Pripyat in the Ukraine is a place unlike anywhere else I have been. It is a place of utter despair.
There was no peace, even in the loo. Rory’s pager and phone were going simultaneously.
I decided that Orion needed to die after the second time he saved my life.
By the time Eliza Maxine Olivia Miller was eleven, she had lived in eight different country towns.
In the spring of 1944, I was sixteen, living with my parents and two older sisters in Kassa, Hungary.
I am in the spare room, which doubles as my office, and I have just finished my day’s work.
On a Saturday morning in late November 1944, in a railway shed in the Dutch seaside resort of Scheveningen, three ballistic missiles, each nearly fifteen metres long...
The place looked like something out of Amityville: all paint-chipped walls, dusty windows, and menacing shadows cast by moonlight.
If you had visited the quaint English village of Great Rollright in 1945, you might have spotted a thin, dark-haired and unusually elegant woman emerging from a stone farmhouse called The Firs and climbing onto her bicycle.
An airship quietly sails across early in the morning and shakes us up with a taste of bombs.
It wasn’t until I did that test that I really thought about how aspects of my personality and my strengths could affect my mental health, through my reactions and approaches to things.
Killing someone is easy. Hiding the body, now that’s usually the hard part. That’s how you get caught.
In that crowded city, she had worked for a haberdasher and presided over the slow death of her mother, after which she’d discovered in herself an unexpected yearning to leave Ireland and see the world.
The two suspects sat on mismatched furniture in the white and almost featureless lounge, waiting for something to happen.
The Polydorus is a charming family-run hotel, located a short walk away from the lively town of Agios Nikolaos, one hour from Heraklion.
The dust of mountain flowers lay thick on the air, like perfume or boiled varnish.
It is a surprisingly hot Easter Sunday when I begin writing this book.
The shoes were a big mistake. Her toes had gone numb and every time a stiletto heel crunched on to the unforgiving surface of the pavement, it set her teeth on edge.
On the night that I was born, my father, Marinus, left our home while my mother was in labour and, over the eight hours that followed, slaughtered a dozen infant boys, the sons of our neighbours and friends, each one under the age of two years.