'There be them tunnels all over this town. Get lost like a blind man for weeks if you don't know 'em. ...like the back of me hand I do, swear by the Lord.' His large bulbous brown eyes opened wider as if asserting knowledge and wisdom. As the ale loosened their tongues, Robbie started talking about the large consignment of French brandy, destined for nobility's tables, that only they had. Wilf tried to kick his blabbering friend, only the pain from his gout-riddled foot made him yelp like a small puppy. It was due up from the coast in a few nights. The manager's eyes widened even further. Wilf briefly saw Jack's face again and shuddered. He broke Robbie's bragging and focused on old boggle-eye. 'Just supposing we do a deal.' There was a silence and the men hunched into a tight circle. Robbie's breath and rotting teeth ensured the men re-took their own space as the manager nearly brought up his breakfast. 'Ten per cent of the profits to you,' Wilf whispered. 'No questions asked mind, and we stash the gear in these tunnels you be telling us about.' With spit and a firm handshake, which brought the bile almost to the manager's throat, they agreed to meet at half past nine that night in the deep dark cellars of the Dorset Arms.. next »