By Alan Cadman
Forty years had passed since Bill first ran along that seaside promenade. As he neared a taxi booking office, odours of vomit and urine lingered on the pavement. It used to be an ice-cream parlour; his favourite was strawberry.
In front of the old amusement park, a sign defaced with graffiti proclaimed ‘Land for Sale’. Golden chips sprinkled with vinegar, after a ride on the Waltzer, remained fresh in his mind. Was the place called ‘Private Shop’ really where he got his bucket and spade from? Fat splashes of rain fell on him. Bill shivered then headed for his car.
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