Still writing the sequel to Wicker Wood, I think, it's draft one, half completed.

 In drafts of novels, I tend to write paragraphs, or sections, quickly. Later I pad them out as the story requires. This will be much longer in Version Last.

In Georgie's mind the question had to be was he ever mad and believing he was his own granny, or was he just dressing up, to escape his sins. Did he believe he was now clean since Father Gaffney had pardoned him: in confession, in a confessional box, all good and catholic. But was the absolution even good now that the priest had give up his vocation and was away on the continent working in a Disco Bar, complete with lap dancers.

Strange world. Anyway his information had been coming from a reliable source. That was the key to him escaping – a reliable pal, a helper, someone in the know. Nursie, as he now called her, was supposed to be his warder, his prison guard. In the so-called enlightened practices of looking after the criminally insane, such names were not used. Attendant that's what they are called. So she attended to his needs and he attended to hers. A sexual relationship at his stage of life, who'd have believed it? With no shame or guilt or rages strong enough to kill as in the past. But none of those girls had welcomed him, like nursie did. Then one of her other charges had died and they put their plan into operation. They dressed the corpse, in his “Granny Clothes”. Moved her to his room and strung her up, as if she had hung herself. Then nursie raised the alarm, laid the red herring trail, while he hid in an empty room dressed in his General's clothes. While alone there he assumed the personality of an old fashioned military man, complete with west-Brit accent, mannerisms and phrases.

Maybe after all he had not been mad believing he was deranged in the personality of Duchess. Maybe he was just a damn good actor and performer.

The fly in the ointment revealed itself when Fanahan had arrived on the scene. That so called detective was now a shadow of what he had been and would never figure out that the lady who had died was not himself in his drag costume.

See, this Georgie was even starting to develop a sense of humour.

Then nursie from her spying position in the next room, through a peep-hole: necessary the authorities said for a patients' safety, saw Fanahan lift the dress. Dirty Bastard. Only a degenerate would think of checking for the sex of the corpse.

They scarpered then and headed for their safe house. One of nursies' inherited properties. A previous occupational vocation of nursing the terminally ill, had made nursie a nice little fortune and a property portfolio.