Sentence The Fivehundredandtwentyeighth

A skylark swoops high above the foaming waves as they pull the woebegone figure of Martin Elginbrod further from the shore; he struggles, his hands cuffed behind his back and the lodestone's chopper casts a brief shadow over him – you really wouldn't believe this if it was recounted in one of the many samizdat publications devoted to exposing Duck's nefarious activities: the casting of swine into the sea was nothing compared to this heinous treatment of a prominent Edinburgh lawyer no matter his faults and whether or not he is a Slav: this is punishment for being of a perceived different stock from Trumpington, nothing more, nothing less, and the fact that The Next President of the United States is wrong in that, as usual, makes it even worse; Elginbrod tries vainly to keep his head above water, as the brine splashes over his face and is gulped down his throat, his spasms become less, his clothes are heavy with water and weigh him down, and the last seen of him. by a small seven-year-old boy watching from the dunes, is both tragic and pitiful, a last cry rises above the steel grey waves and he is gone, drifting deeper and taken further out by the rip-tide, to God Knows Where – it is a sorry end for the man who believed that he had everything he wanted: earning more money every second than your average Scot brings home in a Month of Sundays, with power over the lives of hundreds of near-destitute families crammed into the sordid rooms in condemned buildings whose rents are paid directly from the City Council into one of Elginbrod's many Holding Companies. while the children he keeps as play-things in two tenements in The Cowgate wait for the sound of his key in the lock. each dreading that it might be their rooms, praying that it is someone else's, and all wondering whether it just be their Master alone or a number of his friends, up for a 'Party', and while Lionel and Traci still lie in Martin Elginbrod's bed, in his Morningside home, both sweaty and reeking from their passionate entanglement, having made full use of the array of sex-aids they found in his wardrobe and drawers; and they are oblivious of the eyes watching them – the eyes of a twelve-year-old Syrian boy in Drumchapel who had hacked into Elginbrods home security system and had turned his computers and laptops into viewing devices: The Economic Migrant, as he is known to Police Scotland, the Scottish Security Service and his many private clients, all of whom benefit greatly from his expertise and truly remarkable skills, has no particular interest in the near-pornographic scenes he has watched through the night, but he is concerned that Lionel has not yet twigged to the danger Traci poses for him; and he turns back to the monitor showing the last sight of Elginbrod, sent directly from the mobile phone his friend and First Lieutenant, Wee Eck is still keeping fixed on that spot on the surface of the sea; and from Drumchapel, the message is sent: "gd wrk Eck, rtrn to bs, ur gnn b a YouTube snstn tnght!"