Tunnels of Time

I begin tunnelling, through rock, clay and gravel, cutting through the streets of London.  A link from the King to his Knights of St. John.  Covered over with arches of bricks.   Down the line two dummy house fronts act as camouflage.  Engines grind through the bowels of commerce, rattle homes, disturb lives.  Yesterday travel around the city was on foot… Read it

Death of a Pelican in St James’s Park

I would recommend your sign be more firm. ‘Please do not feed’ implies the action to be optional. A sans-serif font would be considerably more off-putting. There have been pelicans here on the lake since 1664, a gift from the Russian ambassador. In South Australia, a woman named Judy communicated with pelicans as a way to heal lung disease. I… Read it

And Sons

Whenever I put up tiles now, I think of George from the potworks. George with his thick white beard. George with his big spiky eyebrows. I’m looking at the tiling in Caledonian Road station and thinking of George. I can’t get over the craftsmanship. The “Way Out” and “No Exit” signs. The arrow flourish after “To Hammersmith”. That’s where I’m… Read it

Three Stops to Greenwich

Each time she passes through the station, the same flow of thoughts: that film, the character saying that it was three stops from Charing Cross to Greenwich, Mike letting it bother him, Mike showing her the map in the back of his diary, her not caring, them arguing anyway. But today she isn’t passing through. Today Charing Cross is her… Read it

Call of the Wild

Madness, perhaps, to rent a flat sight unseen, though it couldn’t be all that uncommon. Aberdeenshire was too far for her to have come down flat-hunting at weekends. Madness for sure to rent one she couldn’t afford on her salary. More than a lifetime of beans on toast, it would demand a second job. A view of the freshwater lake in the… Read it

The Seventh Challenge

He is met at the station by a bustle of worried-looking officials. Men in suits wring his hand, pat his back, dance around him in an anxious circle. “Thank goodness you’re here,” they say. “It’s just been sighted again. We’ve got a car waiting for you. Do you have everything you need?” He nods. Swallows. He hates the city. The… Read it

Heartbreaker

Sewing down the straight edge to the point was the easy part, then a pause with the needle, holding the fabric to lift and swivel before continuing up the other side. Getting the curved edges right was another matter, almost impossible. The double layer of fabric had to be manoeuvred gently, gradually, as the needle raged forward biting into the… Read it

October, 1869

The smell of damp earth. The smog hanging heavy over London. Mist, stealing through the gravestones.  Footsteps, hurrying through the cemetery, boots echoing on the pathways, voices hushed and urgent. “Where is it?” “Here. Just here.” Also to the memory of Elizabeth Eleanor wife of their elder son Dante Gabriel Rossetti The hiss of a match. The metallic clatter of… Read it

Cannon Fodder

The gnawing started as soon as night fell; incisors clicking, toes scurrying over both the dead and live bodies. The rats feasted. There wasn’t much you could do about it. The living had nowhere to escape to anyway. Their living quarters were awash with mud, corpses and spent bullet cases. There was no colour anywhere. The landscape was brown mud,… Read it

Pan’s Final Victim

She crouches on the cold, steel chair, eyes scanning every inch of the grey room. From mirror to door. Door to mirror. Just as He taught her. A door slams in the building and her ears prick. Footsteps. She knows them before they reach the door, before he steps into the room. He looks her up and down, taking in… Read it