The past is never dead, it isn’t even past
The poet eases his tongue into her mouth. He probes. She lets him. He pulls back, and she can see his eyes, watery and squid-ink dark. She closes hers, and presses her lips together into a thin line. 'How strange,' she hears him say. 'How strange you are.' He puts his...
‘A hit!’ The referee’s judgement echoes round the room as the ringing clash of the rapier blades dies. Tom Musgrave disengages and steps back along the fencing piste, out of the wide measure called larga misura where his opponent’s rapier could still reach him with a...
Pat Hobby shook his head in sadness at the news on the radio. The world was at war. His next whisky would be a double. France had fallen. Great Britain was standing alone. Hitler and his Nazi thugs controlled Europe. Pat spared a thought for Jakob Lowenstein, a...
Another young life lost. Simon Danforth pictured the boy’s body, lying bloodless and cold on the wooden bench of the coroner’s office. Harry Alwin had been a few years younger than his own twenty-two. Even now, as he looked into Mr Richard Alwin’s face, he pictured...
