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Short Story
Prologue
CW: Gun violence, death
The air hung heavy with the foggy dew of a February morning.
Through the single-pane window, dampened though it was, could be heard the regimented tramp of a platoon of British Lancers. The melodic jingle of them was harmonised by the footfall of their heavy boots. They passed by, unseen in the fog.
The well-worn sound of sirens echoed down the street as they had done from early morning but neither of us paid heed. Nothing new for a Belfast morning.
I sat rigid at the table, uncomfortable in the starched school shirt that was too small but ‘would see…
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