Andy's Blog

James wrapped his hand around the hammer's handle, and his world exploded. "Thumper," said Officer Haynes, and James' sullen demeanour was split by a reflexive grin. Almost nobody used his real name, these days, bar the few local coppers who'd got to know him in their professional capacity, Haynes among them. It was always an obscure pleasure, but the thrill only lasted a moment before his frown returned. Smiling made his bruised eye ache.   Haynes crouched down outside his patrol car to address the fourteen-year-old ragamuffin in the back seat. "What was it this time?" he asked.   "They said I wasn't real," James replied sulkily. "They said I didn't have a mum."   Haynes clicked his tongue and looked over at the other boys, being tended by his partner and a first-aider. Between the four of them they had something like a decade and four hundred pounds on James, but they'd somehow still come off worse. Picking on a kid...

There was a tension in the air.   James Foster navigated the baking, crowded streets of London in June with an ease borne of decades of experience. Of course, it helped that he was a man over six feet tall and notably broad, and even in this notoriously self-involved city the crowds naturally parted before him. Not that he was particularly aware that this was unusual. As far as James was concerned, this was just what crowds did when you walked towards them - this bubble of personal space into which nobody would dare trespass. That's simply how crowds work! Otherwise people would be walking into each other all the time.   As the sun beat down on the crowds James could feel the familiar pressure of a building storm, the clouds gathering above the tower blocks determined to reach critical mass and turn the winding roads into a mess of new rivers. It was always a distraction, like the clouds were gathering inside his head, squalling and clamouring for attention. He squinted up a...

Alexei sat on the rough stone cot. Even though there was no one to see, he sat with elegance and poise; back against one wall, leg up on the bed, arm stretched out to the knee, forming a delicate equilateral triangle of disdain, silently announcing to the otherwise empty cell that he held it personally responsible for his lack of entertainment.   “I’m bored,” he declared. There was no immediate response, which only served to remind him that no-one was listening. He rolled his eyes in disgust, his head falling back against the wall. What was even the point of witty commentary without an audience?   Presently there was a soft shuffling noise outside the solid metal door - a click - and the door swung slowly open. A hooded figure leaned into the room, looked around, apparently caught sight of Alexei, and nodded in a “follow-me” gesture before ducking back out into the corridor.   Alexei remained still.   Shortly the hooded figure reappeared. “Hello?” it asked quietly....

Sam effortlessly disengaged from another conversation, circulated around the crowds in the grand lounge, and found himself standing in front of the couch. Best get this out of the way early, he thought to himself, grinning his friendliest grin.   "Oh, hullo!" Weasel was saying, relaxing into the upholstery next to a character who appeared equally out of place in this high-class establishment. "We was just talking about you, Egr-"   "Sam! Yes, it's Sam, hello Weasel," Sam interrupted. "I'm Sam and this is my friend Mel, I want to say Mel?" he added, gesturing to the lady next to him and pausing for her confirmation.   "Um, yes, Melinda," confirmed Melinda. "Hello, nice to meet you?"   "Hello and yes this is Weasel," Sam introduced in turn.   "Yeah me and Dagger here, this is Dagger," continued Weasel, gesturing to his own companion, "We was just talkin about how a gentleman such of your tal...

Sam slipped away during all the hubbub of the Naylor estate welcoming their master home. He let himself into the stables, quietly closing the door behind him.   The horses were all new, of course, after more than two decades away. But the building itself was largely unchanged. Stabling was not an area that invited rapid innovation, after all. Sam hooked his hand around a familiar wooden beam, worn smooth by generations of stable hands taking a moment's pause.   He found he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so at home, more than simply bedding down for a night or two. No, he quickly corrected himself, he could; here, with Rich and Ros, before he left. But it wasn't the building. It wasn't even the estate. He'd been home long before they'd crossed the boundary, before they even began the long journey. He could, in fact, pinpoint the exact moment he'd felt that rush of belonging, of returning to the place that would always be home, no matter where...

"Don't go out there!" she cried.   He looked back over his shoulder reassuringly: "Hey. This is me," he said, shouldering his shotgun and securing the door firmly behind him.   She heard him moving softly away. Minutes passed in silence. There were sounds in the distance. A scuffle. A gunshot.   More silence.   Footsteps returning. She moved behind the bed, wary.   The door pushed slowly open and - to her relief - his familiar face appeared, spattered with blood. He smiled, reassuringly.   "Hey," he said. His eyes blank.   "This is me."

In my youth, I saw them often. They came, through the trees at the foot of the garden, and gazed upon the house. Once, I saw my mother go and speak with them; an exchange of bundled items, I fancied, and then a parting. When I spoke to my mother of it, she scolded me for making wicked lies. My baby sister cried less after that. After a time they stopped coming and I came to believe it was a fiction, a dream. But lately I have seen them again, watching, always watching. My daughter cries so.