The gate swung with a retching sound. I felt the change to springy tarmac, in a children’s playground, lit from the backs of streetlamps the other side of the wall.
“I come here a lot,” she whispered. “When I can.”
There was a roundabout, and those little bikes on heavy coils; a wooden train for climbing; and a slide. Each tread of the steps, each sheet of the blade, was painted a different colour; muted in the amber glow, a riot by day. I was wheezy like I’d been running. There was no other way out …..
By Mark Wagstaff
Mark lives and works in London which is the setting for most of his stories. Mark has published two novels, After Work (2001) and Claire (2005), as well as a collection of short pieces, Blue Sunday Stories (2002). Details are on www.markwagstaff.com. He hopes to produce another short story collection in 2007
