Tracey adds:

And that was when she realised that she had knocked on the wrong secret, midget-sized door with a bronze knocker in that corner of the alley behind her restaurant.

...

No response.

She pressed her ear against the door in the hope of hearing at least something coming from within the hidden room. Nothing. hrmm this new development does put a spanner in the works. She knew that once she left, she could never come back to this place. Slowly and resembling a whisper, she chanted the secret code. Finally, a muffled sound. The door slowly opened and she was able to enter the inner circle of the clown sanctuary.

Tracey adds:

She slipped out the backdoor and chucked her apron into the trashcan. The rats squealed and scattered. She walked briskly towards the end of the dark alleyway. She glanced furtively over her shoulder and disappeared into the night as she made her way towards the darkest corner. Lighting a match, she got down on her knees. In front of her was a small door, one that would barely reach her hips if she were standing. She picked up the brass knocker between her thumb and index finger and thumped it three times (I say thump, but it was more of a ting - the sound a kitten's bell would make should said kitten fart).

...

Before the ambulance took the gentlemen out on a stretcher (probably the most undignified way to leave a restaurant) Henriette was able to hide the note in your apron. This was definitely not something that should fall in the wrong hands; especially the police or the church.

Henriette could only imagine the torture this patron must have gone through. This was clearly part of a suicide pact. There was no doubt about it. But the fact that she recognised the handwriting gave her goosebumps.

She needed to leave the restaurant pronto. She needed to check that everything was in order. She needed a stiff drink.

Tracey adds:

His blank look struck her heart cold. "Sir... Sir..." she said while nudging, and then shaking, his shoulder. His head slumped forward. She gasped.

After having discretely checked his pulse and called an ambulance, she noticed the piece of paper in his hand. The lavender scent radiated from it like a fart from a fat man.

"The Time has come."

Her hand started shaking as she realised she had seen that handwriting before.

...

As Pierre was about to pay for his highly caffeinated drink he noticed a small piece of paper lodged in between the lining of his wallet and his blazer. Intrigued he slowly opened this fragile, lavender scented morsel.

'The Time has come'.

Now Pierre was a firm believer in the bizarre, outrageous and extra-terrestrial and even with this history, the message didn't make any sense to him. Could this be his colleagues playing a trick on him? Or the old gentleman he sat next to on the Metro trying to pass along a message? Or could it be some alien being talking to him through this piece of paper? Pierre hit a wall.

His blank stare must have caught the attention of the waitress (and for all the wrong reasons, now he could definitely not ask her for her number. He must be looking like a crazed man). Nevertheless, the waitress came prancing to him with a panic stricken look in her eyes and a glass of tap water in her hand.

Tracey adds:

A bell tinged as the cafe's door was pushed open. Marie glanced up into the ornate mirror behind the counter and took a last, comforting drag on her cigarette before stamping it out in the ashtray.* She stood up, chucked cash onto the table and made her way through the packed cafe towards the door where a man, who was not horizontally challenged, was hassling a waitress for a good table. As she brushed passed him, her hand deftly slipped into his coat pocket...

*With the current legislation regarding smoking, this scenario would be highly improbable. But, hey, who cares?