Bill sat in his chair and turned the lie over and over in some far gone part of his brain.
A cat sat on his shoulder purring and purring in his ear.
They’d driven down a rutted track to find her. It had been winter time and the man who sold them the cat lived in a red brick cottage with a slate roof. There were lots of spaces where the slates were missing and the windows of the cottage were draped in cobwebs. The garden had very long grass and there were big cages made from two by two and chicken wire.
The man had a sizeable paunch that pressed against a red waistcoat with brass buttons.
'What's your name?' he said.
'Bill', said Bill.
'Bill!' the man said. 'Every Tom, Dick and Harry I know is called Bill'.