The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

Decanters scrape free of their fittings, glasses thumping down on the wood. Ice tinkles against glass, crackling as alcohol is poured on top. There’s a fizz and a satisfying plop, followed by a gulp and a long sigh of pleasure from the old lady.

It’s like I’ve been asked to dig a hole with a shovel made of sparrows.

Thankfully, the leaves and twigs are so demoralized by the earlier rain they don’t have the heart to cry out beneath my feet.