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As great darkened clouds pushed onwards, the sky began its final retreat. It raced ever backwards rushing towards a horizon that beckoned nearer. The sun throw out its last golden rays, as the bombardment of the sodden earth began in earnest. The vibrate green of the moist grass had become darkened. The shallow clear pools grew ever deeper into dark and mysterious oblivion. Beneath this heavy sky an elegant, cultured man became distraught and irate.

He sat with a small leather bag dressed in a tailored suit on a bench. He was in a state of inactivity. He seemed not to care for the weather, and his eyes were glazed in a melancholic trance. In-front of him lay a meandering road. A black cab beckoned in the distance. The man placed out his hand. The cab stopped.

"Where to Sir?" The driver asked.

The man seemed not to acknowledge the driver. He stood up, opened the door of the cab and entered. Then he spoke.

"To the Airport please." Said the man.

"Very well Sir," replied the driver, adding "I normally wouldn't take you from St James', but I'll not likely be getting another fare in this weather!"

The man simply nodded. The driver noted his coldness and lack of emotion. He knew the type of man he was.

"Probably a city banker or some such," The driver thought, "and not dressed in a cheap suit either..."

The journey proceeded in stilled silence. The man held his gaze at a slight angle, negating the probability of making eye contact. As the cab neared the airport, the man opened his jacket and retrieved his wallet from its inner pocket.

"How much do I owe you?" He asked.

"46 pounds, please Sir." The driver replied.

He handed him a crisp fifty pound note. The driver reached for change, and turned to pass it to the man. He had already left.



"I would like to purchase a ticket to France please."

"Where in France would you like to go?" Asked the lady behind the airline desk.

"I would like to go to Nice."

"Very well," said the woman, "a flight is going out in a hour, do you have your passport please."

"Yes, here it is." The man pulled it out of his jacket and passed it to the lady.

She opened it to the last page and examined the photograph of the man. She saw a very handsome, elegant face in the picture. She noted his face was the kind that wouldn't wither and fade like others. Instead, she saw he would age gracefully and gain a cultured compassion look that would soften his years. She looked back at the man. The photograph and reality were different. She felt a cold empty void radiate from the him. She printed the ticket.

"I've booked you on flight 4843 to Nice," she continued, "boarding gate 7a in 55 minutes, enjoy your trip Mr Faulds."



Mr Faulds stood up from his seat. The plane had landed without much drama. The pilot had told him it was 1100 and 24 degrees. He made his way through the border control and straight through the airport. He took the escalator down to the lobby and followed the sign to the taxis. He hailed one and entered placing his small leather bag on beside him.

"Where are you going to." The driver asked in French.

"Take me North, up into the mountains," he replied in French, "I'll tell you when to stop."

The driver began his journey.



The cab made its way ever upward. The roads narrowed and began to meander. After an hour and a half, Mr Faulds noticed a small village perched on the hillside. He asked the driver to take him there. The cab slowly made its way up, climbing steeper and steeper towards the spire of the Provencal village church. As they entered the village, the ancient stone houses gave way to a square. A small fountain acted as a roundabout. The driver stopped half way around it. Mr Faulds paid him, and left the cab.

The village had a cafe in it. It was an old stone building with clay tiles complete with rustic clientèle. Mr Faulds entered the cafe, and walked to the counter. A mature man with a weathered, sun drenched face turned to him.

"Bonjour Monsieur," he began, "how can I help you."

"I would like to rent a house in the village," Mr Faulds said, "do you know anyone that has a place to rent."

"One minute." The man shouted over to the men sitting outside, "Marcus! Come over here."

A very thin man, dressed in mud soaked clothes came towards them. He was smoking a hand rolled cigarette, and was also sun soaked. He could have been young or old, and appeared to be very weathered.

"What is it Gerard?" He asked the barman.

"This man wants to rent a house," he said "and I know your looking to rent your mother's old place."

"Well," the thin man took a breath "as a matter of fact I am." He turned to look at Mr Faulds. "Its 500 a week." He said.

Mr Faulds said that would be fine.