It's eight-thirty am and I'm already on my second energy drink. I should have finished yesterday's shift at four thirty pm, but I didn't leave the home until ten past eight. By the time I got to my own home my wife had fed our kids, bathed them and put them to bed. My dinner wasn’t the only thing cold. "You spend more time at work than at home these days," she says, and I have nothing to argue back with. I'd already agreed to go in to work early today to cover a staff member who was either sick or had quit. One often leads to the other and nobody's heard from him for a week, longer than he's actually worked for us. I doubt we'll see him again.
My mind snaps back to the road. I'm certain I'm not fit to drive. Deep Purple’s “Highway Star” screams at me from the speakers. Yesterday I started work at seven-thirty am, having slept in at the home the previous night. I should have been in bed half an hour before midnight, but the kids were up until two fighting each other, fighting us, and trashing the place. It was gone half past three in the morning before we finished the paperwork. "You’ll get the hours back" my manager assures me.
Yeah. Right.
It goes on to my timesheet as overtime, which may or may not be paid as such once my rota has been worked out for the month. Overtime is time-and-a-quarter, paid once we work over forty-two hours a week calculated as part of a rolling six-week average and received a month in lieu. After ten years in the industry, I’m still not on a regular salary and still don’t fully understand how my pay is worked out. Still, it pays the bills. Well, most of them. Most months. All I know is, with every payslip, I can’t help feeling short-changed.
As I pull my car into the drive I see one of the maintenance staff boarding up the broken kitchen window. His colleague is ordering a replacement pane over the phone. Neither has bothered to measure. The company owns five homes, and the maintenance staff know each window’s measurements by heart.
Longhope is our biggest home. It’s a large, detached house with two bedrooms for children, a large bathroom, and a staff sleep-in room on the first floor. The ground floor comprises two further bedrooms, the office (which doubles as the second sleep-in room), the kitchen, a bathroom, two lounges and a conservatory. In the large garden is what’s best described as a summer house, referred to as ‘the shed’, which is used as the manager’s office. All our houses are named rather than numbered. All are remote enough from any neighbours that we do not keep any of them awake at night. As I switch the engine off I hear a smash and a "Fuck off cunt!" and reconsider my decision to park right outside the house. Instead, I park on the road and walk the short driveway. Overlooking each car park the company has attached a sign to the home warning it takes no responsibility for damage caused to any cars, including those of staff. This should read ‘especially’ the cars of staff. We lose a few staff each year after one child or another has written their car off. Nobody believes the company will be so blasé about their car until they try to claim a penny for the damage. The company has several times paid for repairs to the cars of social workers, Youth Offending Service workers and representatives of Local Authorities –anyone who can cost them money by refusing to place any further children at the home or threaten to sue them. Staff are neither. “Those are the types of kids you chose to work with,” is the standard response.
I park my car on the road and lock it. The weak May sun drips onto my back. The day looks warmer than it is. By the time I’ve walked back up the drive two staff members are holding the child, Mikey, as a third removes a large stone from his grip. "Cunt!" is screamed twice more before I reach the front door, along with a “Paedophile!” or two for good measure. One of the maintenance men is now ordering a bathroom window from the glazier. I can’t be certain but I think I hear the phrase “little mad bastard” as he redials. He knows the measurements for that one too, every bit as well as the glazier knows the route to Longhope. Both nod at me as I pass.
As I enter the front door Mikey -who barely comes up to my shoulder, but is as scrawny as an alley-cat and just as fierce when cornered- kicks and punches at staff. When he realises he is being held too securely to do this he spits instead. Both staff have been with us for several months now and already have become used to this. Once he begins to tire Mikey will stop struggling and introduce the threats. Threats to get the staff fired for touching him (within five minutes they will both repeatedly be called “paedophiles” again), and threats to “knock them the fuck out” once he gets free.  Mikey is a fairly typical kid in care: wiry, dressed in a hooded tracksuit and a too-big baseball cap, angry at everything and with a history of neglect and abuse newcomers to the industry have difficulty comprehending.
Another child, Tom, paces the hallway deciding whether or not to join in with what's happening outside. Tom has been with us for five weeks. He arrived with less than a week’s warning, and our exiting therapist quickly diagnosed him as being on the autistic spectrum. We are currently making notes on his behaviour - any patterns or triggers we see, successful behaviour management strategies, what activities he enjoys, how he builds relationships with staff, and any other significant behaviours we observe. The therapist used the first four week’s notes to write a “Therapeutic Interventions and Behaviour Support Structures” plan.  She will present and read through it at this week’s team meeting. It’ll be her last before leaving for a better-paid post outside the company. As ever the behaviour support plan, which is what everyone calls it, will be the staff observations we submitted. She’ll collate them into a document spiced up with extra jargon, and add a summary of the generic therapeutic approaches the company uses across its homes. She’ll take a good ten minutes to explain it to us as if we’ve never seen it before. Most of them are out of date before they are printed. The company’s policy is to produce these documents within the first twenty-eight days of a placement. It looks ‘pro-active’ and ‘efficient’. In reality, every child goes through a settling-in period, and the vast majority of the behaviours they show us in the first month or so are their way of finding out where the boundaries are and which staff are the most manipulable. Once they know, and once they feel safe enough in the placement to express themselves, their behaviours change dramatically – often within a week of the plan being written. But that doesn’t matter. Producing a behaviour management document within twenty-eight days looks good and keeps the social workers happy. If ever you need to demonstrate to a professional you’re doing something, show them a report.
I warn Tom, if he does interfere with Mikey’s incident I'll confiscate his Playstation for a week and inform his Youth Offending Service worker. He tells me to “fuck off”, but goes to his room anyway. I wait long enough to be certain he is not going to come back out, unlock the office door, and open another energy drink.
Tracey Beaker this is not.

​
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The estuary was wide and brown and flat. Stalky grass grew in awkward tufts through the mud. If you didn’t know this piece of headland you’d expect to be walking on solid earth. Above the murky waters an overcast sky glowered, sulky clouds grey and low.
Aaron’s rod perched on his rest, his newspaper sprawled on his lap. His green canvas seat creaked as he shifted his weight. It was quiet out here. There was the breeze. Lapping waves. The rumble of traffic from the bridge.
Footsteps squelched from behind. Creeping, almost. Aaron looked over his shoulder. He didn't recognise the face.
"Allright mate, how's it going?" Not a local accent.
"Not too bad. Nice day for it. Could do with a bit more sun, though." The stranger didn’t answer, only rocked on his heels. One hand stayed in the back pocket of his jeans, and his eyes flickered from Aaron to the road at the sound of every passing car. Aaron tried again. "What's your name, but?"
"Spi- Simon. Caught much?"
"Simon. Aaron. Pleased to meet you. Where you from?"
"Just visiting. Staying in the town."
"Ah, one o' the b n' b's on Alexandra Road, yeah?"
"Sure."
"Tidy. They're all pretty decent down there."
"Sure. This a good spot? How many have you caught?"
"Me? Ho ho. Let me show you something."
He leaned forward and picked up the rod. The multiplier whirred like a showroom model as he cranked the handle. Metre by metre he reeled in the fishing line until it was clear of the water.
"You've lost the hook."
"Don't use 'em. Don't like fish. But I can't drink, see. Diabetes, my doctor said. And we've no garden in the flat. I only work part time, to top up my pension. Wife's the same. Love her to bits, we've been together nigh-on forty years, you know. But she can't stand me being under her feet when we're both off work. So I comes down twice a week for a break."
"Why fish?"
"It's quiet. And out of the way. By the time you've parked up in the layby, traipsed across the grass and mud... I'm surprised you came out here. There's a car park nearer the other bank further up. You must have missed it. Anyway, the wife, her sister's a carer. Looks after old people at home. Their own homes, you know. Drives back and forth over that bridge a dozen times a day. She'll let the old girl know if I'm not here." He proffered his flask to the stranger. "Tea?"
"No thanks, mate. Just looking around checking out who's here. I'll be off."
"Oh. Right. Well, take care. Enjoy the rest of your holiday."
"Yeah, yeah."
Spider backed away from the lucky old man. He released his grip on the blade in his back pocket. Fishing was a blood sport, and those who took blood should be prepared to lose their own.
 
 
 
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​The note -handwritten, unusual in this day and age- had been brief, and cryptic. ‘19:10 between the fountain and the pond. Red scarf'.
Which fountain? Which pond? Would his contact wear the red scarf? Should he? He didn't own a red scarf, so he'd made do with a red hand towel, cut lengthways.
This park, this open space with nowhere to hide, was the only one he knew of with a fountain and a pond in sight of each other. An elliptical path bound the features. During the day, it was an endless loop for joggers. Few used it this late in the evening. Right now a single man occupied it, exercising some sort of yellow dog. A retriever? A Labrador? Whatever. Something big and meaty.
It was already twenty past. The breeze stiffened under the darkening sky. Despite the chill, Mr Banks was sweating. He tugged at his scarf.
He'd arrived alone, as asked. Every shadow hid a detective waiting to pounce. Every person he'd passed was an undercover cop.
It was a stupid prohibition, when you thought about it. But the Animal Care Act recognised all animals as sentient beings. And the Humanitarian Ethics Act, just a few years younger, granted all sentient beings the right to life.
The society's reputation was that of a body of people unafraid to use their canines for the purpose God intended. He remembered the solid, satisfying taste of meat from his boyhood. None of the synthesised concoctions on offer could replicate it.
He’d gleaned what scant information he had from message boards, and oblique references on desolate blogs. His contact, known only by the username flashing on-screen in secure chatrooms, didn’t give much away. Mr Banks had no idea where they were based, what sorts of people joined, or even how big the society was. But common sense told him the society had to be disciplined. And cautious.
They were watching him, he was certain. Checking he hadn't been followed. This was a test. They wanted to see him, check if he'd stick to their instructions.
He'd wait, show himself, prove he was alone. After thirty minutes he'd leave, and at home there'd be another enigmatic letter with further instructions.
Twenty-five past. A despondent breeze tugged brown curls of leaves in its wake. He kicked some away from his shoe, watched them drift into the gloom.
The winter-silent fountain was as stark as the deciduous skeletons encircling it. They lined the pond too, a blank stare gazing at the sky.
Half past. Nothing. No buzzing of the phone set to silent in his pocket. No note slipped into his pocket, no blood-red flash of a stranger's throat.
The dog walker made another pass. Mr Banks avoided eye contact, made a non-committal gesture: a nod that could mean anything from ‘good evening', to ‘nice dog', to ‘don't speak to me'.
The walker trundled out of his vision. He turned on his heel to face the distant gates. Another sigh, and he started walking. A few crunches of gravel. Three concrete slaps. The softness of grass.
A dozen steps. That was as far as he got before the hand clapped on his shoulder, stopping his heart.
“Mr Banks.”
He tried answering. The words snagged on his scarf. The hand gripped his shoulder, turning him around.
A slash of red at the throat. The dog walker opened his top coat button, showing the red scarf beneath.
Mr Banks smiled.
“Yes. Yes, that's me. Mr Banks. And you are?”
The stranger ignored his hand, shaking his shoulder instead. 
“Come with me. You can call me Mr Maumi.”
The stranger didn't wait. Mr Banks trotted the first steps to catch up.
“So, where we're going, is it far? Should I keep my scarf on?”
“Drink this.”
The stranger thrust a thumb-sized bottle at him.
“What is it?”
“Drink. Or stay here. I really don't care.”
Mr Banks took the liquid. He unscrewed the cap. Sniffed. Odourless. He swallowed it in one go.
Another test.
They left the park in silence.
 
*  *  *
 
Four blocks. Five blocks. Six blocks, into an area of the city he'd never been to before. Buildings swung left and right. The moon was a rippled puddle.
Mr Banks' head drifted around his mind. If he lost the stranger, he'd never find him again. He could wander for hours before finding anything familiar. Even the park was a vague memory, mud at the bottom of a pond.
An alley, oil-slick puddles and reeking of urine. Sirens, moaning a distant refrain. A mound of flattened detritus that may have been a person.
“Where are we?”
“Almost there.”
His stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. He wanted to savour every bite of whatever meat they served.
Wheezing. The dog strained against her collar, breath ragged.
“Why don't you get a harness?”
The stranger shrugged.
“No point.”
He yanked the dog's chain, dragging her back to heel. The animal made a coughing sound, and lurched forward again.
“Why join,” asked the stranger.
Mr Banks stumbled.
“Um. Well, it's a human rights issue. If you don't want to eat meat that's fine. But there's no reason to stop other responsible adults from doing so.”
“Food fascism.”
“Exactly. Why should we be made to feel bad for doing what our bodies were designed to do?”
Mr Maumi’s teeth glinted.
“That's what I say.”
“As long as it's killed humanely, what's the issue?”
Another smile. Mr Maumi looped the dog's chain, pulling her closer.
“An unpopular opinion. Must make mealtimes difficult.”
“Oh, I don’t have any family. None I’ve seen for ages, anyway. Nobody local.”
The tangle of alleys knotted around them. Mr Banks' felt like a weighted balloon. Helium on top, sandbag legs. He suppressed a yawn.
“So, when do we eat?”
“Soon enough. What's your definition of ‘humane'?”
“Killing the animal as quickly and painlessly as possible. Drug it maybe, to keep it relaxed. Stun it. Then a quick slash to the throat and it's all over. How does the society get the meat? I know you don't know me, so I understand if you don't want to tell me. But I am curious.”
“Tough times. I don't know if we'll ever reverse that stupid piece of legislation. People have moved on. Some people. We still believe in freedom. We have to go get it, bring it back ourselves. But there's freedom in subterfuge.” He pulled the dog closer again. “Once you've crossed the line, you're free to do as you please. We used to eat beef, lamb, pork, chicken. They took all that away. So we took matters into our own hands. Why stop at those boring staples, raised on the cheapest feed and almost tasteless? Real meat is free, unrestrained. Every piece should have its own taste. And, when nothing’s farmed, you have to eat what you can.”
Something rattled the darkness of the alley. A rat? A cat. The dog stopped, and cocked its ears. A pigeon fluttered its wings on a windowsill above them. For a second, the grey moon flashed a gull’s silhouette through the gap between the tall buildings.
“So many flavours to try,” said Mr Maumi.
Mr Banks nodded.
More gulls, cawing in the moonlight. The sound of lapping water. They were near the docks, at a small entrance to a large warehouse. Mr Maumi took a set of keys from his pocket. He handed the chain to Mr Banks.
“Here. Hold this.”
Mr Banks did as he was bidden.
The key cast a shadow on the ground. It rippled across an oily puddle as Mr Maumi stepped up to the dark, metal door. A padlock the size of Mr Banks’ fist held it shut. The mechanism creaked and groaned as the key prised it open. A short chain clanged against the door, echoing off the close warehouse walls. The hinges screeched as Mr Maumi pushed the door open.
The dog twitched. Mr Banks stared into the doorway. Something, some unidentifiable smell, wafted out. The dog whined.
The darkness was thick and greasy. Not even moonlight dared enter.
“Come in. Bring the dog.”
“Is this… where we meet?”
“We’ve already met. It’s where we eat.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Scary building, huh? Everyone gets nervous when they get here. This whole wharf is disused. Used to be an old meatpacking warehouse. Animals came in the front, food came out the back.”
“I’m not sure about this.”
Something clicked in the darkness of the alley. Something that wasn’t in Mr Maumi’s hand before. He pointed it at Mr Banks.
“It’s too late to back out. Get in the building. Slow steps, in front of me. Bring the dog.”
Mr Banks dropped the leash. If the dog ran off, that second could be all he needed to turn and run.
The chain clanked to the floor. The leather loop splashed into a puddle. The dog trotted over to Mr Maumi. Mr Banks’ concrete legs refused to move.
Mr Maumi wagged the gun in the direction of the door.
“You can’t run. The drugs make sure of that. And where would you go? You’re lost. There’s no-one here to report a gunshot.”
“People will come looking. My name’s not Mr Banks.”
“I know, Alan Stephens. You live alone in an apartment you own. No mortgage lender or landlord to come looking for money. You have no girlfriend. Your mother passed away several years ago. You don’t speak to your father.”
Hands trembling, Alan’s shoes crunched over the loose gravel escaping the cracks in the tarmac. They sloshed through the puddle and took him over the threshold. Heavy shapes lurked in the shadows. Before his eyes could adjust, the door clanked shut and he was in absolute darkness.
Something crackled behind him. A sharp, electric sound. A blue-white flash threw his shadow on to the skeletons of chains and hooks hanging from the iron beams. He turned. Before he could call out, the Taser bit into his neck.
 
*  *  *
 
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Mr Maumi looked up from his plate. The dog knew not to beg when he was eating. Instead, it had taken to lapping up the drips as they fell to the tarmac sheet.
It wasn’t an elegant meal. A slab of meat fried in an old frying pan on a camping stove, a few mushrooms tossed on the side. But, you had to eat what you could catch nowadays.
He put the plate on the floor. The dog came trotting over to clean it.
He opened his laptop. It would take several hours to gut and joint the carcass, giving him enough meat to fill his chest freezer. The river would wash away the entrails. The screen threw a ghoulish light into his features.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
 
 
 
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He sat alone at the occasional table in his living room. Desolate crumbs and a streak of marmalade littered his plate. As always, he was up with the dawn. He watched the birds attack the leftovers he’d laid out for them. Only the large pane separated him from the world. It was enough. He took his plate into the kitchen, ran half a sink of water and washed the plate. He dried it, put it away, and returned to the living room.
On his way past he looked out the dining room window. Parked across the road was a Royal Mail van. Good. He hated sitting around, looking for something to fill the day until they arrived.
Minutes later the businesslike knock he’d been waiting for brought him to the front door. He smoothed his hair with his hands, adjusted his shirt and prepared his smile. He opened the door.
“Good morning. Parcel for you.”
“Thank you.”
He took the proffered stylus and scrawled his signature on the little screen. He hated the way the stylus slid around, making his writing look like someone else’s. Still, he kept the smile until the postman left.
The smile grew into a grin once he’d shut the front door. The old desk in the dining room was now his workspace. It wasn’t a dining room anymore. He ate most of his meals at the occasional table in the living room, the rest in front of the TV.
The desk itself was almost empty. Only a photo of his ex-wife stayed next to his laptop when he wasn’t working. He placed the brown cardboard box next to it. From the top drawer, he took a letter opener. With a series of smooth, careful actions he worked his way through the packing tape at the top and both ends, making sure not to touch the contents. At the top of the box, in a brown envelope, was a docket detailing the contents. He opened it, and took note of how many smaller packages should be inside. He counted them out. Then he put them back in.
Not many. Not enough for a day’s work, but enough to keep him busy into the afternoon.
He turned on the laptop and loaded his employer’s website.
Freelance colleagues please sign in here.
He clicked the text, then typed his ID and password into the pop-up.
Please wait.
While the blue ‘almost there’ disc span, he took the packages out of the box. There were seven. He laid them in a neat line to the right of his laptop.
Please scan today’s itinerary.
Each package had a white barcode label stuck to the rear. He held each in turn, in front of his webcam, watching the hourglass turn into a green tick before raising the next one. After that, he held the letter to the camera.
Consignment complete and authorised. Please ensure all repairs are complete by 09:00 am tomorrow. A courier will arrive between the hours of 09:30 and 10:30.
He opened each small package and placed the phones on top of their envelopes. He wrinkled his nose at the last one, put it back in its envelope and pushed it to one side. He’d deal with that last. With all the phones in a neat row, he left the desk and went into the kitchen.
There wasn’t much to see in his garden. He looked out the kitchen window as the kettle boiled. A patio led to a trimmed lawn. A thin border ran around it. He’d not planted anything in there this year. Gardening had been his wife’s passion, not his. He was going to seed the border in the spring, have the grass from fence to fence. All he needed was the bird table.
The click of the kettle boiling brought him back. He made a pot of tea and put it on a tray. He placed a china cup saucer next to it, and carried the tray back to the dining room. A side table stood next to the desk, and it was there he put the tray. He turned on the DAB. Radio Four as always. He sipped his tea, and sat down to begin his work.
He took a small tray filled with screwdrivers of all types and a USB cable from the top drawer of the desk. A range of adaptors for different phone types sat next to the cable. Then he worked through the collection of broken phones sitting atop their envelopes. Most were in need of physical repairs. Broken screens, unresponsive buttons and worn headphone jacks took up the majority of his time. There were a few firmware issues that required some tricky debugging via the laptop, but even those didn’t take too long. After each repair he put the phone back into its envelope and scanned the barcode again, marking each one as complete. Then he put each envelope back in the box.
He never noticed the time pass when he was engrossed in his work, and it took his stomach rumbling to stop him. He checked his watch. Lunchtime. He made himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and ate in front of the news.
Big Pharma was everywhere. The reporters might not have come out and said so, but he knew. They owned the politicians dismantling the NHS, and the healthcare companies picking over its carcass. They controlled the supply and the price of medicines the world over. They influenced the media and politicians, and suppressed all views contradicting their own. They had brainwashed almost the entire human race into believing their rhetoric of drugs being the cure for all ills. Even his dear Jenna had clung to her belief in drugs and chemo, right until the end.
He scowled, and turned the TV off. Thank God for the Internet, where open-minded people like himself could learn, research and discuss their discoveries. He left his half-eaten sandwich on the plate and went back into the dining room.
The final envelope. He turned her photo away before opening it.
The phone was white, or had been when new. The edges were now a shade of grey, with yellowy marks. The screen had one of those adhesive protectors on, but it was slick with nicotine. He imagined some great ox of a bloke frowning as he exhaled clouds of noxious smoke over the device, jabbing at the screen with fingers clamped to a cigarette.
He opened the bottom drawer and lifted the false bottom. Hidden therein was a small Ziploc bag. Inside those were several identical devices. To anyone else, they’d look like standard mobile phone components.
Through his reading, he’d come to realise everything in creation had a rhythm. People had biorhythms. Animals had them. Plants had them. Crystals had their own. Mains electricity cycled at fifty hertz. Mobile phones transmitted their signals at bands between eight hundred and fifty, and two-thousand, one hundred Mhz. Cancer, he’d learned, occurred when the unnatural rhythms in the environment overcame the body’s natural biorhythms. Cancer, like most diseases, preyed on such weakened states. Cancer had its own rhythm, forcing cells to multiply too fast.
Energetics was the word for it. Unnatural substances -processed foods, drugs (yes, even caffeine), alcohol- all weakened the body’s ability to maintain its rhythm; its own refresh rate, if you like. Alter that rate, say by interrupting the cells’ natural rate with a high-frequency chip operating beyond the human auditory range, and the cells reproduced much more quickly. Malignant cells, such as those stimulated by the carcinogens this nicotine addict inhaled daily.
Life is a gift, one that ought not to be squandered so readily. All he was doing, really, was to speed up the inevitable. Loading the dice a little, so the gambler lost sooner rather than later. And when enough people lose, fewer people choose to gamble. He inserted the little gold pillow next to the earpiece, plugged the USB cable into the phone’s socket and launched the diagnostic tools. And while the blue ‘almost there’ disc span in the centre of the screen he poured another cup of tea.
 
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He slammed the door, and stormed into the drizzle. The terraced roofs were slick and grey, as were the pavements. The skies were darkening and he had nowhere to go, but he needed to get out. The rage had expanded out of his chest and into his voice. If he wasn’t careful it might spread to his fists. Better to walk it off. His footsteps echoed off the narrow houses, slapping the shadows around him.
Why did it always have to end in an argument with her? They were in a shitty situation and arguing never helped. It filled the house with dangerous electricity, left razors hanging in the air.
The village had few streets to roam, and none without noses poking through the curtains. He didn’t fancy the crowd in the pub. Besides, he didn’t have the money to spare. He marched through puddles of orange streetlight, and headed for the estuary instead. The streets were quiet. Half the village filled the two pubs, the other half remained glued to Coronation Street.
At the far end of the village the sea wall stopped next to concrete steps, dropping away from the pavement. He stamped down each one. Sand dampened the sound when he stepped off them. He kicked a few stones as he walked along the shore. The tide was still out, though it was on the turn. The streetlamps picked out churned circles in the sand. Land Rover tracks, erasing the memories of hand-rakes and riddles. The last remnants of the industry that once was the beating heart of this whole estuary. The hardy women who picked cockles were long gone, replaced by a handful of men and their machines.
The November wind raced over the water, flinging the salty, earthy smell of the estuary into his face. He stopped to look over it.
The castle that long ago protected this once-valued port stood on the bank upriver; a faded aristocrat gazing over a crumbling estate. The estuary had long since silted up. No vessels of notable size had coursed its waters for over a century. Beyond the castle, the new steel bridge spanned the banks, and behind it the skeletal remains of the old bridge. Around the bend, but still this side of brackish water, squatted the boating club. A score of small boats moored in the waters outside, a poor image of the fishing flotilla of old. Time was, you could wade into the puddles left at low tide and fish the flatties out with a net. Nowadays...
Downriver, rain and dark clouds the colour of spent coals formed a shroud over the far banks. They were already advancing across the estuary towards him. Somewhere in there lurked the steelworks, where he'd worked until just a few months back. Once publicly owned, then privately owned, now owned by foreign venture capitalists interested only in asset-stripping the proud old industry, whilst those in London faked concern and made lucrative deals with the Chinese. No matter how hard you fought to protect what was yours, the world moved on. It pushed you out of the way, stuck a boot in your guts, and spat in your face when you tried to get up. Now he had nothing to show for the decades spent there, except a mortgage he couldn't pay and a CV nobody wanted. And now a too-low offer on a house he didn't want to sell.
He holstered his hands in his pockets, turned left along the beach and swung his feet into a steady, aimless walk. That's what they'd been arguing about. The money was enough to move, to downsize to a two-bed flat miles away. Mikey would have to change schools, after taking so long to settle in at the local primary. How would it affect him? Why should it have to? And how would he, Michael Thomas, provide for his family? Where they were going there were jobs, sure, but of what sort? Insecure minimum-wage shit, all of it. Tide marks on his watch strap showed what the worry had done. Clothes that had been snug flapped loose. He kicked another stone down the beach. It landed near the water. Wave after wave of murky brown estuary water reached for it, each one came close; each one failed. He picked it up and threw it into the estuary toward the steelworks. Then he picked up another. Then another.
Cottages lined the far side of the main road, facing the estuary. There were lights on in every one. But for how much longer? Jobs were disappearing fast, and weren't being replaced. On the hill behind them the ghost of a quarry looked on, the last watchman waiting to turn out the lights.
He'd scream if he thought anyone would listen; he'd punch if there was anything to hit. A gust of wind howled at him, echoing his frustration. He wanted to run, but the beach was bookended by a railway bridge and bypass at one end, and a rocky promontory at the other. All this space and there was nowhere to run. The rain was upon him now, icy droplets that stung his face. Somehow the estuary air always tasted muddier when it rained.
A sea wall separated the road from the shore. With the aid of the streetlights it cast a long shadow across most of the muddy flats. The gloom was thickest right next to the wall. Grey slashes punctuated the darkness where ladders dropped to the gravel and pebbles thrown farthest by the waters. He walked past one, two, three of them. Making his way to the fourth he saw something in the darkness, lying at the foot of the wall. Laid on the ground it looked like...
He sprinted the last steps.
"Hello. Hey are you okay?"
The wind and rain forgotten, he kneeled next to the prone figure.
He looked as if he was resting. Wearing a black two-piece business suit, the figure was laying on his back. The suit was sodden. His arms were by his side as if pinned there, and his legs were out straight. Had he been vertical he would have been standing to attention.
"Hello?" Michael patted the man's cheeks. Cold. "Hello? My name's Michael, I'm here to help."
He put his ear to the man's face and looked down his torso. No breath, but there was a small lump in the breast pocket. Michael fumbled for his own phone with one hand, fished out the man's wallet with the other. Perhaps the man had had some sort of seizure, perhaps there was some information in there.
There was nothing of use. No bank cards, no ID. Just a thin wad of five-pound notes. The man had no medical bracelet. There was nothing to identify him, no clues as to who he was or how he’d come to be there. Had he had a stroke? A heart attack? If so, why was he laying in such a neat fashion? He couldn’t have fallen from anywhere save for the sea wall, but the sand around him was undisturbed. There were no signs of impact. There was no blood to be seen. Had he been in a fight? There were no marks to his face. His knuckles showed no bruising or scraping. All Michael could tell the emergency services was the time he'd found the body, and the location.
In a swirl of blue, two police cars and an ambulance arrived within twenty minutes. The body was as dead as the steelworks across the estuary. An officer ushered him to the road. Another held back the small crowd spewed from The Lamb. Michael was still giving his statement when the paramedics carried the stretcher to the ambulance.
The tide of sapphire lights and white vehicles washed away. Michael looked around him. A few bystanders still awaited an encore. He walked off, unsure where to go. A kid -Michael recognised him as the Waddenson's boy- called him.
"Did you see him? Was it anyone you know? Was he dead when you got there?"
"It's late, you need to go home."
He didn't want to go to the pub. He picked his mobile and dialled home.
"Hi... yeah I'm fine. How d'you know? Oh. Look, I’m on my way back now. And... yeah. I'm sorry. We'll work something out... no, no I'm heading back now. Is Mikey in bed? Good. We need to talk about the move, a new job... just have to face up to it. Worse things happen, we'll cope. I love you."
His home was three streets back from the estuary. When the weather was right, like it was this evening, the whole village was awash with that salty, muddy smell. He'd miss it. But there were other smells to experience, bigger sights to see. There was a comfort in living in the village, a familiarity and a safety. Perhaps it was time to leave it behind, if only for Mikey's sake. What opportunities were there for him growing up in the village?
He shivered. Knives of November wind pierced his clothes. He walked on, slower now. There was no hurry. Home would be warm, the yellow rectangles shining through the front door more welcome tonight than they had been for months.
 
 
You can follow me at www.facebook.com/morganclarkauthor
To purchase my novels or audiobooks, please visit https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthony-Morgan-Clark/e/B00JTHFCCG/ (Kindle and paperbacks). For all other electronic formats visit https://books2read.com/ap/8VKGAx/Anthony-Morgan-Clark.

​“It’s a beautiful plot,” he says to you. “South facing. It’s far enough from the road to be quiet. But it’s a main road, so it’s easy to find.”
That it is. You shield your eyes from the sun. A ripple of wind blows through the treetops marking the edge of the meadow. Your top flutters in the breeze. You think, it’s a shame to dig up this field.
“It is,” you murmur.
Even though the sun has been pressing down all day he insists on wearing a two-piece suit. A black two-piece suit. You wonder if he’s going to loosen the tie. His face is as red as the wild poppies dotted all over the field, and the sweat is slick on his cheeks.
“So how much?”
He tells you a number you’ve already been given. It’s written down somewhere, but you can’t think of anything else to say. The silence here is as oppressive as the heat.
Honeysuckles, foxgloves, buttercups, cow parsley, corncockles, and more all grow here in mounds scattered like seeds. Fat bees carve a determined path from hummock to tump, riding the invisible waves of the breeze. The same gentle gust buffets cabbage whites and red admirals as they flutter around the meadow.
Christ, it’s hot.
You nod. He hands you a card. You watch him walk back to his car. Then you walk back to yours.
A plot like this. If it were up to you, you’d leave them alone. Leave them to nature. Leave them to the wildflowers and the insects. You tell yourself, it’s not about you. She left clear instructions and your shoulders have to be broad enough.
The knowledge does nothing to lighten the load.
A deep breath shudders from your chest. With a heavy clunk, you shove the seatbelt buckle in place. The card is still in your hand. You know what it says but read it anyway.
Roy Sheen,
Natural Meadow Burials.
 
 
 
 
You can follow me at www.facebook.com/morganclarkauthor
To purchase my novels or audiobooks, please visit https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthony-Morgan-Clark/e/B00JTHFCCG/ (Kindle and paperbacks). For all other electronic formats visit https://books2read.com/ap/8VKGAx/Anthony-Morgan-Clark.
 

The Windscreen Notes
 
“Bloody rabble.”
Evan’s office was on the third floor of a drab concrete monstrosity assembled in the 1960s. It overlooked a small car park, the main road, and a park.
“What’s the matter?”
Amber sat at the opposite desk. She shared the same window. She could see what the problem was if she tried. All she had to do was look up from her keyboard.
“It’s those kids.”
“What kids”
“They’ve been there all morning. Got to be almost half a dozen of them.”
“I’m sure they’re not doing any harm.”
“Why do they have to hang about there?”
“It’s a park, Evan. Where are they supposed to hang around?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere else. It’s not as if they’re doing anything.”
“Have you finished processing those invoices? They need to be reconciled by one.”
“If they’re still there at lunchtime I’ll go and have a word.”
“If those invoices aren’t done by lunchtime Jan will be having a word with you. If Steve doesn’t get you first. He’s stats-mad at the moment. Honestly, I don’t know how they expect the two  of us to do all this. We need more people, really. Imagine if they cut the team to one. The place would stop running without us.”
*  *  *
Evan’s pen clattered on the desk.
“Would you bloody believe it?”
Amber didn’t answer. She only had another two minutes to find out if Eddie and Martin would find Tony’s body in Dadeni Cottage.
“Would you believe it? Those kids were still there right until we stopped for lunch. I went downstairs to the car, and guess what?”
She closed The Tor and looked at him.
“They’d gone! Must’ve seen me coming.”
“I’m sure it’s coincidence.”
“You think so? Take a look. They’re back.”
“Where? They’re clearly not doing anything. Speaking of which, if you don’t log on in the next minute Steve will be wondering why you’re late starting work.”
Work arrived in two sessions. Any invoices arriving between eight am and one pm had to be cleared by five. Anything arriving after one was added to the pile for the following day. The work never stopped. Not that they got any recognition or thanks. If they worked well, Steve expected them to work quickly. If they worked quickly he wanted them to work even faster. For what? They got paid the same no matter what pace they went.
Stats drove the office. From the moment he logged in to the moment he left for home, the system monitored and recorded everything. How long it took him to deal with an invoice. How long it took him to open the next one. How many invoices he dealt with per hour. What time he took his breaks.  How long he spent on each break. How his stats compared to the company average.  And all the while tomorrow’s documents swelled his in-tray.
By three he hadn’t stopped. They got a lunch break in the afternoon, and that was it. His head pounded and hid hands ached. An email pinged into his in-tray. Steve. ‘Can we chat tomorrow about your stats’.
He thumped the keys as he worked through the invoices. Amber looked up.
“Are you okay? Your keyboard’s making a heck of a noise.”
“I’m fine.”
By five he was exhausted. He logged out of the system and said goodbye to Amber. He grabbed his coat and swept down the stairwell.
The car park was almost empty. Somehow the others always managed to get away before him. That wasn’t all that annoyed him. He could see it from the steps. He thought about running; but no. They could still be watching. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He plucked the note from under the wiper, and waved it at Amber.
“Now do you see?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s because you park on the end.”
“It’s the only place I can park.”
“Then get a smaller car. Why do you need such a big estate? You could fit a body in that boot. Bye, Evan.”
A car reversed past his. In the rear view, he saw Amber’s sensible Corsa roll by. He waved, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy fiddling with the radio.
He opened the slip of yellow paper.
‘Kill’.
Humph. Bloody rabble.
He started his engine and prowled after Amber.
*  *  *
The next morning Evan arrived five minutes earlier than usual. Still, the small car park was crowded. After circling it twice he ended up in his usual spot.
He let himself into the empty office. He glanced at Amber’s vacant chair, then stared out the window.
“I wonder where the rabble is today.”
“What?”
The voice startled him. He kicked the bin as he turned in his seat. A small yellow ball rolled onto the carpet.
Steve.
“Sorry mate, didn’t mean to make you jump. Amber in yet?”
“Haven’t seen her.”
“Unusual. When she gets in, let her know I need to speak to her.”
“What shall I say it’s about?”
“Just ask her to come to my office.”
Amber didn’t arrive by nine, or quarter past. At half past, Steve dropped by again. At nine forty-five he wanted to know if she’d phoned Evan, or if Evan had any idea why she wasn’t answering her phone.
“Evan, you okay? Every time I drop by you’re staring across the road. What’s up?”
“There. There they are.”
“Who?”
“Those kids.”
“Where?”
“They were there just now.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Probably not up to anything. I dunno why they’re not in school though. Be sure to send Amber to me when she gets in.”
By eleven Steve was muttering about zero-hour contracts, and how those on them needed to be so careful about keeping their jobs.
“She seemed happy here,” said Evan, “but you never can tell. People leave all the time.”
“Yeah. Listen, about that email I sent. Jan’s concerned about your stats, and so am I. You need to pick up. Would it help if we moved your workstation?”
“What?”
“Away from the window. Somewhere where there’s less  distraction. Look, a heads-up. Jan wants a report on your performance by the end of the day. She just emailed me again. It’ll take me, what, forty-odd minutes to do the Excel sheet. I’ll start at around three, so do what you can to make the stats look good between now and then, yeah?”
The office door closed. The frosted glass swallowed the shape of Steve.
“But it’s just me in the department,” said Evan.
At lunchtime, Evan went to his car. There was a staff break room in the basement. Dingy, grotty and noisy, and filled with too many people. Much better to make the short drive to the parade of shops.
As he got closer to his car something caught his eye. Something fluttering in the breeze, like a butterfly caught in a web. A note pinned under the wiper blade.
‘Kill’.
The same yellow paper as before. He screwed it up and dropped it on the passenger seat.
Little bastards.
The rest of the day passed without interruption. He looked out the window every so often but caught no sight of the rabble.
At five he logged off the system. He picked up his coat and was stepping out of the office when he narrowly avoided a collision.
“Oh! Oh, I am sorry, Evan. I didn’t see you there. Do you know where Steve is? I’ve not seen him since this morning.”
Evan puffed the air out of his cheeks.
“Hi Jan. I’ve not seen him this afternoon. He was in here around eleven.”
“Oh, okay then. I expect I’ve just missed him. On your own, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“I bet it’s been quiet. Well, no worries. I expect I’ll catch Steve tomorrow. Take care Evan, have a good evening.”
She bustled off down the corridor, sheaf of papers in hand. Evan smiled after her and walked the other way.
Home wasn’t far. Too far to walk, but still a comfortable commute. Off the main road, left at The Crown, straight on past the little play area, and... would you bloody believe it?
The rabble was congregated in the play area, as proud as anything. A miscellany of black hoodies and black jeans. Evan slowed the car. He wanted a good look. He wanted to see their spotty little faces up close, commit them to memory for when the police came visiting. As he knew they’d have to.
He pulled to a halt in his driveway. He flicked a glance up and down the road before opening the garage door.
The side door opened into the kitchen. He sidled through and locked it behind him. He called a ‘hello’ and walked through. He was kicking his shoes off when Deb put her head around the living room door.
“You’re back.”
“Yes.”
“I was getting worried.”
“Yes?”
“You’re almost an hour late.”
“I am?” He checked his watch. “Oh. I had some stuff to drop off. Listen, there haven’t been any kids around, have there?”
“Carl had Luke over after school for a bit, and Dan’s out with his friends at the moment. They called for him about half an hour ago. Millie’s got a play date on Saturday with Jenna. Why do you ask?”
“But no one unusual. Nobody you haven’t seen before. Not hanging about the street or anything?”
“No, not at all. What’s this about, Evan? Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know.  I mean, first of all, you’re late home and seemed surprised when I mentioned it. Like you had no idea. And now you’re asking weird questions about strange kids.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of concern for my family’s security, is there?”
“No, but... anyway, your dinner’s keeping warm in the oven. I’m off out now.”
“Where?”
“Pilates. With Jo. You knew about it. I told you this morning. At breakfast. Don’t look so blank, we were sat at the table. Honestly, it’s like you’re a different person sometimes. Anyway, Millie’s watching TV in the lounge and Carl’s on his X-Box in his room. Dan’s due back half an hour early because he was late last night, but I should be back by then. That sounds like her beeping outside. Got to go. See you later.”
Different person indeed. Bloody cheek.
By the time she arrived back, Carl and Millie were in bed.  Dan’s music murmured through the ceiling. Deb swept through the door and dropped onto the sofa.
“Phew! I’m knackered. I’m gonna shower and come back down for a bit. Anything good on TV tonight?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Maybe we’ll watch a DVD then.”
“Maybe. Did you come back past the play area? You must have. Did you notice if it was empty?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“But did you look?”
“Evan, it’s nearly dark outside and I was talking to Jo. What’s this about?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry.”
“But I am worried. You’ve been off all week. What’s the matter? Is there a problem at work?”
“Uh, yeah. Sort of. I’m looking for a change, that’s all. I’m fine. Go and have your shower.”
When she came back the DVD was starting. Two cups of tea sat on the coffee table.
“I hope you don’t mind, I picked one.”
“No problem. And thanks,” she added. She picked up the tea and curled her legs underneath her.
After the film ended Deb reached for the mugs. Evan shook his hand.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get them.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Get yourself up. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Thanks.”
Deb kissed him on the cheek and made her way to the bathroom.
Once he’d heard the door click shut he took the cups to the kitchen. He checked the door to the garage was locked, then the front door. He tested the back door handle and turned all the lights off. He checked the garage door again.
He set foot on the stairs, and paused. He crept to the living room, his feet silent on the carpet. The light still off, he snuck to the curtains and teased them open, just enough to look up and down the street. The lamps showed nothing but shadows.
Good.
“Are you coming up?”
“Be right there. Leave the bathroom light on for me.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just checking the windows aren’t on the latch.”
She was in bed before he’d finished brushing his teeth. He slipped under the duvet.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
“Night.”
“Evan?”
“Yes?”
“Now I think about it... I might have seen someone in the park.”
His back stiffened.
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
She drifted off. His pulse raced. He stared at the wall and thought about the rabble.
He jerked awake. Why? What had woken him? When had he fallen asleep? He checked his phone. Almost 1am.
There it was again. A soft tapping, like tired fingers on a cheap keyboard. Deb was asleep. He chose not to wake her.
A gentle light crept onto the landing, sneaking under Dan’s door. He’d fallen asleep with the TV on again.
But the sound didn’t come from the TV.
Carl and Millie’s door was open. Not fully, but enough for a comforting fan of landing light to illuminate her pillow. The sound of her mumbling in her sleep was as familiar as Carl’s intermittent snore.
Three bedrooms filled. Soon they’d need four.
Five people did indeed make a houseful.
The tapping drew him downstairs. He peered into the living room first, though he knew that wasn’t where the sound came from. Nor the kitchen. He put his ear to the garage door. He was certain he heard the faint clunk of the external door closing.
The key was in his hand. He had no idea how, but it was. He pushed it into the keyhole. The garage was pitch-dark. He groped for the switch. After a few stuttering blinks, the phosphorescent tubes threw their glare over everything. The neat shelves. The tool chest he never used. The breeze block walls.
The windscreen.
Five yellow notes. He had no need to open them to know what they’d say.
 
 
 
 
 
You can follow me at www.facebook.com/morganclarkauthor
To purchase my novels or audiobooks, please visit https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthony-Morgan-Clark/e/B00JTHFCCG/ (Kindle and paperbacks). For all other electronic formats visit https://books2read.com/ap/8VKGAx/Anthony-Morgan-Clark.
 

​One thing I’ve noticed whilst trying to market my books, is that everyone -readers and writers alike-seem obsessed with the idea of ‘genre’. But consider this:
 
There's a boy, unsure who his father is. He lives alone with his mother, in a backwater. They make ends meet, but the rumour is, it's only because the local ruler gives her preferential treatment. Turns a blind eye to short taxes, gives a slightly higher price to the goods she sells him, that sort of thing.
The local ruler is a tyrant. Abuses his power, suppresses all opposition, takes what he want from whoever he wants, with impunity.
One day the boy comes across an injured stranger. Takes him in, nurses him. His mother wants the man out. The boy meets with the man in secret. The man tutors him, broadens the boy's mind. Teaches him how to fight. Tells him a secret.
'The tyrant is my brother', he says, 'and I'm here to kill him.'
What does the boy do? He hates the tyrant, but can he be party to insurrection? Can he afford to lose the favours his mother has earned?
One day his mother follows him. Discovers where he's been going when he should have been working. Questions him when he returns. The boy tells all.
She's terrified. She tells him, the stranger is your uncle. If the tyrant dies, all he owns should be yours, not his. We'll go to the tyrant tell him everything.
But the tyrant is cruel, and mean, and unjust. And the boy us too young to rule. Now he has to choose between his birthright and his conscience.
 
A decent story, I think, and one that's been told in one version or another countless times. Sometimes it's the plot that draws us in to a story. Sometimes it's the characters. But the genre?
I live Stephen King's writing. But my list of favourite books includes Hitchhiker's Guide, Discworld, Weaveworld, Watchmen, The Sandman, Of Nice And Men, and countless others. People are often surprised at this; as if a horror author should read only horror. I've lost count of the times I've heard, 'Oh, but you're a horror writer- you must have read X!' If truth be told, I'm not massively knowledgeable about the genre. I like Masterton's work, though am far from being an avid fan. Jack Ketchum is on my 'should read soon' list. So why am I not an obsessive horror reader? Sure, there are tropes that any genre author should be familiar with. And I think I've read (and watched) enough horror to be able to invert and play with those tropes.
But think about the story above. The two main characters, the boy and his mother, even in that brief unfinished sketch, have enough conflict to keep the reader hooked. And the uncle - is he as altruistic as he seems, or is he motivated by a cynical power grab? Is he just using the boy?
It's the story and the characters that have your attention. You don't know the genre.
The backwater is a farmstead, the tyrant a sheriff. You've got a western.
The backwater is a run-down asteroid mine, the tyrant the local administrator. You've got a sci-fi.
The backwater is a cottage in a swamp, the tyrant a wizard. You've got a fantasy.
The backwater is a post-room job, the tyrant a CEO. You've got a thriller.
My advice to readers is to not get hung up on genre. If the characters and story captivate you, the setting doesn't matter.

​There’s a McDonald’s. In fact, there are two. There's a KFC. A Burger King. A Domino’s. A Frankie and Bennie’s. All scattered along the bypasses and roundabouts strangling this town, dropped like Lego bricks on a sick child’s duvet.
The river runs through and away from the town. Sometimes it doesn’t matter where you’re running to, just that you’re running.
It’s fucking freezing, biting my fingers.
The trail walks along the river. Stop here. Look there. Think about this.
Mist hangs in funeral wreaths over the river. In the water a fluorescent jacket clings to a rock, covered in long strands of stringy weed. Bright eyes in a gaunt face. Carling, Bulmer’s, Stella; their detritus hides in the undergrowth on the banks. Interlopers, all. A phrase from a movie pops into my head: “Never shit where you eat.”
Here, in the mist and drizzle, tracksuits clutching Home Bargains carrier bags, baseball caps skipping college, minimum wage zero hours, zero opportunities, zero reasons to stay, is anybody hungry?
Fifteen feet of mosaic forms a mural. Trams. An industrial past, the skeletons of which are still in the valley’s carcass. Miners. Happy, smiling miners, hardworking men of the pits, industrious men, hard hats, a pickaxe over one shoulder, smiling, not coughing, not desperate for breath, not post-industrial destitute, not dying of lung disease and COPD before they can enjoy their pension, not leaving widows in terraced cottages as cold a tombs.
Black and grey spray paint, the cheapest, nastiest graffiti of meaningless slogans, names, crudely-drawn bollocks, cover the flat-capped chappie on the Penny Farthing, obliterates the tram and the generation-to-generation shops, and the exciting high-rise housing of the nineteen-sixties, a flash new scrapheap for those left behind.
Not art. A dirty spray-can Fuck You to the sanitised, gentrified, tourist history.
It’s glorious. And I wonder if India, if Hong-Kong, if Cairo or Sierra Leone or St Helena or Ireland are told what their heritage should be.

Through my time in self-publishing I've used Kindle publishing, Smashwords and latterly Pronoun. Pronoun was, for me, the easiest and smoothest tool for self-publishing. And, it was a platform that enabled me to access all e-book markets.
All that is now over.
A few minutes ago I received an email informing me that as of today, no new products can be uploaded to the service and no new accounts created. For reasons not really explained (come on Macmillan, you owe us that much!) the service will end in January 2018. Perhaps there are genuine business reasons. Perhaps it was all a data harvesting exercise. Who knows? Either way, I've downloaded all of my work and will now spend time I can't really afford to lose putting all my books back on Amazon and Smashwords.
This is a very important lesson. Whether you are publishing through an aggregator like Pronoun,or directly through Kindle You are at the mercy of another company's whims. It's the same for any platform you do not own. Just look at the faith we had in Facebook and how it was going to help us reach all those readers... and look now at how wide your reach is if you don't pay Mr Zuckerberg enough silver.
As indies we need more control over our work, our platforms, our marketing; everything. For several months now I've been looking at ways of hosting files for purchase via this website rather than relying on third parties. It's something I'm going to look at again in the coming months. What if I put everything through Smashwords, and they go to the wall? What if Amazon decide to charge indie authors for promotion? None of us can know what the future holds.

The full text of Pronoun's email is below:
Epilogue
Two years ago Pronoun set out to create a one-of-a-kind publishing tool that truly put authors first. We believed that the power of data could be harnessed for smarter book publishing, leveling the playing field for indie authors. 
We are proud of the product we built, but even more so, we’re grateful for the community of authors that made it grow. Your feedback shaped Pronoun’s development, and together we changed the way authors connect with readers. 
Unfortunately, Pronoun’s story ends here. 
While many challenges in indie publishing remain unsolved, Macmillan is unable to continue Pronoun’s operation in its current form. Every option was considered before making the very difficult decision to end the business. 
As of today, it is no longer possible to create a new account or publish a new book. Pronoun will be winding down its distribution, with an anticipated end date of January 15, 2018. Authors will still be able to log into their accounts and manage distributed books until that time. 
For the next two months, our goal is to support your publishing needs through the holiday season and enable you to transition your books to other services. For more detail on how this will affect your books and payments, please refer to our FAQ. 
Thank you for the time and attention you’ve contributed to this experience. It has been a privilege to publish together, and we look forward to meeting again. #keepwriting
Sincerely,
Macmillan Publisher

UPDATE: 
For reasons of ease and speed I have chosen to use Draft 2 Digital as a distribution platform, rather than Smashwords. 11all the links to my books are on the relevant pages.