Why was there a line of six pink plastic buckets outside the back door of the Coast Guard Cottage?
They looked brand new.
When I got closer I could see that each of them was full of coloured water, an outrageous blue, reminiscent of the Eastman colour cheapies played out on Pacific atoll’s
It must be an old Martin’s liquid watercolour.
I looked into each, expecting to see goldfish or some other denizen of the deep, Their was nothing swimming about in any of them, but in the last bucket, I could see a coin lying on the bottom.
Unable to resist, I pulled up my sleeve and reached into the blue water. No sooner had I pulled my arm out, cuff dripping, than I was grabbed from behind and pushed up against the wall of the cottage.
Before I could utter a word, I heard someone close by shout:
“He’s taken the King’s shilling”.
the broken novel ian miller ©2008
