by James Boyt
Mr Angry, we called him, behind his back of course. Mum had no choice but to stay with him, we knew that; we could never hold it against her, though it was hard sometimes. We had a roof over our heads and food on the table, but considering the alternative, it was a no-brainer really. Sally used to wipe the rim of his coffee mug around the cat’s bum, hoping that maybe, with him being so much older than Mum, he might catch some nasty disease and leave us in peace. It never happened of course, but for an eight year old, you’ve got to admire the logic. And then one day Mum came home from work and found him dead, at the table, face down in a bowl of soup, but we know nothing about that, honest.
James Boyt is a 33 year old IT worker who firmly believes - despite lack of ideas and motivation (not to mention talent) - that a bestselling novel is living inside him somewhere.