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There was a faint whiff of wet nappy. Somewhere between chicken soup and boiled milk.
His own preferred exits were rapid and decisive. Others might want time to bury the hatchet with estranged children and tell their wives where the stopcock was. Personally, he wanted the lights to go out with no warning and the minimum attendant mess. Dying was bad enough without having to make it easier for everyone else.
It was not heart surgery, but neither was it weapons manufacture. In a modest way he had increased the happiness of a small part of the human population.
The five-minute walk to the station felt like crossing the Alps and when his bus arrived he was packed into a confined space with thirty unwashed people and shaken vigorously for twenty-five minutes.
