Melbourne, 1912: on the busy corner of Collins and Swanston streets stood an attractive woman of middle age.
I am in the spare room, which doubles as my office, and I have just finished my day’s work.
I heard them long before I saw them, the throaty rumble of their Second World War engines reverberating in my hearing aids as I sat outside on the morning of my 100th birthday.
The hot touch of the city still on her, Rosalind unfastens her stockings and drops them in the bathroom sink with a handful of washing soda.
On a Saturday morning in late November 1944, in a railway shed in the Dutch seaside resort of Scheveningen, three ballistic missiles, each nearly fifteen metres long...
DEACON CUFFY LAMBKIN OF FIVE ENDS BAPTIST CHURCH became a walking dead man on a cloudy September afternoon in 1969.
The place looked like something out of Amityville: all paint-chipped walls, dusty windows, and menacing shadows cast by moonlight.
If you had visited the quaint English village of Great Rollright in 1945, you might have spotted a thin, dark-haired and unusually elegant woman emerging from a stone farmhouse called The Firs and climbing onto her bicycle.
It wasn’t until I did that test that I really thought about how aspects of my personality and my strengths could affect my mental health, through my reactions and approaches to things.
Killing someone is easy. Hiding the body, now that’s usually the hard part. That’s how you get caught.
In that crowded city, she had worked for a haberdasher and presided over the slow death of her mother, after which she’d discovered in herself an unexpected yearning to leave Ireland and see the world.
A bank robbery. A hostage drama. A stairwell full of police o¬fficers on their way to storm an apartment.
There will be many books written about the year 2020: historical, analytical, political as well as comprehensive accounts.
Her name was Magda. Nobody will ever know who killed her. It wasn’t me. Here is her dead body.
Most residents of Stuttgart, capital of the German state of Württemberg, had ordinary plans for the weekend ahead as they set off for work on the morning of Friday 6 March 1936.
Within the early months of the twenty-first century, before the terrorist attacks of 9/11, hospitals, nursing homes, and police departments in the United States, except for rural outposts too remedial to be computer-equipped, were mandated to join...
Love at first sight is a hypothesis (Roland Barthes) – I don’t believe in love at first sight.
The two suspects sat on mismatched furniture in the white and almost featureless lounge, waiting for something to happen.
I’d never have set eyes on the place if my cousin hadn’t held his wedding reception in the grounds.
My sister is a black hole. My sister is a tornado. My sister is the end of the line my sister is the locked door my sister is a shot in the dark.
