1998

What a night, visiting the site, watching two armed guards play drafts in the cool of the early morning while a third stood in the shadows, shotgun in hand. It was two ‘o’ clock and not even the moon was shining through the dark clouds. The only light nearby flickered on and off under the eaves of a building. The guards sat in the cover of a wall, every now and then looking at the road leading to the gulf. The game was quiet, the night was quiet, we were quiet.

We heard metal scraping along the ground, everyone frozen where they stood or sat. A hundred yards away we saw a man open a section of the fence outside the warehouse where Red Stripe beer was stored.

We looked quietly from the dark shadows and down the gulf road – men walking with purpose in single file, slowly…