August 1926

After Tommy's bullet had barely missed killing Alfie, he found himself washed in the tide of Margate, Cyril anxiously pacing around him, whining and howling for his master.

Now living in a seaside resort in Margate, he spends his time listening to any and all records he can get his hands on, looking through his binoculars in that peculiar way he does, and firing rounds out the French doors at passing ships and seagulls.

You'd often find him sitting and grumbling to himself, binoculars and revolver on the little side table, his worn and weathered Hebrew bible open on his lap, on the verge of sleep.

When he gave in, you'd tidy away his things, empty his pipe into the ashtray and gently tip his head back to rest on the back of the couch, otherwise he'd complain of the stiffness any other position would give.

One afternoon, the clouds had cleared and allowed some warm afternoon sun to shine on Alfie's sleeping face.

Keeping him nonethewiser, you curled up under his arm, pressing your cheek to his chest.

~

Alfie stirred after about an hour.

"What's this eh? Me little bird's come for a kip.." he murmured to himself, his one working eye peering at you through a barely parted eyelid.

"Good girl you are treacle," he whispered, placing a rough kiss to the top of your head, "my good girl."