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David Patten


It hadn’t rained in almost three weeks.  It was an anthem for tabloid news outlets: The Drought of 1985.  Now, with the late July afternoon capping another sweltering day, the London sky had slowly transformed into a renaissance fresco of menacingclouds, rolling and merging in a mass of coal and obsidian.Swift silver threads tore scars into the heavens, adding theater to the reckoning about to be wrought on the parched land. Work done for the day, Oliver stood in the foyer of the shipping insurance firm where he was an underwriter.  The large arch windows were all but opaque, rainwater driving down the glass in thuds.  A reasonable crowd had gathered by the windows and revolving doors, nobody willing to venture into what would be that evening’s headline.  Oliver looked at his watch.  If Finley were too delayed, they’d miss their train. The door made a rotation depositing Finley before…