In the time it takes Bertaland's body to sag back into it's open jointed, lolling state, that pressure in the air—that sense of a thing lingering so very, very near—slithers away too. And then the alley, turned dusky grey in the light that is at last beginning to fail about them, goes quiet and still; they are once more two men over a blood speckled patch of dust soon to be forced to face the logistics of hiding a corpse in a place relatively ill-suited to it.

Flint lets out heavy breath. He offers a hand down to John.

"We can take a skiff across the bay tonight," should go without saying. But maybe it's the preferable thing to give voice to in this moment. "Oasis sounds like another gambling hall."