There it is again! There's a spectral scent haunting this pier, no doubt. And it smells…

There it is again! There's a spectral scent haunting this pier, no doubt. And it smells like...

Sea brine, mostly. Because it's a pier.

Years of turmoil, of hopes and dreams ground beneath the inexorable tides of capital.

I can kind of smell dreams being ground down by capital.

Without a doubt. Your politico-olfactory cortex doesn't deceive you. The smell is coming... from that balcony over there!

You mean from Cindy?

Certainement! A precocious communist youth, a symbol of a kinder, more hopeful future. Now's your chance to establish contact with your revolutionary brothers and sisters.

A chance to establish contact with the future! What a beautiful, terrible thought...

You mean from that scary-looking girl in the old lady coat?

I still don't smell anything.

Absolute rubbish. Your politico-olfactory cortex doesn't deceive you. The smell is coming... from that balcony over there!

(Close your eyes and take a deep breath.)

What do you smell?

The first thing that strikes you is the overwhelming brine. You imagine yourself underwater, a hundred-legged arthropod scuttling along the murky silt at the bottom of the sea...

But then the unmistakable reek of seagull shit hits you, buoyed along on the air currents, an acrid melody atop mouldering chords of wood rot and heavy fuel oil.

"Still smelling for communists, detective?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll be over here when you've finished." The lieutenant nudges a piece of trash with his foot.

His impatience is feigned. He's actually curious to see how this personal errand shakes out.

What the lieutenant thinks is irrelevant. Your politico-olfactory cortex is lighting up like a holiday display. The scent of communism is overwhelming, and it's coming right... from that balcony over there!

He'll tolerate this personal errand, but his patience is wearing thin.

"No."

"Uh huh."

The lieutenant issss not persuaded, sssssire.

"What makes you say that?"

"No offence, detective, but you're not particularly subtle."

The lieutenant's right. It's sort of amazing how un-subtly you're sniffing the air around you, almost like you're trying to call attention to yourself.

"Everything in order, detective?" The lieutenant gives you a quizzical look.

"I'm working on developing my political consciousness."

"You're developing your..."

"You know what? I'll just leave you to it. Carry on, detective."

The lieutenant lacks your highly developed politico-olfactory cortex. The smell is undeniable. And it's coming... from that balcony up there!

"I'm struggling to see the connection with our investigation, but I'm sure all will be revealed in time."

"You do remember that we're investigating a murder, yes? I would appreciate it if you reserved your political projects for after-hours."

"It's kind of a personal errand."

"A personal errand."

"I'm smelling for communists, Kim."

"You're smelling for..."

"Just taking in the fresh air, like a normal detective."

"There's a lot to take in, isn't there?" The lieutenant wrinkles his nose.

It smells like a pier, in other words. A completely ordinary pier, that provokes no ideological associations whatsoever.

Nothing. Or at least, nothing in particular. As far as you're concerned, your nose seems to be purely decorative.

There! Do you smell that?

Smell what?

Can you not detect that inimitable whiff of dissatisfaction and restlessness, that sense that the world is in need of dramatic, even violent re-ordering?

(Close your eyes and take a deep breath.)

Are you saying there's a communist nearby?

I don't smell anything.