In Safe Hands
I was the only one of the children who knew that father was never coming home.
Beware the Unweather
No candles burned in the windows, no torches lit the muddy village greens.
Shepherd’s Fete
I was a happy farmer. Before. I can’t place the defining moment. The moment I was abducted. It was slow.
Sergei Is Not Russian
It was getting harder to keep track of which identity he was supposed to be using. He shuffled through passports the way a croupier riffles through cards, always the same vacant face staring out.
Missing Inaction
William Morris was always home at 6 pm on Mondays. The train pulled in at 5.55 pm and it was a five-minute walk home. When his train was delayed, which was often, he always called to let her know so she could have everything ready for him at his new arrival time. It was now 6.15. There had been no call. That was not like William. He always called.
Swimming Lessons
He snapped the stem off and, with a wincing effort, cracked the fruit open. The flesh glistened a lurid pink studded with tiny yellow seeds.
The 13th Step
The house was different the next morning. I felt it before I opened my eyes, a stillness that made my heart flutter.
What Happens to Reluctant Writers
She wasn’t enamoured by artists. Unpractical, slovenly, dramatic. A precocious vocation to make sense of things. Nonsense. As a horticulturist, the hands on, physical labour suited her. But its therapeutic nature allowed for her brain’s over activity.