Consider a long and famous river; it teems with salmon and story, winds majestic through the most various of Scotland’s shires. Where it passes under several bridges and reflects a suggestion of Georgian elegance, sad tales begin.
Stand on the railway bridge until you tire of the cold and noise and the smell of diesel. Walk down the Marketgate, the Nether gate, through a damp little close, on to the wet ankle-twisting stones of the Nevernevergate. Follow along to the Auld Licht and open the vestibule door–
To find Cameron, peripatetic inspector of 1/4 and 1/5 gills (and as such a servant of Her Majesty), gored and bleeding on the horns of his nightly dilemma: lounge or public?
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