Shea pulled up beside the billboard, graffitied to read "The Beautiful Bog - Holes for the Effluent." It was a new estate, designed for the influx of middle managers with the building of the warehouses on the other side of town (graffitied "Whorehouses to Let - Competitive Rides"). He mumbled "Just going in to the Bog to scare out the kids." A static screech implied assent. He took the torch from the backseat, and walked through the rubbled entrance.
****
"What do you want?"
"A pint... and is there a B and B around here?"
"Hmmph. Course there is. I don't want any trouble, hear me?"
"You'll get none from me. Unless I can't get a B and B."
"Comedian, eh?"
"No, a philosopher of sorts. Tommy McDonagh's my name." He looked at the hand, glanced at the rising stout, and went on wiping the counter.
****
When he got back, he saw the locks busted on the shed door. He went round the side to look in a window or something. No joy, so he went back to the big double doors, and carefully pushed them in with his foot. There was a smell and a sound. He walked in, toward the sound, and as it turned out, away from the smell.
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