Blankets nods, still with his expression of eternal sadness, and piles the necklaces on the table, then bends down to rummage in his bag. He thuds a series of small parcels on the table, wrapped in grey cloth and old newspaper. Oliver glances sideways at me, then turns away waving his arm up. The only person serving is a small girl with a round tray full of frosted beer bottles, down the other end where there are tables set out under spreading pepper trees . The music surges over us in a sudden mushroom of sound.
Blankets begins to unwrap the first of the parcels.
He nods at Oliver then me, his fingers busy with rubberbands and wrapping. No, she died. I can feel the beer glass cool under my fingertips. Blankets swallows, his hands suddenly still. I am sorry, truly sorry my friend.