Lovers by Felix Nussbaum
‘Hurry,’ whispered Con.
His breath was warm in the cold air, salted with Scotch, his whiskers brushed her cheek, a spider’s leg tickle that made her itch.
‘I dont understand why now. And why the oast house?’ Her voice was a child’s whine, tired and tetchy from a day at play. She hated it.
‘We don’t decide the where and why, Sian. They tell us and we jump.’
His arm pressed her tight to his side, as if he was afraid she’d stumble on the cobbles – or run.
Then the brewery was ahead of them – gate thrown back wide on sagging hinges – and the air grew thick with the green scent of hops, of woodsmoke, of bricks baked to rock by years in the kiln. Sian suddenly wanted home and the fire and Ma darning socks, eyes straining in the light of a single oil lamp.
A figure emerged from the…
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