From the window he watched a lone gull flapping its arse off in the overcast sky and getting nowhere, buffeted by an onshore wind whipping through the harbour entrance. He knew how it felt. He was feeling aggrieved and exceedingly disagreeable, but these days when did he feel anything else? He hated Newcastle — it was a Godforsaken, half-deserted shithole populated by small-minded fools interested in nothing but grubbing for coal, and he’d been here too long. It was time to make his next move. He finished his whisky, jammed his hat on his head, turned up his collar and left the pub. Outside, the wind was as vicious as the struggles of the beleaguered gull had suggested. He strode across the sparse grass onto Watt Street, his boots slipping in sand. Half the bloody town was built on it and not a day went by without the wheels of some vehicle or other getting mired and extra bullocks being summoned to drag it out. He swore and spat as a particularly hearty gust blew a handful of the stuff into his mouth and eyes.
