This is an excerpt from my novel, We Were Wolves, published by Andersen Press. It’s the story of a boy who cares for, and lives with his father in the woods in Yorkshire, and it is dedicated to my own father, Alan Cockcroft. (Read This Excerpt)

There is a time in each man’s life, perhaps only a moment, when looking back he recognises that he was … (read this story)

The boy. She still had no distinct idea of who he was, only that he, like her, was struggling with the summer heat, and that he struck her as unusually serious. Not the feigned seriousness of other boys she had been out with, their gestures picked up from films … (read this story)

We were at the café, seated outside at a table under a parasol as the sun began to cloud over, and he told me that he didn't know where the time ... (read this story)

As far as I recall, my father’s last words were: ‘It doesn’t really matter.’ Which tells you as much about the pragmatic nature of the man … (read this story)

Many men have found themselves in a hole. And countless times has a soldier become lost and unable to free himself from an apparently … (read this story)

The first recording arrives on Monday at 9am, delivered by hand to the first-floor office on St Nicholas street. The arrangement is as … (Read This Story)

This is not who I am, he told me. Was he crying when he said it? Perhaps he was, or perhaps this moment became commingled in my memory … (Read This Story)

Despite his best intentions, by evening of the last Saturday in November the sycamores that Reynolds had planned to have cut down were still intact and standing no less black or dominant against the whitewashed walls of the house than they had … (Read This Story)

I must have heard the song at least once before that summer, but my only memory is listening to it with my first girlfriend, on a tape that we found in the stereo of her car some months after we’d started going out together ... (read this story)

The cut on her hand is deep and red and shaped like a small mouth where the blade of the knife caught the flesh at the base of her palm. The blood tastes good in the winter air, warm and sweet, but the cut begins to sting as she … (read this story)

Ever since we were kids, long before he ever hurt himself, people had told me my brother was dangerous. Marcus would be the one whom … (read this story)