Solomon takes the pub with him when he leaves. The walls fading around him like smoke. The arrogant lurch of Nelbottom’s spire popping back into existence, sudden as a teenager’s erection. The persistent babble of chatter becoming the soft coo of doves and the distant screech of gulls. Between Leek and Kitty, Margo’s prone figure hugs the shit-pebbled paving stones. Shrunken somehow. Curled in on herself like a foetus. Reduced by whatever pain she endured to a shadow of herself, at least for...
Published on November 02, 2012 13:36