distance.

It is the saddest funeral he has ever seen. Not because he particularly cared for either corpse, though given the circumstances they died he half expected one of the coffins to shuffle off by itself. The cold distant witch who had shaped the young man, the distant man content to let his destiny run over him like a Challenger tank...the perfect combination to produce the creature staring at him through a wall of lacquer.

He stared into those eyes and even frozen in time as they were they looked right through him. Sydney swayed a bit. The pints were catching up to him and he was glad he'd taxi'd here. He considers the photo, feeling a desperate urge to urinate on it. But he was in enough trouble as it was. He stuffed his hands into his pocket and turned to leave, running directly into the bulldog man, the other Sydney. Sydney bounces right off of him and falls to the ground, realizing quite well he's lying on top of a grave with the face of Jake peering at him on the one side and a ruthless psychopath on the other.

'I hear you've made inquires,' hisses the bulldog man.
'Inquiries? What inq-'
Before he can finish the man has lifted him into the air like a teddy bear and flung him against a tree. Something cracks and he doubts it's the tree. Now Sydney is right in his face.
'You should stop, if you know what's good for you. Never think of my godson, never once, not even for a second, or you will find yourself with a bag over your head one minute and the next in some arsefuck of a country where I'll make sure everyone knows all about you.'
Sydney Thomson tries to open his mouth in protest but instead of words he throws up all over himself.
'You're pathetic,' says the man. He tosses a cheap bottle of gin at Sydney Thomson's balls so hard that he doubles over in pain. 'I'm watching ya, and if you so much as think of trying to find him, there is no government or person on this planet ta save ya. Go get drunk and fall into a pond, for the good of everyone, for fuck's sake.'
And with a parting kick, of course right in the bollocks again, the bulldog man is gone.

In his younger days his mind might have worked here, a-ha, a protector, how can I use that to my advantage, some sort of desire stirring in him, but now all he feels is terror and sickness and he quickly seizes the bottle to shut it down.

It takes several gulps before it occurs to his soggy brain that the bottle was already opened when he got it. His hands are shaking and he lights a bent cigarette to stop them, but of course, it chooses that moment to start pouring an icy rain.