He dreamed that he had escaped from the Don Jail, and was rushing home to his apartment. But just as he slid his key into the lock, his landlord opened the door. "I'm sorry," the old man said, blocking his way. "But you can’t come in."
Boyle tried to shoulder his way by, but the landlord wouldn’t budge. "There’s nothing I can do," he insisted. "They hanged you. Can’t you see? Your lips are blue. Your skin is peeling. There’s an odour. I can’t rent an apartment to a dead man."
Boyle pleaded with him, begged him and threatened him, but the landlord led him out of the building and down the front steps. He took him out into the street and left him there, letting the door lock behind him as he returned up the stairs.
Boyle just stood there, defeated, and waited for the flies.