The cigar smoke stuck in my gullet. Son of a whore — that was what I’d just been called by that real son of a whore who’d been gross enough to spell out how he’d fucked my mother. He met a bad end. He had to wait a number of years, but Providence dealt him that card, and it couldn’t have turned out any differently. I never had any more news of my mother. Ages after, I went to the cemetery where her bones were rotting, the one next to the allotment where my brother was heading when the train engine sent his flesh and bone flying. I didn’t pray for her, because I couldn’t think of anything to say, and nothing struck the vocal chords of my emotions, either. I expect she’s still there, unless they’ve turned her into fertilizer.