The black waters swell against the old wooden dock below. The clouds drift in layers of gray. I stand unmoving and take it all in. Mist and rain and fog. Typical weather for Liverpool.
I hold onto the black chain that winds its way along the dock’s edge. It keeps me from falling in as I stagger slightly, making my way to where Mike waits just 10 yards ahead by the museum’s entrance.
Pausing for just a moment, I look into the dark water and then around at the red pillars that stand in front of the brick buildings of Albert Dock. Their stark contrast is abrupt, garish almost. Within the water I see a glint deep down. I stare a little longer. Nothing rises. I move on.