Uxbridge Returns

One evening, an unexpected visitor came to Quentin’s office. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man, who looked as if he had stolen his suit from a rather random set of clotheslines.

“I’m sorry,” said Quentin, rising, “but I am no longer taking appointments today. If you speak to my secretary, she will tell you when…”

The man sat down and smiled in a manner which awakened all of Quentin’s newly-developing political instincts.

“Hullo, Quentin,” said the man, and Quentin suddenly had a deep, spinal memory of blood. Someone from the War…

“I’m sure we’ve met,” he said, “but you really must telephone for an appointment…”

The man’s smile widened, and he leaned forward. “Grenades.”

Quentin’s heart seemed to widen in his chest. “Pardon me?”

“Grenades,” re ...