‘I always feel I’m going back in time on this bus. I got into a hell of fight in that pub. Summer 1963.’
The old man pointed out the window.
‘Blood everywhere. Ten stitches here.’ He pulled up his shirt sleeve.
‘Jesus.’ The young lad glanced at the ugly scar.
‘And we knocked that place over in about 1970.’ He gestured at a derelict factory.
‘You robbed that factory?’
‘Others?’ The boy’s voice rose in pitch, staring at his grandfather’s wistful face. ‘What about the police?’
‘They were fine, as long as they got a cut. Good times.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.