Walter’s Picture…

Ruth Pointer was in the doctor’s waiting room awaiting her turn to be called. Normally she would have been irritated by the noisy children and sniffling adults, but it was clear from her appearance that her thoughts were elsewhere. The sign lit up for the next patient at the same time as the receptionist called her name. ‘Ah, Ruth, do

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The Street

I kept asking myself why. Why was I going back? Would you? Will you? Why? The M1 and then the M6, mile after mile, and this question kept nagging me, like a lingering hangover, or teeth set on edge by a cold. Going back – was it something everyone wanted to do or did? To relive the past, for what

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Repeater

A corpse in a copse.   I’d gotten to the point when my life was all but perfect. But then my best friend was killed. Murdered in a horrendous fashion. Well, I say ‘best friend’ but he was more accurately described as my enemy. Every one’s enemy in fact. he only became my best friend after his death. Now this

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Intermezzo

The piano was unusual. It had lain undisturbed behind boxed cargo. The soiled tarpaulin told of a decade’s neglect. It would have remained undiscovered but for the highlanders’ committed quest for alcohol. Rab Niven lavished attention on it and, from unpromising beginnings, he brought it to life. ‘Gie us The Intermezzo Rab. You ken the wan.’ The small, malformed Glaswegian

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Watchman (with speech)

Since Atlanta, she had looked out the dining-car window with a delight almost physical. Over her breakfast coffee, she watched the last of Georgia’s hills recede and the red earth appear, and with it tin-roofed houses set in the middle of swept yards, and in the yards the inevitable verbena grew, surrounded by whitewashed tires. She grinned when she saw her

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