He long lanky-legged into the pub, wearing a pair of trousers too short and a coat too small which revealed hands so large that each could have cradled a newborn in their palm. The lifeless white of his face clashed with the darkness of his clothes as he settled his long body in the far corner of the dimly-lit pub and ordered a bowl of soup.
Then something must have chilled him. A thought perhaps.
So he took a black woollen hat out of his pocket and smoothed it onto his head with his spider fingers. He sat, very straight, with the palm of his hands on the table, waiting for his soup. When it arrived, he produced a small book, opened it and - with both hands holding it - he muttered words that he found inside it. When he had finished, he closed it and did the sign of the cross.
He was wearing red socks.
