A Harley Davidson croaked in the parking bay in front of the community hall. The bikey swaggered up to the community hall, gave a pointless two-knock on the door and stepped inside. Fake cork tile. He spat on it. I’ve never been a ‘fake anything’ sort of man. Especially with flowers. He picked up a bunch of fake daisys from a plastic vase near the cake stand and threw them to the floor. His metal-buckled boots pressed them in to the cork tiled floor. Or mushrooms, he added. Then and in a surprisingly quiet voice, he called, Joan?