David closed the door and slid the deadbolt, tossing his keys on the hall stand. He crossed the small parlor to the sideboard, and as he reached for a tumbler and the bottle of Jamesons, he was startled by a voice from the corner.
"I'd prefer you didn't do that," a deep, tired sound from the direction of his overstuffed armchair.
David's hand shook, gripping the glass tightly as he turned to where the man sat hidden in the shadows. "Who the bloody hell are you, and what are you doing in my flat?"
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you wouldn't have let me in if I'd asked." The figure produced a cigarette from a jacket pocket, and tearing the ignitor open drew deeply before exhaling slowly into the room. "I'm in collections David, and I'm afraid you're in possession of something that's no longer yours to keep."
"Jesus, are you here about the television? I'm only a few days past, and if your lot kept better shop hours, I'd have been able to pay it last week when I was in the city. Here, you can