Two days later, Jim backs the wagon up Mrs Lovey's drive and drags the pipe over to the honey pot.
Arp.
Something isn't right. He's well beyond the zone of interference.
He shimmies the concrete cover to the side.
A conical police helmet bobs in the septic sludge. Jim's knees buckle.
'No tea for you today, young man. You know how I feel about tardiness.'
The pressure on his spine is almost tender, and just enough.
His lids spasm for the last time as he tips forward, honey-bound.
YOU ARE READING
The Honey Pot Man
Mystery / ThrillerJim's tics have been with him for as long as he can remember. And they tell him there's trouble ahead.
