The full moon peered down through the slanted window in the roof of the council house. A boy was typing a letter on an old typewriter. (more…)

He rang up the ticket on the machine.
„That’s tuppence. What you want up at the slaughterhouse, boy. And so early too?“
I dropped the coin into the plastic tray and took the ticket without answering. (more…)

We were out in the country now.
The slaughterhouse was the last stop before the bus headed down the narrow lanes and through the small villages back into town. I was the only passenger left on board. The bus struggled to a halt, the diesel engine was whizzing and groaning. (more…)

In the night of the 21st July 1969 a man stamped noisily up the narrow stairs of the small council house, which was situated next to a yard at the end of a long hill which led up to Trinity Church. (more…)

I made my way up the hill towards the two men standing next to the oil drum. (more…)