Original extract: A winter evening

The frost had gripped the narrow streets. Outside a baker’s shop, a bright coal fire crackled in an iron basket, and a knot of children held out their hands to its glow. Across the road, water crept from a broken drain and froze into a thin, silver skin. The ice lay there, sour and silent, as if it resented every passing foot. By dusk, fog swallowed the far end of the street. A church clock gave a muffled cough above the rooftops, while the lamps blinked weakly through the murk. Mr Vale hurried past the fire without a glance. The children’s laughter followed him, but it found no welcome in his heart. No friendly greeting could soften him; no winter wind could make him shiver; no cheerful song could coax a smile from his face. His heart was a locked room, and the key had long since been thrown away.

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