Alex Dartnell

Peter Bullivant was hanged November last, and there was nothing I could do about it. They let me go home a week afterwards, the Matron giving me an unexpected rustling pat on the shoulder and exhorting me to send her a nice postcard. I stood on the step in the November rain, while the railings glistened and the cabs growled past in trails of flying water, thinking of looped handwriting and casual promises. I shivered. I dislike postcards. The French embroider them, stitched w

Haysel is the Suffolk dialect word for the hay harvest Haysel The rough upfingered stubble scrapes my feet, I count the black-wrapped...

I was pressing the button at the crossing by the traffic lights, when someone made a little noise behind me — a nervous, excuse me sort...

“Yes,” she said, “you can spend the night. Come in.” If this was the first house of the village, I was not where I'd thought. It had been...