In the morning there were sky-larks flying high and out of sight, releasing trills and spirals of silver notes into the blue air. Jack left early; from the back bedroom window I watched the Mercedes as he eased it up the lane between parked cars and wheely-bins, exhausts bubbling. At the junction with the main road he paused, an indicator flicking, as though he’d forgotten something, or changed his mind. Then he accelerated out into the traffic and disappeared. I had a shower, soaking the dried blood off my hands, put on clean clothes, and stepped out into the mild sunshine, the sea breathing softly, the tide nearly full. Little waves were turning over pebbles at the edge of the shingle with a sort of thoughtfulness.
© chris keil