Just looking through old writing projects that never really took off, generally because I had too many things happening at once and readers wanted a more structured piece.  I’ve always loved a good psychological thriller.

In the following section, set in Dorset and Hertfordshire, a man in his mid twenties becomes increasingly obsessed with the woman whose family were responsible for the break up of his own fifteen years earlier.  At this point in the story, he heads back to his room in north London and crashes out:

He began to drift away into a mishmash of unsettling dreams; dreams of meadows and orchards and abandoned farmhouses; of chickens feeding on sawdust and maize by a fence of barbed wire in the midst of an August heat wave; of petrol cans and parched grass and an old wooden barn in the centre of a field. The scene changed and he saw Laura once more, her raven coloured hair damp after her early morning swim. His beautiful Laura had come back to him after leaving without a word. She was standing in front of him near the boat huts on the shore, her face close to his, almost touching his, her hair smelling of the sea. Then, the scene changed again. He and Laura were a few miles from the old farmhouse. He saw himself chasing her across a wild stretch of heather in the rain. Laura was running in diagonal lines, screaming as she tried to get away from him. She tore along a muddy trail down a hill towards a solitary grey house with smoke coming from a tall chimney beyond the trees in the distance. He was pleading with her to stop, telling her that it wasn’t how it seemed, but she continued to run.

He bolted forward with a shout.


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