All of us on Mabson Road know Mr Tanaka. Or rather (for it is very different), we all know who he is, this Japanese gentleman, and where he lives.
The cottage is as they left it. Each time they return he holds his breath, as if it might have disappeared in their absence. But the crumbling sheep barn is still there...
Alan framed them on the bridge with a ribbon of coloured houses as a backdrop. When the shutter-button was partially depressed his wife and daughter’s blue eyes whirred into sharp focus
I don’t think you mind our silence; we’ve fallen into it quite naturally. You’re watching the bar, which doubles as a reception for an upstairs hostel, and I’m watching you
“Who goes there?”
No answer. The watchman sees nothing, but through the roar of the wind and the trees distinctly hears someone walking along the avenue ahead of him
This is what we left here in Primorsk, Suburb by the Sea, twenty-eight years ago, following the tank shadows directing us out of the country, like arrows