Джеффри Арчер - It Can’t be October Already

“Not a hope,” said Pat. “Just before I was due to be let out, I would have been found with a bottle of Guinness in my cell. A misdemeanor for which the governor is obliged to automatically add a further three months to your sentence, and that would have taken me comfortably through to April.”

I laughed. “And is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?” I asked.

“I don’t think that far ahead,” admitted Pat. “Six months is quite enough to be going on with,” he added, as he climbed on to the top bunk and switched off the light.

“Goodnight, Pat,” I said, as I rested my head on the pillow.

“Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?” asked Pat, just as I was falling asleep.

“No, you haven’t,” I replied.

“Well, the foreman, a bloody Englishman, no offense intended—” I smiled — “had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder.”

“And do you?” I asked.

“I most certainly do. Joyce wrote Ulysses, and Goethe wrote Faust. ”

Patrick O’Flynn died of hypothermia on 23 November 2005, while sleeping under the arches on Victoria Embankment in central London.

His body was discovered by a young constable, just a hundred yards away from the Savoy Hotel.