It’s a typical English village, all duck-ponds, rose-clad cottages and cricket pitches.
But Nick has a gift for scything through respectable facades.
Nick has a nose for human frailties; he inhales the ghetto surrounding him.
The vicar, who has lost his faith, takes nightly refuge in the whisky bottle.
His daughter, the so-called village virgin, is lusting after the mayor, who’s been helping himself to the town tax-receipts to meet the blackmail demands of the local police constable.
The local schoolmaster… Hell’s teeth!
“Now here,” thinks old Nick, strolling down the street, “is a place I can do business.”
Raining heavily here in France, as tropical storm Henri blows itself out, with winds approaching 100kph forecast for today. Moored up at Gray in NE France, time to hunker down, check the ropes and plunder our limited broadband connection. 😦 Thanks to Rochelle, la capitaine of the Friday Fictioneers port for her continued selfless application to the activities of our dedicated crew of writers.