My parents didn’t seem the sort of people who would end up killing someone. Everyone would say that – except the boy who died, who isn’t saying anything. He carried his story with him off the edges of the earth, like the others who died along the way.
This story, my story, belongs to them too.
My story starts, like all stories do, with a mother and a father, and here they are – Stanley and Jilly Hope.
Stanley, tall, and stooping to apologise for this, liked