I was sitting having a pint with the brother. The pair of us were knackered, another ten-hour shift, then the hour’s drive back here. The Guinness was sliding down. No need to talk. That wee junkie walked in. The Skelf, they called him. I never gave him the time of day. Why would I? He headed straight for the toilet, in and out in a flash. He must have missed his appointment. The place was getting used as a shooting gallery. Nobody was doing anything about it. Christine was paid to pull pints, she wasn’t a bouncer. As for the regulars, all they were interested in was beer and television. They were oblivious to anything else...
The Skelf has just been published on McStorytellers To read the entire story, click here.
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