That night before our final victorious skirmish, I detected his mood change, his uncertainty.
Next day, when we’d won, he simply disappeared, upped sticks and left.
After leading us to victory, he didn’t stick around to share the euphoria, celebrate the cause or be part of the reconstruction.
He’d known how to tear down the structure, puncture the complacency, expose the corruption, root out the rot.
But he didn’t, he told me later, in a seedy Parisienne pavement café, know what to put in its place.
And the problem was – neither did we.
Only we didn’t know it at the time.
Thanks to Rochelle for her continued leadership of Friday Fictioneers. Hopefully there will never be a need to put anything in its place.