As previously arranged, the Tourist meets Bruce outside the entrance to the Hog and Rose Two in the Waterfront, and they duly enter the smallish tavern. A few patrons are seated and chatting amongst each other. None are really too much interested in what the performer is doing in the corner with his guitar and microphone. The Tourist and Bruce each order a beer and raise their glasses to the LBM in acknowledgement of his labour of love. He smiles back at them whilst singing a morbid song about a life he knew a long time ago.

After the song is over, he makes his way across the floor and joins them. His sole two fans of the moment.

„Nice song“, remarks Bruce. „You wrote it?“

„I’d like to think I had a hand in it“, answers the LBM. „But then so would our dear infirmed Miss Erica. Well she could have been an inspiration … or a muse in some other songs that were written during … that dark period.“

„There is little love lost between you and her“, says The Tourist.

The LBM snaps his fingers and a waiter makes his way across the floor towards him. 

„Gregory, I want another cream sherry …  a large portion in a red wine glass if possible.“

„Absolutely, Sir“, answers the courteous waitron. „And do you gentleman need a re-fill?“ 

„Yes, they do“, interjects the LBM. „Put it on my tab. And I’ll post the bill to Miss Erica … the sacred old cow that she is.“

„There is little love lost between you and her“, proclaim The Tourist and Bruce in unison, smiling.

“Gentlemen” says the LBM. „This may come as a shock to you, but I believe that this elusive, Betty Davisson is nothing more than an apparition of sorts. Further to that she has come back to haunt and taunt some of us.“ The waiter returns and places the drinks in front of them. 

Surprised, The Tourist quips, „So you are suggesting that my night of passion was … a night of necrophilia?“ 

„No. She is not a dead body. She is but a soul. Capable of crossing over from the spiritual world to the physical at her own whim. Something akin to a wraith.“

The Tourist and Bruce steal a mirthful glance at each other. They believe that the LBM is indeed fast becoming delusional.

„You gentlemen think I am off my rocker? Well, I don’t blame you. But something happened in Chile back in 1973 when I was a very young man. There was this beautiful singer… Verde.“ He stops and swallows a long swig of his sherry. „A very jealous woman … arranged for her disappearance. And I believe that she has returned as a spiritual incarnation… to seek vengeance, and is currently masquerading under the persona of… Betty Davisson.“

The bemused Tourist puts down his glass and asks, „And who is, or rather was, this jealous woman?“

„Isn’t it obvious?“

„You … you’re suggesting that it is Erica?“ asks Bruce.

„Erica was there. Jealous as a snake of the sultry Verde of whom Jose was still smitten. Jose, the protest singer. The man I was in prison with. The man whose friends I betrayed by revealing their whereabouts to the jailors … You see, I was planted, if you like, to extract such information from the prisoners. But it was not me who betrayed Verde. That despicable title belongs to our dearest old Erica.“

„Does anyone else in this town have even the slightest conception of your bizarre theory, dear sir?” asks The Tourist.

The LBM snaps his fingers once more towards the waiter. „That ragged beggar … you remember him … ? the one with the sad smile? He is convinced that she is an enigma of sorts. But you can call him crazy.“

Bruce gets up and stretches. „When your set is over we should get some fresh air. Up on the mountain. I’ll take you paragliding. This story is beyond me. And I say that with respect.“

„Do you know of Sailor Malan? A hero of aerial battles in the Second World War?“ asks the LBM.

„I know of his legend“, says Bruce.

„He is a time traveller“, says the LBM. He can travel through time and space.“

„And can he lead us to Betty Davisson?“ suggests The Tourist sarcastically.

„Of course he can … and I shall not take offense to your sarcasm, sir. I too would be doubtful of someone with such preposterous notions as myself.“

„We can wait until your set is over“, says Bruce. „Then I will take you up to Signal Hill. Up there we can clear our heads.“

„To visit another ghost?“ suggests The Tourist.    

„To get some fresh air“, answers the LBM. ”One more song and then my set it over. Encore…  „My set is over. They pay such wonderful wages that I can hardly cover the bar tab. Now it is I who am being the sarcastic one.“ 

After signing off on his bar debt, the LBM motions for Bruce and The Tourist to follow him outside.  „Look“ he says pointing up towards Signal Hill. They watch as a lone paraglider takes off from the top of the hill and glides towards the shimmering ocean.

„Maybe it’s Sailor Malan“, quips The Tourist.

„Well let’s go catch him then“, says Bruce. „Follow me gentleman. This is my turf.“

The three men make their way from the Waterfront as the afternoon sun begins its gradual shift towards the west.