Stuart was a painter. He wasn’t an artist. He painted people’s bedrooms. He was living in a derelict house down by the cemetery. It was rent free. He had gained entry by kicking the door in. He’d fixed the place up. He got a good deal on a padlock from the Georgian who sold him fags down the market, and hooked up a cable to the streetlight. The only problem was running water. He had to fill buckets from the standpipe in the cemetery. That was a bit of a chore. Embarrassing, too, when there was a funeral on.
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