“We’re closed,” she states levelly to Duncan while he says nothing, just peering in a store to see what’s there. We’d be closed to you lot anyway, she thinks while continuing to sweep, not paying him any more attention. Long… and dusty… road. Where’s your raspberry girl, she additionally thinks a few seconds later. Word’s gotten around.
Since she doesn’t have a name, some have just started calling her Annaball or Annabell as a joke, and always in white with the attached, mocking graffiti, like this one here on the northwest train tunnel of town. Always the crossed out “a” corrected with “e” — John Lennon would not be proud. A white girl should not be messing with a black man in any shape, form. This was a warning to all the Annaballs or bells of the world: stay in line; stay in your color.
Three glowing white nuns, white angel in background to reinforce the Heaven aspect, pray for their souls as they watch the heathens up front, also praying.
But not for forgiveness. For enlightenment. How to marry black and white in this town full of bigots and make it work. Two words (again): Helmet Newton. This is the place.
Sunklands 