For some reason, his singleness drives his sister crazy. Even now, at forty-two, when the rest of his family and friends accept that he’s a bachelor for life, Brenda keeps trying to hook him up.

“This is the one with the four suspects – all students of the watercolour artist who was found dead on the floor after teaching an art class.

They were in a shop together. It was Ryman in the Strand, opposite Superdrug. She had spent the day shopping in the West End. He had been at work. They hadn’t seen each other for more than twenty years.

In a forgotten corner of the city, at the end of a nondescript back alley, was a small health food shop. It had been there more than forty years and was once popular.

Bertie had heard of a place we could go, somewhere we could live in peace, safe from our winnings. I’m not sure it exists.

Once upon a time, in a small village snuggled into the side of a wooded valley, lived a candlemaker.

My brother’s name is David. Our parents called him that because it means “beloved,” in case you didn’t know.

Thomas stepped into the bar room. His clothes soaking, his hair flattened to his head. “There’s something out there,” he said. William turned with poker in hand, his brow furrowed. “What’s out there?” “I don’t know,” said Thomas.

Our college reunions were usually boisterous affairs, but this one was subdued. Subdued, that is until the cocktails soaked in.

A final chink of light disappears behind me. The five steps up a narrow staircase lead me to a tiny, sacred space where showbiz magic is made.

Let me tell you about myself. My name is Donald Lally, and I am 18, and I like girls, but when I go out with one, there’s usually just the one date.

Dolan’s first weeks as a correspondent hit him hard. Not the work, but the weirdness of it all. He kept thinking it was scripted somehow as if Vietnam in ’72 was written for him as a parade of absurdities Rod Serling would love..

While I was indulging in the ritual hand blowing that characterised my Christmas travels around the graveyard, I noticed a man who was by a grave which was two rows forward and three plots along from where I was.

Fluttering into the air, she stretched stiffly and looked over the suburban garden. Her breath steamed in the air. “One more day,” she said brightly.

Meg went to the door and ran a finger over its surface and hinges coated in layers of thick paint, applied one over another for decades. The knob held firm. The lock stuck fast. This door hasn’t opened for years.