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A Stone’s Throw by Fiona Shaw

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On the ceiling, the little yellow stars glowed brighter. He’d get drunk tonight, and tomorrow he would bury his father. Will let his head sink into the cool pillow. It was half way to dark in here and if he wasn’t careful, he would fall asleep. He glanced about, and from round the edges of the room Cassie’s toys and piles of stuff seemed to watch him back: pop stars stared from magazines and dolls made glassy eyes at him. It smelt different in here to the rest of the flat, fresher, less used, and he felt his old familiar ache.

Will wondered what his father had known in that final, reduced month of his life. Last week he had sat by his bed on the plastic hospital chair and seen how little space his father took up now – just a crumpled shape ...

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