I bite into a beef sandwich and look at the Klondyker ships hulking in the bay like the forgotten remnants of a war. They are battered and loaded with ragged nets; one ship even has a Lada on board, sitting white and impatient on the deck. It is a drowsy day but, behind me, The Windhorse is having a busy afternoon – drinkers scatter out through the door onto the footpath and huddle in groups. They call to each other in Russian and I realise they are workers on shore leave from the factory ships, free for a few hours from processing mackerel by the thousand. My sandwich is not agreeing with me – my stomach fizzles and aches – so I shove it back inside its wrapper and toss it into my satchel. The sky over the loch is a peculiar zinc and tangerine; the sun beats on my face and shoulders, worms its way into my pores. I let the voices from the pub and the traffic noise fade; I enter one of those momentary contented highs that exist beyond life, beyond reality, in a sort of dream garden.
What do You think about The Closet Of Savage Mementos?
