Seven years later, Geoffrey Tennant walks into the bar and puts a skull down on the counter.
He orders it a drink.
"Er," says Neil, harboring a sneaking suspicion, "that a prop skull?" The big play they're doing this year is Hamlet, after all. Or it was going to be, anyway.
From what he's heard, nobody knows what's up or down right now.
"What, this?" Tennant says. "Oh no. This, my friend," he says, grinning, "is the skull of Oliver Welles."
Neil takes a long look at him, looks at his face. "You're a bit cracked, aren't you," he says, and gets the man two drinks.
Or maybe he's getting Oliver Welles a drink, he'd come here for enough of them.
Tennant gets to talking about Oliver Welles. ("I drink here in his memory, the old bastard.
") Neil keeps the drinks coming, for symmetry's sake, and also because Tennant seems better able to hold his liquor than Oliver could.
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