SEVEN
Jack and Snail sat just along from the pastel coloured timber beach huts, sentinel, lined up as if they were the Realm’s first line of defence, on the edge of Eastney beach; defence for modesty at least, and a nice cup of tea in more accommodating weather. If Snail sat too close to the huts, the stretch of water that had swept his daughter, Beth, away, was obscured. Ironically, if Snail had sat closer to the lemon beach hut, and in more clement weather conditions, he might have been able to hear his daughter reporting what she was seeing and hearing, back to her colleagues stationed in a nearby cemetery mausoleum. These confederates had turned her away from her father, so much so she felt no emotion looking upon the suffering of her shell of a parent, once upon a time a man so impor
