The final toll of St Paul’s ceased about fifteen minutes ago. Henry fumbled with the keys a final time before passing them into the landlord’s outstretched hand. The rooms were empty now, and would not be occupied again. The waves smacked against the stairs running down to the Thames at Wapping; an eel slid indifferently … Continue reading The contract between them dissolved.
Briefly Golden
When he has something on his mind, something that can't be brushed away, lodged like an airborne seed in the soft tissue of his conscience, he stirs the loose leaves in his pot of tea. And he repeats his worry to himself. And Salina watches him . She watches the delicate movement of his callused … Continue reading Briefly Golden
Whiter Still
Hector’s hair is wavy and his face has never, ever tanned. Not even in the Aegean sun. Which rose on him three hundred thousand times, until that day when a shaft of light was making its way across the floor of the courtyard, illuminating the plants, the fountain and Dionysios’ equally pale (though mosaic-rendered) skin. … Continue reading Whiter Still
Watching like a god behind glass
She doesn't know why she spotted him; the human currents lapping the sides of Golden Square tend to anonymise. But his face stands out somehow. No. Not his face. His glance. He glanced at the man next to him on the bench. And again. Astrid knows that glance. She leans closer to the glass. Shuffles … Continue reading Watching like a god behind glass
Jury service and sympathetic hair
Fuck. It's happened. She nearly swore aloud as she opened the envelope and saw the imperious words in a big, disarmingly neutral font. Jury Service The carriage shudders, like it's laughing. Opening her post on the Tube has become a habit and she feels it must have somehow tempted fate. Somehow. She skims the letter cursorily, but … Continue reading Jury service and sympathetic hair
Why are we talking about this?
The woman with the watering can was pouring its contents onto the flower bed. "A flower bed?" asked Jess with a raised eyebrow. "She took a watering can into the park with her? Who does that?" "No, this was on the street. Near Marchmont Street in Bloomsbury," said Carla. "There was a row of trees … Continue reading Why are we talking about this?
uppermost leaves
Sitting on the roof on a muggy evening. Clerkenwell before him. Smithfield behind. Bloomsbury distantly implied by the uppermost leaves of that London plane tree, imperfectly concealed by that arse-hole of a seventies office block. It’s gently photosynthesising on Gray’s Inn Road; making the most of the day’s final photons. Leaves strike gold from a … Continue reading uppermost leaves
The last of her clothes
A few taps on his screen and the sound of trumpets fills the little flat. "It's my favourite," he smiles. For a few moments she struggles to make sense of the cacophony. Had she been walking past a bandstand in a provincial park, or been pressed to the edge of the pavement as thronging tourists … Continue reading The last of her clothes
The window seat
The Sweetest Taboo is playing in Starbucks on Wardour Street A man sits next to another man and they'll leave separately. The people passing the window look the inhabitants square in the face. They can afford to be brazen, secure in their anonymity. The denizens of the cafe experience the world through the periphery of … Continue reading The window seat
He staggers
A man treads lightly down a street in Soho. The Pillars of Hercules is there. So it must be Greek Street. It feels like a Sunday. And he’s holding his hand up to his face. The end of his nose is missing. Blood on his fingers. When he staggers it’s to avoid the woman passing … Continue reading He staggers
Metropolis Told 