The Giant, O’Brien

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For Lesley Glaister

All crib from skulls and bones who push the pen. Readers crave bodies. We’re the resurrection men.

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‘Joe Vance will be here presently,’ the Giant said. ‘We’ll do, till then.’

A woman appeared at the door of one of the cabins. She began to step towards them, skirting the puddles, though her legs and feet were bare and muddy already. She approached. The Giant saw her large grey eyes, mild and calm as a lake in August: the fine carving of her lips, the arch of her instep, the freedom of her bones at the joint. Her arms were white peeled twigs, their strong muscles wasted; a young child showed, riding high inside her belly like a bunched fist.

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