I never told anyone about the second time I watched a person die.
I was working at a bottle shop on Old Cleveland Road. The manager looked like a short, fat Gene Hackman. His name was Greg. He had the weary anger of a returned serviceman. Far as I could tell, the furthest he’d been was Phuket.
He always asked me things I had no way of knowing.
He said, ‘What the hell is wrong with young people these days?’
I said, ‘No idea, Greg.’