The Landlord
I let myself in on Monday evening with the spare key on its green plastic tag. Three months of unpaid rent had passed, and the smell in the hall already carried what waited on the other side of the door. and there you were, in the centre of the room, suspended from the rafters, toes
Hyde Park
Hyde Park on a Sunday, the sun pressing down like a hot boot on the back of the neck. kids on plastic scooters scraping the hot concrete like they’re trying to file the day down to nothing. bicycles with training wheels squeaking through the legs of mums and dads who just want a bench before
The Trader’s Bell
Maharaj and Co, General Suppliers, Established 1888. stand still a second in here, and the place shows you its ghosts. the floor, beat-to-shit planks of Canadian pine, scarred and grey as a coin worn smooth by too many hands, have been there since the clippers came in heavy with tea from the east. sailors with
