Next to him, a dark doorway with a large finely-crafted wooden door - his parents' cubicula, their bedroom. He stood leaning against the smooth wall f...r several long minutes, waiting. His bronze-coloured body rippled whenever he shook with fear, his short black hair flattened against his head with grease. His mind wandered over what was to be done this evening, and the promised reward at the end. He worried about the slaves and servants in the house, and even though they had been taken care of,. The old town was almost a stereotype of provincial France and the people, unlike Parisians, were friendly and warm. Their French had improved markedly and whilst they would not be discussing Camus or Sartre in their mother tongue, it was passable. The weather was edging slowly towards autumn but even in early September, it was on par with a rare warm July day back in England. Jack looked around, the local shops were closing for a few hours, and the sightseers were all fat and fed and beginning. More

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