by ANDREW McAULEY
Beer and Fire by Alan Levine | Flickr
Marty O’Brien pushed through the door of his local, nodded at the barman, then tripped on an errant shoe left discarded near the door.
‘Ah, for feck’s sake...’ Marty groaned as he struggled to his feet. He dusted off his tweed trousers and cast a scowl at the barman.
‘Watch yourself there,’ the barman said in a sing-song voice as he dried a glass with a towel.
Marty cast his gaze around the bar. The pub was vacant except for the barman, unusual as at least a couple of locals tended to wait outside for the eleven o’clock opening time, and it was already quarter to twelve. The floor of the bar was littered with shoes of all kinds; trainers, smart leather shoes, hiking boots, wellingtons. All lay together in pairs as if the owners had removed them and left the premises without thinking to put them back on.
‘Whose are these shoes all over the place?’ said Marty.
The Poet in Bed
domo slurpee / Rakka / Flickr
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