Extracts from the novel ‘The Writer The Villain and The Stone’ Kirk Truman

Illustrations Alexandria Coe

The gust finds me again as I turn onto Mortimer street, the chill presses at me the way tailors slip to press pins into clients waists. I am impetuous by the roadside ignoring shoulders and toes, dismissing them and the bodies which they entail spying hastily to the rare red brickwork which remains of the Middlesex hospital on Nassau street.

It is clear to the rare faces on this quiet January morning that I mean to be somewhere beyond the still road beside the construction site of Fitzroy Place and the long overhanging white cranes which dwindle in the hissing rain. Somewhere beyond this corner of mortimer street and newman street where the new corner tavern is being readied with a startling shade of grey. The odd leaves that still survive on into the winter clutter the air to brush against my shoes and to glide past the news store where on the awning “monocle” is haughtily inscribed. The stretch of charlotte street goes onto the square, onto the noise and the startling panic of euston road and the eerie warren street terraces, and the mews’ which burrow from it.

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