This dramatic short story collection contains eight stories based on a figurative, or literal, interpretation of wet, nasty weather. At turns spooky, frightening or funny, these tales are guaranteed not to disappoint.
Ice : "Vernon Wilson" (Paranor...
Jo stumbled the few paces to the nearest bench and collapsed. The heavy doors of the court room closed behind her with a hollow reverberation, like the final sealing of a tomb.
The strap of her handbag slipped from her sagging shoulder and the bag itself listed to the side and fell over, spilling a few of its contents onto the glistening wood. She didn't notice, or didn't care. She'd removed her body from the round room with its highly-set windows and panelling, but her mind was still caught in the proceedings which had just come to an end after weeks of sessions.
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Guilty.
He had been found guilty. Second degree murder and attempted murder. Ronny had killed a person, had tried to make it two people. There was no hoping against hope that it was all a misunderstanding now. It was a fact. A legal fact.
Her husband, a murderer.
Ronny's barrister had refuted and argued and brought counter evidence, but as the trial ground on it hadn't been enough. The barrister for the prosecution had been far too convincing. He'd gone through all the facts, turning and angling them for the jury to observe as coolly as if he were in school explaining some bit of science to a room full of children.
And they'd listened. She'd listened. And Ronny's defence had crumbled right before their very eyes until he was the only one still clinging to it. The only one who still maintained that he was innocent.
But he'd done it, hadn't he? Her husband of sixteen years had actually murdered and she'd been forced to accept it, slowly and painfully, alone in a room full of strangers. To accept that he'd strangled the woman he'd been carrying on with and then attacked her partner when he'd walked in on it, unexpectedly, almost killing him, too.
Ian. Ian was the boyfriend's name.
Ian had known, but she hadn't. She hadn't ever suspected for a moment. Not until the police had shown up, ringing the bell and saying they needed to ask her some questions about her husband.
And she'd said she couldn't right then. That she had dinner on the stove and didn't want it to burn. Ronny wasn't home yet. What was it about, please? Although they'd already said it was about Ronny.
How stupid could one person be? How stupid stupid stupid stupid.
Jo reached up and brushed her hair away from her forehead, but it fell back exactly as it had been. She didn't notice.
Kimberly Elizabeth Barnes. Thirty-one. Blond. Pretty smile.
Dead.
They'd taken her in and shown her photographs. Of a woman she'd never seen before. How did Ronny know her, they'd asked. She had no idea. When had they met, they'd asked. She hadn't a clue. How long had they been having an affair?
What? What? An affair?
The WPC, the woman police constable, had sat stone-faced in the corner of the questioning room, staring straight ahead as they'd bombarded Jo with confusing questions she couldn't answer. A cup of hot, bitter tasting coffee had been placed on the table by her hand, and she'd found herself constantly nipping at it even though she hadn't wanted to. She could still remember the taste, even now, months later, as if it had permanently inked itself onto her taste buds.
