Extracts

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.

I duck down and pull my hoodie close around my face.

The Polydorus is a charming family-run hotel, located a short walk away from the lively town of Agios Nikolaos, one hour from Heraklion.

I killed my brother with a penny. Simple, benign, and perfectly believable.

The dust of mountain flowers lay thick on the air, like perfume or boiled varnish.

I am a white woman. I am standing beside a black woman. We are facing a group of white people seated in front of us. We are in their workplace and have been hired by their employer to lead them in a dialogue about race.

It is a surprisingly hot Easter Sunday when I begin writing this book.

Madison Locke’s heart lifted like the birdsong that woke her that morning – joyous, clamouring, excited.

If you’re going to do it, do it somewhere quiet, thought Beth Walters, watching her boss straighten his tie

Two by two, the girls from the Burgerweeshuis marched to Divine Service.

The shoes were a big mistake. Her toes had gone numb and every time a stiletto heel crunched on to the unforgiving surface of the pavement, it set her teeth on edge.

John’s hands gripped the wheel. Blood soaked his shirt. The man writhing next to him screamed and groaned through his ruined face.

It was Jenny’s death that killed my mother.

Mary Lawson was the first to die. Leaving Euston station shortly before 6.45 a.m, she made straight for her favourite breakfast stall.

On the morning Freya went into labour, she told no one.

It is strange to me that so many people like to listen to so many other people talk about the theatre.

The animals are dying. Soon we will be alone here.

On a damp Saturday, just last year, the sixties finally died in Berkeley.

The snow has fallen heavily, relentlessly, for two days now, and shows no sign of letting up.