About Dom

When Lee Price, newly dead husband, was outed as a woman-beater in an online article by the Evening Star, Harvey Ramsgate suddenly found himself at the centre of a movement of women who were not only lauding his journalism skills but touting him as a feminist figure of justice. He had dared to call out an abuser who just happened to be deceased. Harvey had said that tragic death did not abstain him from being held to account and Harvey was placed on a pedestal for doing so.

Hugo saw pretty much everything he liked in Alex Audley. He was young, bright-eyed, enthusiastic, calm and refreshingly old-school when it came to matters of obedience. He never questioned Hugo and he showed a great deal more respect than the rest of the snowflakes and waltzing nancy boys who constantly flitted in and out of Hugo’s office, complaining about their so-called “mental health,” long work hours and “improper use of pronouns.” It wasn’t that those complaints irked Hugo, it was that he didn’t quite understand any of them.

He sees that the Thunderbird is sweating, thick beads clinging to his tall forehead, running from the thatch of dirty blonde hair. Perhaps Scott is going to sample the coffee as well, or maybe a pot of tea. Perhaps Scott will sit in the sun alone, enjoying the sunshine and his beverage, without being pestered by the shortness of life. Perhaps Scott will worry less about the running down of the clock and simply enjoy the time he has instead of arguing with his girlfriend; wasting time in a pointless skirmish.

I visited that forsaken place long ago. I silently crept down the sloping path to my own end, scared of the jagged blackness around me. I was eager to find him, apprehensive at our impending meeting, mystified by the tales that shrouded his visage.

Could he truly be what I had sought for so long? Could he truly envelop me in his crooked arms? Take me into the folds of his cloying breath?

I’m minutes from home now. Then it will be changing, unpacking, washing up, sorting dinner, exercise and calling mum. Then we will watch the latest TV series; the one endless social media adverts have told us to enjoy. Once we’ve unplugged ourselves from that we will then, irrefutably, go to bed. She will sleep. I will endure the six or seven hours of half-sleep afforded to me by the dregs of the day.

You pay tenfold for the drinks you consumed the night before, you regret the takeaway you drunkenly ate, you taste acrid smoke and ash in your mouth but still feel compelled to finish the packet of cigarettes you bought on a whim. Endless, reckless, destructive cycles.

Who is my mystery saviour? Does she hate or love the story? Does she despise me or despise Eleanor Baron-Halls? Is Eleanor Baron-Halls a public disgrace or is she just a fun-loving woman letting her hair down? You decide. Either way, click on that story and I get a view. The more views it gets, the happier my editor is.

What if Flint worked out how to use the stick before he worked out how to use the stone? The sudden thought sent a deluge of anxiety and fear into the pit of his stomach and he dropped, back flat against the nearest wall. Scrunching up his eyes, Check thought he saw the dark figure to emerge from the blackness, stick raised, a blood-curdling howl of fury sounding his last moments.

Julie was sat on the table facing me, the open scenery of our garden rolling into the distance from the three French windows, when the central one was suddenly clouded by shadow.

It was him. Face pressed up against the window, a savagery in his features, like he was pawing at the glass, wild in his desperation to break through the barrier.