Running Lights (from The Last Candle)
The sitting room floor was littered with takeaway boxes. Piled up cartons provided ample accommodation for greenish and blackish mould, and possibly Worms in Residence. Bedrooms were like the aftermath of a burglary; and the "living" space could just as well be a sarcophagus - with views over the sea.
Cuckoo, sounded the old grandfather clock. It was 1:00 am.
Bill sat in silence for hours on end. Images and worries jumped from one picture to another like a reel in his head, playing and re-playing scenes from the story of his life. So many things should be different, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.
Frustrating dead-end job at the upmarket Quay? Check. Selling life insurance, no less - to the poor bastards who didn’t need any. How ironic is that, he'd muse: life insurance.