There was some dense swell down by the seawall, angry grey crash, and the walkers on its ridge hurried along with something akin to worry. It was almost seven o’ clock in the evening, and now the wind started to pulse and batter with malevolence, sending gaudy loose plastic sand buckets tearing and scrabbling across the rockpools, flashing bright green, and yellow, and blue. Swinging and neglected signs on the seafront were swung aggressively, so that their rusting frames squeaked with indignence.
THE CROW’S NEST
It was difficult to discern the rest because of the pedantry and rapidly diminishing light. And as for the light: the soft shine of the mellow, honey wax sodium streetlights bathed all equally and ineffectively, and with wonderful artistic grace. This was all. A full moon’s potential was negated by the heavy, spiteful density of storm laden clouds, deep in the heavens.
Across the dead, wet sand of the shoreline, Malt sat on the pier, his legs dangling down towards the raging froth. All around him was noise, terrible and all encompassing, and most out that evening were frightened, but Malt did not even give so much as a slight damn. Right at that moment, he noted a glimmer of swaying light far out to sea, and he wondered how many helpless and agitated fish swirled and charged under the rippling film of darkness beneath his soles.
(No doubt that light was some trawler, what were it’s crew thinking right now? Did the flaking rivets of the generally trusty walls drip with the salt of the ominous and once friendly sea? Was there a stowaway? Loose cargo tumbling and crashing?)
Malt pondered on…
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