Short Extract:

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   ‘My slippers were never red.’ Her mouth was moist, spittle catching at the corners.

   He tried not to stare, feeling queasy. ‘No, Granny, they weren’t.’

   She began to rock backwards and forwards, her pale fingers gripping the arms of the chair. ‘They were silver,’ She ploughed on, eyes wide, the rocking faster, ‘and they sparkled, made from blood-metal. They had power.’

   He nodded, knowing she didn't recognise him.

   ‘You have to stop the stories. They can’t move ‘round on their own.’

   ‘Yes, Granny.’

  ‘He wrote about me, he knew. The father of the goose.’ She struggled to speak, ‘He knew it…saw it. The stone road. The green city and he typed, tap, tap, tap, words that made no sense to some but to others…poison, freedom...Frank, B, lives in a tree.’ She laughed, but tears formed in her eyes.

   Patrick touched her arm. ‘It’s alright, Granny.’

  Nurse Jenkins came toward them, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She scowled, then beamed a smile at him. She was beautiful, in a psycho kind of way. She could play sweet and with a single word, strike you cold. He'd been on the arse-end of that a few times and witnessed her frequent cracks at others.

  'What's going on here then? Granny need more meds?' She reached out her oddly bright painted nails and Dorothy flinched. Then she turned her attention to Patrick instead, placing her hand on his shoulder. She pinched hard.  

   ‘Do you need some help, Patty?'

   He hated that.

   'I’m just about to finish for the night.’

   'She's fine.’ He tried to wriggle free and finally she let go. 

   'You’re just a boy. You shouldn’t be here alone.’

   ‘I’m seventeen.’

   She came around to face him, crease perfect uniform, neatly pinned black hair, dark eyes, rosy cheeks and full lips that hid dazzling teeth. He tried not to be lost in her appearance and reminded himself she was a bitch.

    She cocked her head to one side. 'Yes, I can see you are a man now, Patrick, and no longer a boy.'

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