Down Cemetery Road

On discovering a fire, the instructions ran, shout Fire and try to put it out. It was useful, heart-of the matter advice, and could be extended almost indefinitely in any direction. On discovering your husband's guests are arseholes, shout Arseholes and try to put them out.

There was a kind of boss Amos Crane had read about: the seagull manager. Who flaps in, makes a lot of noise, shits over everything and leaves.

The Trophy Wife wore a red dress four measured inches above the knee, and lipstick in a shade to match; this plus the kind of face that usually came with a slogan slapped above it, and a figure men would pay money to see with staples through the middle.

So she was waiting for the lecture; prolonged silence always led to the lecture. It was the last thing Sarah needed, and a list of the first things would have filled a book: a hug, a bath, an ear, some sympathy.

I’m from yeoman stock. Generations back, my family were farmers.’ ‘Generations back everybody’s family were farmers.

Thought Police probably held a warrant for his arrest.

His face growled at her, all his features colliding, as if the bland disguise had dropped away, showing the child of darkness beneath

Even Sarah closed her eyes. When she opened them, the first thing she registered was the scarred desk; a wound of bright wood gleaming against its rich dark surface. Guns don’t hurt people: people hurt guns. Also expensive furniture.

Her flash of anger expired, leaving her weary and next to tears. That was the trouble with emotions: once they started coming back, they chose their own order.

Limbo was for those denied heaven. It was also a loophole for those otherwise destined for hell.

It was the irritation in his voice as he spoke of how worried he’d been, as if everything that had happened to her had been just another way of something happening to him.

Birmingham was a large, disappointing city, neither different enough from the one she’d left for her to feel she’d travelled any distance, nor similar enough to allow her to feel at home.

Here, Sarah expected segregation to set in: Gerard would stride on with Mark and discuss manly things, while she was left to dredge up enough small talk to keep Paula from slipping into a coma.

She kept telling herself that these things are rarely as bad as you expect, but couldn’t help suspecting she invalidated that premise by relying on it.

She thought of the bonsai trees gardeners slaved over. She didn’t know much about it, but what she thought was this: that there were trees, left to themselves, that might grow sixty feet tall, but instead had their roots punished to produce something small, cosseted, and ornamental. Something making up in charm what it had lost in dignity.

He’s a player, he’s a mover and shaker,” Mark had said. Once he’d have said wanker and meant the same thing. And for Sarah that first look was enough: here was a man with a fine veneer of civilization, under which he was living in a cave.

She had a beautiful smile, which was turned on most of the time, but in repose Sarah had seen in her face an almost heartbreaking sadness, as if her natural optimism were based on the knowledge that life couldn’t treat her worse than it had done already.

That was one of the discoveries he’d made: that the body was a kind of clock. It couldn’t be rewound, and couldn’t be replaced. When it finished telling the time, its job was done . . .

uncorked several bottles of wine at once, some to breathe, some not to get the chance,

like a child’s drawing of summer.

there were trees, left to themselves, that might grow sixty feet tall, but instead had their roots punished to produce something small, cosseted, and ornamental. Something making up in charm what it had lost in dignity.

A garage dribbled neon in oily puddles.

But not everybody makes use of the ones they get.

but what she thought was this: that there were trees, left to themselves, that might grow sixty feet tall, but instead had their roots punished to produce something small, cosseted, and ornamental. Something making up in charm what it had lost in dignity. Marriage was a psychological bonsai; maybe society was. Still encouraging women, after all these years, to be small, cosseted, and ornamental. Still hacking away at their roots to keep them from growing taller than anybody else. You couldn’t even call it deliberate. It had grown instinctive, a natural form of pruning. To a man like Gerard Inchon, it was a duty: barefoot and pregnant kept them quiet. You didn’t talk about The Enemy, but that was what you meant.

We are beyond facts here. We are in an age of miracles and wonders.

sparse hair, stressed features – he looked as if he’d unexpectedly been made leader of the Conservative Party, and hadn’t yet found a way of passing the buck.

We are in an age of miracles and wonders.” “But what about the child?

He had never really lost his youth; he just kept it in a small room off the landing.