Looking round he saw an old woman dragging a bucket across the floor and holding a mop. When she realised that his eyes were upon her, she said in a throaty voice, ‘Oh, don’t mind me, dear. You carry on.’

Mrs. Henshaw, grey-haired and ancient before her time, resting her rheumatic twig fingers in her pinny lap, sat facing a large wall mirror and rocked the gloom away.

The aftermath of the collision was silent and haunting. One car was on its side with crippled wheels spinning; the other was off the road in a shallow ditch.

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.

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.

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.

Jack Scrimshaw. Born 22/05/1991. Collected over the course of 10 years at Dartmoor Prison and Correction facility. The following entries were deemed pertinent to these proceedings.

He crouched down on both knees to look under the vehicle. When he said, “Oh God!” it wasn’t in his adult voice, but in a child’s voice, like the time he had accidentally run over his little brother’s leg with his dirt bike.

She had been twitching and gasping all night. It wasn’t unusual. Night terrors plagued her.

And the last time he’d feel his heart thumping, which it was doing in spades. From dread? Excitement? Both, he supposed. Like a bungee jumper. Yes, the ultimate jump. Down, down, down, then up forever. A phoenix from the ashes.

In his experience, being clairvoyant was a meddlesome burden with far too many costs and too few benefits.

The helicopter would be coming in the morning to take him home. Not home forever. Just two weeks of R&R.

Outwardly Seth didn’t react as he watched Mrs. Hatfield misplay the four spade contract, but inwardly he groaned. True, she made it, but most of the other pairs would make it with an overtrick.

Uncle Joe’s liver and heart weren’t original equipment, but they squashed out flatter 'n a pancake along with the rest of Uncle Joe when a boulder rolled off the side of the abandoned quarry.

I reach the Styx, whose sluggish waters remain inky even in the bright of day. Just as my guide said there would be, a queue of people in white chitons similar to mine line the river banks.