Hannon was the last man to die on the last day of the battle. It was most unfortunate for he stuck his head out just as the last shell arrived and there only remained a small red stain on the concrete on which he had been standing.
As he had literally been scattered to the four winds death bypassed his soul and his ghost was all that remained and found itself stuck inside what was left of the building they had all been sheltering in.
So, his life was indeed bleak, no prospect of change as far as he could tell and when the storms blew in, he felt the cold as never before, he hated being wet as he didn’t think ghosts felt anything or got themselves wet. His non-life was full of revelations he told himself as another visitor stubbed his cigarette out on the window ledge where he was sitting.
He had grown to dislike the hordes of visitors who came each year during the summer and crowded in pushing him up against the walls and leaving their offensive body odour lingering until the north-easterly breeze sprang up and pushed it out of his space.
So as the summer approached, the warm weather and the flies, the tourists, their smells and their rubbish, he wondered if in fact, he was in hell.