The painted ponies rode up and down, flashing red, gold and green. Wendy held on to the tin mane, the sunset flaring over the wet sand while the cracked music jangled. She didn’t want to see the mechanism, the poles beneath her steed or the butcher’s ponyburger.
The taxi driver said. ‘This place isn’t what you think. The murder rate is the highest in the South West.’ His pine scented tree made her sick.
‘It’s the hostels, you see, they put all the druggies here, ship ‘em in and our police force – Ha – can’t cope.’
She didn’t tip.
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