Sparrowhawk

The cry that he hears — faintly, through the open bathroom window — comes from a mother having her breast ripped open. At his desk in the box-room, Robert ignores it.

‘Quick!’ This strangulated shout rises from the foot of the stairs.

Robert peers at the postcard blue-tacked to the wall before him: a head-shot of Gandhi. ‘God is truth’ — he notices for the first time — is printed above the signature.

It is ten o’clock in the morning. Breakfast digested, Robert wants to get on. After a restless night, he is beginning to find work manageable. ‘Write until one, no matter how little or poorly’: this is his rule. ‘Admit no distractions.’ He continues to type, albeit quietly.

In all likelihood, Laurie is enthusing over something inconsequential. Something he’s seen a dozen times before but will feel obliged to coo at for her benefit. A chaffinch nipping the seeds she puts out each day. Strewn remnants of the chicken carcass she laid under the tree of life last night for the fox. Or, most likely of all, Scrap, their marmalade cat, doing something cute but unremarkable: stretching in the sun, perhaps, or licking its backside.

‘Robert?’

He pauses, fingers over the keys, smothering them. Hearing Laurie mount the stairs — not with her customary trudge but stealthily — he rises, and meets her at the door…