MIR Editor

It’s English class. You sit behind me. I start the note. Something simple. Not witty, how about – ‘good weekend?’ Your precise handwriting comes back, ‘pretty good. Soccer game.’

He’s trying to blank me, but when it becomes clear I’m not going anywhere, he answers, easing his hood up to cover his brass neck and baseball cap as he does so.

i. The still point near Westerton They had inserted a still point just before Westerton, north-west suburb of Glasgow: under the hill, beside the housing estate. Our train came to a halt there.

Woman found drowned on pavement, Thirty miles from sea. There was salt water in her lungs, She smelled of lemon suns, basil. The crust of Tube dirt was under her nails, with the bark of the Angelica Tree.

13th May 20– Went in for our meat license today. Never been so excited. Two years since I last ate meat and I still hate the substitutes.

A sky-blue day. Fern leaves spike as I wade in. Strands of grasses and stray ears of wheat weave. Nubs of rose-hips bristle on hedges but the flourish of nettles sting my ankles, bunch at my knees.

We bought our last candle on the coldest day of the year. I remember because the weather man warned not to travel that morning, but we went anyway, wrapping up warm and praying we wouldn’t be stranded at the end of the line.

I lean back on my elbows catching sight of the cormorant, poised and ready for the first mackerel of the day. It takes off called by a voice I can’t hear, then dives, disappearing into the sea.

Gideon walks out of the house, an army kit bag slung over his shoulder. I wonder if there’s someone just out of sight, pleading with him, or maybe even cursing, but the doorway is in shadow and it’s impossible to tell.