Welcome To The Piggery
A story of how Connie copes when she finds herself alone amid a major disaster. She can’t find her husband no matter where she searches. She is unable to contact her son, Alex. Extremely worried, she doesn’t know if he is dead or alive. We follow her as she travels up through Spain hoping to find him. Can she reach him? With her, we go through upsets and dramas as she pushes north.
The Piggery is 277 pages long. Printed in a comfortable size 12 text for easy reading.
A SHORT SNIPPET OF THE PIGGERY
At the end of the village, furthest from The Piggery but nearest to town, is the local bar. Bar Arrecife served tapas and meals all day long. Generally, you would find some of the local elderly men chatting and taking a small tipple with coffee at this time. Also, delivery men and sometimes the local police would be stood at the bar having breakfast and a natter. I decided to pop in and ask if anyone had heard anything about any accidents or incidents. I turned the final corner on my bike and Bar Arrecife came into sight. The usual mishmash of vehicles was parked outside. At last I thought, someone here may be able to help me. However, as I cycled up the lane, on the pavement, was what looked like a man lying down. I speeded up and reached him, dismounted and ran to him. To my horror, he appeared to be dead. I shouted to him, "Hola, Senor, hola," and felt for a pulse in his neck. There was no response, no rise and fall in his chest and no obvious cause of death, I thought he must have suffered a heart attack, poor old fellow. The area between the legs of his dark grey trousers was a darker grey indicating he had passed water as, or after, he had died. What an unbecoming and unworthy way to meet the end, I thought. Thinking he must have only very recently collapsed, I ran around the corner and entered the bar. I was stopped suddenly in my tracks by the scene inside. Three men were sat at the table nearest the door, two slumped forward, face down over the table and the other one resting sideways against the window, his cheek and nose displaced by pressing against the glass, making him disfigured like the hunchback of Notre Dame. A fourth man was lying on the floor parallel with the bar, face down, three bar stools had been knocked over and scattered. A small amount of blood had trickled onto the floor tiles from a gash on his forehead. Another man was sat on the floor in the toilet doorway, his forehead resting on the floor between his legs in a very rag doll like position. There was no sign of the owner or bar staff. I stood in the doorway, trying to take in and make sense of the scene. There was no sign of violence, no sign of anything disturbing the surroundings, nothing different at all. Except for the six dead men. The gaming machine still shone its flashing lights, the cigarette machine glowed to advertise its brands, the beer pumps still glistened with cold little beads of water, the odour of coffee and toast still hung in the air. But there were five dead men in the bar and one more outside in the street. Tom was missing and none of my neighbours appeared to be at home. What the devil was going on? Inside Bar Arrecife, the sound of silence was suddenly stronger than the aroma of the coffee. "Hola," I squeaked out. Then I called again, loud and strong, hoping against hope that someone would answer. Nothing. Seconds ticked silently by. I shot into the street, running back to my bike by the first dead man. I must get into town and find someone. Within seconds I was cycling like the wind, as fast as I could, along the sea front to the town.
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