ELEVEN
The back door of the old house opened a c***k, a slice of weak orangey yellow electric light struggled to penetrate the gloom of the porch. The c***k of light revealed the toe of a bulbous and flowery Wellington boot struggling to get a purchase on the door’s leading edge. After a short while the boot succeeded and was joined by an elbow in an old and grubby, tent like, rubberised trench coat. The elbow flipped the door open in a practised manner. The previous gloom of the aged timber porch was now mellowed orange as a greater quantity of the insipid light spilled from the hallway. The figure, completely encapsulated in the stiff dirty, formerly cream coat, eased into the porch like a Dalek, the boots just visible as it made a floating forward movement; the door allowed to gently c
