Short story

  Twelve Earl Street fits the bill. No obvious alarm. A freshly painted weatherboard on a quiet, prosperous street. In my limited experience, cleanliness is next to wealthiness. I ring the bell and listen for footsteps, straightening and preparing my South-East Water charade. Just to let you know we’re doing Read more…

Often I remember the whistling, soft at first like a forest bird, then getting louder with a sound like breaking branches. When the mortars found their range the earth shook and the thatched huts burnt like flares. Women were screaming, parents were calling for their children, bullets stung through the Read more…