‘I don’t often agree with Fred Burbage, but he is right, this place is a shithole,’ Terry said pulling the collar of his coat closer about his neck as they made their way along the promenade towards the Pavilion Centre where Sebastian Serrano was due to appear.
The Pavilion Centre, located at the furthermost point of the bay, like everything else in Whitburn has seen better days. In dire need of a coat of paint, inside and out, it had the depressing atmosphere of a railway station buffet where trains no longer stop, but stale cheese and ham sandwiches are still for sale behind a dusty glass counter.
A stage hand directed Grace and Terry to Serrano’s room. Terry gave a short knock on the door and they stepped inside, introducing themselves to the startled clairvoyant who was reading the
