I had come to St Malo for inspiration, a fugitive from my past, starting a new life as an artist.
Standing on the causeway between St Malo and the Grand Beh I was startled by my telephone. The message was unequivocal.
“Tonight you die!
I will have the rope ready.”
As if hit by a poleaxe I fell to the cobblestones where I flailed about for a moment and then got to my feet. What could I have done to deserve this? I glanced at the phone…private number…untraceable. When you leave behind another life there are always loose ends…
There was that dry-cleaner who swore I owed him for that shirt…or perhaps the waiter who I forgot to tip and spat in my minestrone?…
Petrified, I hurried to my art class. “Safety in numbers” whispered my heart.
Phillipe would know what to do. So artistic, but alas, his creative skills also applied to his spelling.
As I approached his studio I saw on the notice-board in lurid letters…
“Let’s Tie Die! fabricks for the fashionisters.”