The Scab on his Left Knee

We’d bunked off school that afternoon. Me and Pauline were lying in the tall grass. Henry was sitting away, with his back to us. For ages I looked, at his dark hair, deep black, almost purple, like a crow, and the whiteness of his neck, like ice-cold milk. His head was down, and he was picking at the scab on his left knee, pulling bits off and eating them. I could see the contours and the colour of his back where the shirt was stretched tight across it. The sun was high, and I was holding onto Pauline, and hoping … Continue reading The Scab on his Left Knee

It was called Cassidy’s (excerpt)

I was over at Sam Disher’s place last Friday night. I walk past his house every day after work, and that evening, because of the heat, I’d picked up as many bottles of beer as I could carry. They were clanking around in the bags as I walked, straining the plastic, and he was standing at the front of his house, watching the road. ‘What’s that you got?’ he said, in a playful American accent. ‘Dinner!’ I yelled, and we laughed, and the next thing we were on his veranda drinking the first beers warm, waiting for the others to chill … Continue reading It was called Cassidy’s (excerpt)