Eight Months Earlier The blackbird always sings twice. That’s what Grandad learned me, and Grandad’s never wrong about farming stuff. First song means get your boots on; second song means you’re late. I ain’t heard either song yet, but I’m already in the yard, my breath making clouds in the March dark, waiting to beat him to the lambing shed. My wellies leave marks in the frost. I try walking heel-first like Grandad showed me, proper quiet-like. “That’s how real farmers walk,

Let me introduce Alex......Twelve-years-old......Trauma has just come and found him Grandad never let the barn door stay shut. Not even the time when the snow was that bad Dad said to close everything up tight. “A closed barn is no use to man nor beast,” Grandad said, doing that thing with his hands when he learns me important farming stuff. This morning the door is closed. Proper closed. Padlocked closed. My wellies make sucking noises in the mud. They’re my new ones, but I’

I'm thrilled to announce the release of my second novel. We're familiar with the traditional settings of broken children in literature: concrete estates, cramped tower blocks, and city streets. We're familiar with the causes. County lines and gang loyalty. Turf wars and violence. Status measured in territory and allegiances. The familiar landscapes where damaged children are made, right? But trauma doesn't respect postcodes. Twelve-year-old Alex lives in different geography e