My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. You have never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger, and no relief to be obtained. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner.
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