She seemed to clean for days on end. Finally, some kind of order emerged from beneath the previous occupant’s sheddings. She could see the floor – which turned out to be carpeted – and the bed was uncovered. She’d even managed to scrub some of the graffiti off the walls. What she hadn’t yet managed to do was unpack – there was nowhere to unpack to. It was a little unsettling to know that there was nothing of hers here yet, nothing of her here, but at least the room was clean enough to sleep ...

It was a little, she thought, like finding an oasis in the desert, complete with deck chairs, cocktails and a genie. ‘Damn,’ she whispered. It was lush and beautiful. The conservatory stretched far beyond her room and looked out over the wide street, and Pretoria’s famous Jacaranda trees. A water feature burbled soothingly, a bright hammock brushed against fern fronds and a patch of ivory lilies, and in the middle of the room, an easel displayed a half-completed sketch. Bannon wandered over ...

601. Bannon stood in front of the door, staring at the numbers. The weight of their meaning pinned her down - an emerging butterfly impaled on her own sharp and silver hopes. She wanted to touch them - make sure they were real, this was real - but they were above the door and too high for her. Instead, she took a step forward and contented herself with laying her palm against the door. She moved her fingertips against the wood, feeling its age, feeling the reality of the cracks and stains un...

The smell of blood reached Bannon before she opened her eyes. It stirred loose a memory within her, but she groggily pushed it aside, buried it under the silt of her aching muscles and pounding head. Her eyes were swollen and heavy, but she managed to force them open, and found herself lying on the mattress in her room. How did I get here? she thought. Did someone move me, after -? The memory of the previous night unearthed itself in a lava flow of images, burning into her skin, forcing her ...

She seemed to clean for days on end. Finally, some kind of order emerged from beneath the previous occupant’s sheddings. She could see the floor – which turned out to be carpeted – and the bed was uncovered. She’d even managed to scrub some of the graffiti off the walls. What she hadn’t yet managed to do was unpack – there was nowhere to unpack to. It was a little unsettling to know that there was nothing of hers here yet, nothing of her here, but at least the room was clean enough to sleep ...

Joshua Cross opened the door, his mind full of the molten beauty of glass. He didn’t see the tight, dark hallway as he struggled through it, weighed down by a month’s worth of luggage. He didn’t notice the newly acquired stains, the debris of the others’ homecoming, the huddle outside Jem’s door. He was so full of the things he’d learned, with the delicacy of the ideas taking shape inside him, that he’d almost made it to his door before he surfaced from his thoughts, and turned around. ‘Hey ...

The three-quarter shower curtain is drawn shut, and behind the curtain, barely visible in the murky light … a shadow twists heavily. The warm smell of water is tainted by a deep, metallic scent, and above the spatter hiss of the shower, Bannon can hear the creak of rope. She tries to back away, to turn away, but her body has turned traitorous, and she cannot make it obey her. In helpless anguish, in a horror of anticipation and knowing, she looks down. Feet are just visible below the curtain...

It was a little, she thought, like finding an oasis in the desert, complete with deck chairs, cocktails and a genie. ‘Damn,’ she whispered. It was lush and beautiful. The conservatory stretched far beyond her room and looked out over the wide street, and Pretoria’s famous Jacaranda trees. A water feature burbled soothingly, a bright hammock brushed against fern fronds and a patch of ivory lilies, and in the middle of the room, an easel displayed a half-completed sketch. Bannon wandered over ...

601. Bannon stood in front of the door, staring at the numbers. The weight of their meaning pinned her down - an emerging butterfly impaled on her own sharp and silver hopes. She wanted to touch them - make sure they were real, this was real - but they were above the door and too high for her. Instead, she took a step forward and contented herself with laying her palm against the door. She moved her fingertips against the wood, feeling its age, feeling the reality of the cracks and stains un...

The three-quarter shower curtain is drawn shut, and behind the curtain, barely visible in the murky light … a shadow twists heavily. The warm smell of water is tainted by a deep, metallic scent, and above the spatter hiss of the shower, Bannon can hear the creak of rope. She tries to back away, to turn away, but her body has turned traitorous, and she cannot make it obey her. In helpless anguish, in a horror of anticipation and knowing, she looks down. Feet are just visible below the curtain,...