The Clinic It is a clean, blue-tiled clinic. It’s the cleanest thing that Shukri has seen from as far back as he can remember. It is also bone-chill. The air circulates in slow, shuffling gouts. Shukri doesn’t like the colour. Too many things in his fourteen years of life have been a shade of blue. Outside the windows, to the west, you can see the clarity of the Mediterranean Sea. It is a soft, rolling teal. But he prefers to look to the east where the city is sere and grey. The patients on the benches are lined up according to age and disorder. The oldest is a university student. He is twenty-one according to Dr Mustafa Ali’s records. The student twitches as though a fine electric current is making his nerves go crackle and pop. His eyes are focussed on the middle distance into which he keeps looking with…
It was a colonial sort of thing to do, I suppose – sit by the French windows in the reading room of the Royal…
Science cannot progress without curiosity. But curiosity often kills – or must. I John Hammond had experimented all his life: with snails and…
They’d been over it many times. He’d read her passages from a wide array of Holy Scripture – all of them spoke of Divine…
First of all, my name is Marshanda. But he insisted on calling me Louise after a star of the silent movies whom, he told…
Rabin wasn’t a favourite in our circle. And he couldn’t write for toffee. So, when he went off on one of his trips to…
