park of the Tesco that strangled the high street. In the Weatherspoon’s pub that’s putting the Anchor out of business. In the Bookies and the Pound shop. At the Crematorium or the Doctor’s Surgery.
What happened to Danny Singer?
I know. But they will never find out.