Fiction

I love playing football. In a different life, I would have been a professional football player. In that life, I would have been good enough to be a professional football player. I would have played for Arsenal and England.

The hospital looked deserted, though he knew it wasn’t. It was just that floor. Silent, and dank, like a sepulchre.

Is it no terrible that wir auld neebour’s deed, an he wisna aw that auld tae? Aye, terrible son. The pair sowel.

She wishes that she had kept a written record of all the epic bloody nonsense that has come out of his mouth over the years because she could have gained some kind of minor social media fame and parleyed a book deal out of it to boot: Shit My Stupid Shag Buddy Says.

After the meeting, I told Ramin, ‘You spoke well. You showed them who’s boss!’ ‘Why were you so quiet?’ he said, ‘you should’ve taught them a lesson, too!’ After this pointless exchange, we returned to our office.

Do you remember the day we met? You were driving a truck with CWA imprinted on the side. Country Women’s Association.

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.