‘Okay, Vincenzo you helped build the café, so let’s have a look at the wall,’ said Con. ‘I think the café’s sound but I’m no builder. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on?’
Con released the bolt on the side door, the bright glare hitting their faces. Winifred followed. The courtyard buzzed indignantly. Palms crackled like rice paper. The brickpaving sprouted all manner of weeds and four green umbrellas lay on the ground, their folds waving like hands.
‘Let’s see.’ Vincenzo poked around inside the wall, his finger following a crack down the side to within inches of the mural. He sighed, then patted the seascape like you would a horse’s flank. ‘You see Winifred, the gods have been kind to us. There’s not a mark on it.’
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