The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

Anger’s solid; it has weight. You can beat your fists against it. Pity’s a fog to become lost within.

He smells of brandy, but cheerfully so, as though every drop went down smiling.

A clock drums up its courage and ticks.

We shouldn’t simply die. It feels like a swindle. So much paid, too much asked.