The Friend

by Teresa Driscoll

The worst irony? I moved us to the country because I thought it would be safer.

And then – our turn. ‘London is no place for a family, Mark. It’s too dangerous.’ ‘Rubbish, Sophie. It’s a great place for a family – think of the museums.’ ‘We never go to the museums, Mark. And I’m serious. Have you seen the local school? Knives are practically on the kit list.’ ‘We’ll go private.’ ‘We don’t believe in private.’

Houses breed the delusion of more comfort indoors than out. And yet – see. Just look how wrong they are. How much they miss.

‘So how about you just take your germs to bed, Mark?’ ‘Our room or the spare room?’ ‘I’ll let you choose.’

hours are not equal at all. Some people you can know for years and yet not at all.

Give me strength . . . What is the matter with these people?

And then there it was. The colour red. Vivid and angry . . . everywhere.