As the crowds toiled and laboured in the orange glare of the bonfires an enormous PA system played a medley of nostalgic tunes about the ‘auld’ times and the countryside; airs and jigs and graces that spoke of a life not like this one, a life more tranquil, a life back then.
The irony of the situation was not lost on Mac.
Boiler-suited bullies roamed the yard, shoving and forcing, using a fist here and a cudgel there if necessary.
‘Work!’ they shouted.
‘Faster!’
‘Harder!’
‘Better!’
A particularly brutish lout barged past Mac to grab an old man by the collar. ‘You helped write this rotten stinking stuff,’ he screamed, ‘now get on with destroying it!’