It never really occurred to the Home Office that a spy would live long enough to retire!
April 1952, Richard Burns had spent his entire life looking over his shoulder, now he couldn't; the onset of osteoarthritis denied him that ability. Wasting away his last remaining years in a shabby bed-sitting room overlooking a funeral parlour’s back yard, he decided enough was enough and bit down on his suicide pill. It turned out to be an aspirin.
A chance meeting with Dr. Paul Stoneman, the ex-Secret Service Medical Officer, led him to the Twilight Home for Retired Gentlemen. Here he expected to die of boredom watching people disintegrate before him. He couldn't have been more wrong.
The home operated on a shoe-string, the future here was measured in days, weeks at best. Richard’s appearance rather ironically brought new life to his fellow guests.
April 1952, Richard Burns had spent his entire life looking over his shoulder, now he couldn't; the onset of osteoarthritis denied him that ability. Wasting away his last remaining years in a shabby bed-sitting room overlooking a funeral parlour’s back yard, he decided enough was enough and bit down on his suicide pill. It turned out to be an aspirin.
A chance meeting with Dr. Paul Stoneman, the ex-Secret Service Medical Officer, led him to the Twilight Home for Retired Gentlemen. Here he expected to die of boredom watching people disintegrate before him. He couldn't have been more wrong.
The home operated on a shoe-string, the future here was measured in days, weeks at best. Richard’s appearance rather ironically brought new life to his fellow guests.
