Ragged Alice

by Gareth L. Powell

Terraced streets barnacled the bracken-topped hills. Shabby cafés and run-down guesthouses adorned the seafront, their windows flecked with the dried salt spray from decades of winter squalls.

Outside, a small crowd had gathered to nose. Old women with eyes made of flint and coal, pub regulars with roll-ups dangling from faces hacked out of boiled ham, a gaggle of teenage girls flapping and squawking like seabirds with mobile phones.

Holly ordered scrambled eggs and a pot of tea, and while she waited, watched a discarded crisp packet dance and jerk its way across the promenade.

So often, youth was entirely wasted on the young. By the time you were old enough to know what to do with it, it had already slipped through your fingers.

The man gave a solemn nod. His beard was the speckled colour of a badger’s ass, and his voice had deep reverberation.

Oilskins and sou’westers dangled from hooks like the dried remains of flayed sea creatures. Coils of rope mouldered quietly in a wooden crate. A bucket of old shells sat beside the doormat.