Eddie turned to Susannah, took her in his arms, and began to rain kisses on her forehead, cheeks, and neck. He was laughing and crying at the same time. She clung to him, breathing hard Roland crawled away from the hole with his head down.
His hair stood up in a wild wad. Threads of blood trickled down his cheeks. Eddie got the door moving, and those vast, unseen hinges did the rest. The door fell with a gigantic, toneless bang, cutting off all sound from below. As Eddie watched, the lines that had marked its edges faded back to smudged marks in the dirt.
Where the keyhole had been there was only a crude shape with a chunk of wood sticking out of it, like the hilt of a sword from a stone. He looked at her dazedly. Where is he? The gunslinger? This included the many fishing vessels that unloaded their wares on the quays. Berths were at a premium and in these straitened times he was more than happy to accept backhanders in terms of fish or wine.
Guymer had been a very corpulent man before the famine and incredibly he had retained much of his bulk, though he was heartily sick of eating dried fish. He had been up since just before dawn and now, with the early morning sunshine streaming through the window, the harbour master stood at the tall writing desk in his office at the entrance to the harbour, munching his way through a bowl of fish potage, a sour scowl of displeasure on his face that deepened with every mouthful.
The sound of the door opening made him look up. A woman entered his office. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of her. She was not a young girl in the first flush of youth, but she was still undoubtedly good-looking, although her white skin was tinged with a grey pallor and her eyes were rimmed with red. She looked exhausted. Her long dress was ill-fitting and the hem was clotted with muck from the town streets. The Waste Land by Tim Hodkinson.
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