SEVENTEEN
Snail had eaten a dinner of doorstep bread and beef stew, and sobered sufficiently to totter back to his spot on the promenade for an evening vigil. The weather had calmed, just a fine spray of rain driven by a blustery wind, and that didn’t bother him. He’d heard Jack Austin arrive at Sexton House and noisily make his way to the pub. He recalled how it was when he could visit a pub when he wanted, drink modestly without wishing to drown his emotions in pursuit of oblivion. There were times when he thought he was okay, but then the special brew called.
As he stumbled through the cemetery, he thought he saw a light from a grave but dismissed this as an alcoholic mirage, waved to Ghost, and continued his determined trudge to the seafront, a circuitous route because he tried to ma
