I have had flashbacks before.
I think this as my brother lies dying in his bed. Of all the things to remember, I remember sitting on a doorstep in Scunthorpe shelling peas. It is drizzling, because this is Scunthorpe, and the leaden high-rise estates are the same colour as the sky, which is the same colour as the ground, my fingernails, and my mind. It is late Sunday afternoon. I know this because there are some old women coming home from the three o’clock service at the Ashby Holy Trinity Church. Their varicose-veined legs are thin and swaddled in thick, bottle-green tights, because it is November. Their eyes are milky with cataracts, and they totter like wind-up toys as a juggernaut ploughs relentlessly past. Their faces are caved in wi
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