John Morrish

I sat at my desk, flicking through the Times and wondering how I was going to make the rent. Taking in washing suggested itself. Then Doris buzzed in a couple of potential clients. The tall one was wringing his cap in his hands like a washcloth after a shower. The other, shiny faced and fat, fixed me with an eye like a raisin in dough. He must have been the brains. 

The writing had been on the wall. Eleanor Stephens knew that people were not going into the High Street, they were not booking holidays, and when they did it was on the internet, not by going into an old-fashioned travel agent. 

Do you want to know what happened at the beginning? Well, I woke up yesterday and Mummy and Daddy were arguing in the kitchen. I don’t know what about. They are always arguing. 

Jessica was a fortune-teller. She did not have a gaudy striped tent in a travelling circus. She did not wear a turban or favour large hooped earrings. She did not read palms and no-one crossed her palms with silver.