All stories

The air is electric. It is cool still, the summer heat yet to rise, and it seems to crackle, electric and alive. Thousands of people press eagerly together, straining to see the road ahead.

Somewhere in the distance the heavy base of a sound system pulses like the drums of war.

You are alone, focused in the crowd, your first time. Part of you would like someone beside you, someone talking too fast, adjusting their hair and their expectations. Making predictions, offering advice. You can hear all this and more going on in the shoals of people, crammed together. All around you people are laughing, limbering, snapping selfies.

The wait continues. The pressure rises.

Then the crowd surges forward. It’s happening. It’s now. Your heart rate spikes but you breathe and pull it back. You see the onlookers ahead, watching, cheering. Cheering for you. Part of you bats away a trace of fear.

The surge speeds up, you speed up with it. You cross the start line in a flurry of electric beeps and you add your own beep to the chorus. The war drums pound in your ears, the crowd is roaring, you are carried along weightless on the drama of the moment.

You scan the onlookers for faces you know but they are just a blank sea. A man shoulders past you then blocks your path, stopping your progress. You try to pass him but the road is too narrow and he is determined. You grit your teeth then use a traffic island to your advantage and slip past. He grimaces, but stays put.

Four girls in purple tutus run abreast each with a different name across her t-shirt. I’m running for Joey. I’m running for Ann.

The road widens, the race spreads to fill it, a vibrant sea of colour. Costumes and slogans and funny hats. Running to beat cancer, to save the rainforest, to help the dogs home. People call out, teasing, complimenting, laughing.

At the first hill people start to turn inwards, to lock in. Some walk, but you push on. You grab water from a frantic volunteer. You can see that the enormity of the task ahead is beginning to dawn on everyone. Someone sinks to the ground near the pavement. The first cramp of the race.

Twelve kilometres in. You are going steady but you are beginning to feel it. The onlookers are enthusiastic, but beginning to wilt. Somewhere ahead you hear a samba band. You don’t look at your watch. You know the hardest bit is still to come. The sun is high. A crust of sweat and sun cream crackles across your cheeks.

Eighteen kilometres behind you. That final hill ahead. Someone is playing Lady Gaga on a thousand saxophones.

Halfway up the hill you fail. It’s no good; you have to walk and your heart sinks. Then - a hand on your shoulder. Come on, it’s not far, just run really slowly.

And somehow you do. Somehow you’re at the top of the hill, a wonky smile plastered across your face. And the saxophones are playing Britney and you are flying down, mind and feet freewheeling, the struggle forgotten.

You sail across the finish. A photographer snaps you, sore and florid and joyful. You collect your well-earned banana. It is done.

“Come fly with my, lets fly lets fly away” she trilled tunelessly.

Ray squirmed a little inside. Ever since had told her he had bought the bloody tickets Doreen had been in dreamland

He had travelled on planes a few times for his work as an appliance fitter before he retired and knew that a flight on Easyjet was not like her Sinatra inspired day-dreams.

She had modelled her outfit on the new-look stylings of Jackie Onassis. It looked a bit strange to Ray but he said she looked smashing. Her make up had been inexpertly applied so that one side of her smile was half way up her cheeks a little like the Joker’s in Batman.

They were visiting David and Janine in Las Palmas, seeing the grand kids too. for Doreen who had never flown, it was the holiday of a lifetime.

“Now have you got the tickets?” she asked, for the thousandth time. Ray had explained they were “on the phone in my wallet”, prompting Doreen to declare “Well it cant be both! Which is it?”

The thing Doreen was most proud of though was that they were “Speedy Boarding” passengers! She imagined sailing past the riffraff alongside Cary Grant and Judith Chalmers. Ray hadn’t told her all it meant was that they could put a bag in the overhead locker. He just wanted to get there without her being too disappointed. He loved her and respected her occasional dreams. She never usually asked for much.

There were no chairs in departures and no remonstration from parents as their children lay across three seats or dropped crusts on the floor. They stood for two hours between WH Smiths and Subway squinting at the board for their Gate number.

“We are Speedy boarding passengers” said Doreen in her poshest voice to the board looking woman in the cheap uniform at Gate 92, who waved them to the back of the longer of the two queues.

When the gate opened a dozen more people rushed past them quickly without looking round or indeed carrying a large case. In the tunnel down to the runway they stopped for another twenty minutes. Ray kept his spare hand firmly on Doreen’s being as calm as possible and smiling at her. He helped her to squash into her cramped seat and walked down to the other end of the plane where the only overhead spaces remained. When he eventually returned to his seat, he ignored the person behind whose pointy shoe protruded under his own seat, spiking into his ankle.

He held Doreen’s hand again as the cabin crew explained the emergency procedures, “Brace, Brace” she repeated carefully under her breath.

Take off bought a furious pain to their ears, Doreen looked out of the window in amazement at the passing toy farms, woods and swimming pools. Ray dropped off.

In Las Palmas airport they finally got through customs.

Doreen looked exhausted. Ray felt somehow that it was his fault that her golden age of air travel dreams had been shattered. They had married so young and so quickly after she got pregnant, he knew she could have done better, he hadn’t been much of a success and didn’t look much like a member of the ratpack.

When they saw David in Arrivals, he asked how their flight had been.

“It was wonderful! Just how I dreamed” beamed Doreen,

“After all, we had speedy boarding!”

Evidence to the Covid Enquiry (Wales) 27th June 2025.From Alan Watkins KC on behalf of Neath Port Talbot District Council:

The council first noticed a strange spike in cases of Covid-19 infections on the Sandfields estate in July 2021. Strange in the sense that it was out of step with infections across the borough and, indeed, in the rest of Wales. At first this was attributed to the relatively cramped living conditions experienced by most residents of the area. This proved to be erroneous when further evidence was examined. The estate, though ageing, is well-planned for its type and was closely associated with the idea of ‘Eldorado’ – the nickname of the neighboring steel works when it first opened and brought hundreds of well-paid jobs to the area.

Extract of evidence from Linda Williams, sole surviving member of the Williams family, 47 Bevin Avenue, Sandfields, Port Talbot:

I miss my mam and dad, of course I do. But I miss my sister the most. She had a lovely wonky smile. Her disabilities did restrict her, but she never let them be the whole story if you know what I mean?

It was a terrible time to be honest. We had a little garden, fair enough. But those houses get so hot in summer and everyone cramped inside, well it was unbearable at times.

We all thought the restrictions were going to be over by July 8th. Everyone said they would be. So, word went round about the party. Money was collected for a huge BBQ. Some booze as well.

When it looked like it was going to be cancelled everyone was desperate. And I don’t know how but word got around that we were going to say f*** it. By then there were all sorts of rumours about parties in posh places. Boris Johnson’s laughing at us I heard my dad say.

Anyhow two streets got shut off, including ours and we had the biggest piss-up anyone could remember. Police never came or nothing. They’d have had a job as cars were blocking the streets either end.

Extract of evidence from Elaine Richards, formerly staff nurse at Morriston Hospital, Swansea:

We were feeling that the worst might have been over by July. The nightmare of the previous twelve months had left everyone exhausted, but perhaps, if I’m honest, a bit off guard. We’d fought the biggest battle we thought. But it was like a thin crust had formed on top of a problem that was about to burst through all over again. A strange spike they called it. That seemed a bit of a mild way to put it. Dozens of cases all in a rush. We couldn’t cope at all for a couple of weeks. Yes, there were quite a few from Sandfields in Port Talbot, but it wasn’t just there. It’s been exaggerated. Yes, there was a big party apparently, but who could really blame them what with all the things that were coming out. The papers couldn’t get enough of the ‘tragedy of the Williams family.’ And it was, of course, but the way they treated it was disgusting. I never wanted to live though anything like that again. I work in Sainsbury’s now. I’m hoping to retire soon thank God.

Ethereal fire, reds, purples and greens danced along the circumference of the circle, casting dissonant shadows that slithered up walls and around corners in complete violation of natural laws. Physics hasn't so much taken a backseat, as it was being waterboarded with enthusiasm by a short man named Lewis, the Torturer.

When a strange spike shot through the crust, Sarah took a step back. The spike withdrew and a long fingered hand, knobbled with age and labour, pushed the crust aside. It pointed at the woman and a voice muttered, in a high-pitched whine somewhere between a piglet and petulant child, "This was not the agreement." A demon crawled out of the pie. It left pear encrusted footsteps behind.

The lights dimmed all around and the shadows began talking amongst themselves, wonky smiles flapping soundlessly on the floral wallpaper.

"I told you no bloody pears. It's the acidity, ya know." The demon, six inches tall and a sickly green, tossed aside a bit of soggy fruit, "It burns horribly."

Sarah groaned and put her summoning mug down hard, cracking the enamel. "Don't be such a baby, P'ter. You're a hellspawn, it must be worse below."

"It still hurts." muttered P'ter, giving her a sullen look.

She handed him a small piece. "No, it doesn't."

"OK, it doesn't, but it could 'ave." He held the miniature plate with something akin to reverence. They ate in peace for a while. Part of the ritual. Or the rules of hospitality, Sarah supposed. When P'ter was done, he asked, "How may I serve, oh Lady of Kitchen, maker of the sacred tarts?" Under his breath he added. "Bitch with too many pears."

"What was that?"

"Nuttin."

"Better not." Sarah adjusted her apron, making sure the rolling pin holster was visible, a piece of hardwood referred to as a baking implement, but bludgeon would be just as accurate.

"I need another", she said.

P'ter was studying her cookbook collection, "Another what?"

"Another go around, just a little more time…"

P'ter scoffed, interrupting her. "That's what they all say, more time, more time, bah…" He kicked at a bag of flour ineffectually, and raised a curious eye, "Can you pay?"

"Can you do it?"

"Can I do it, can I do it?" He raised his chin, "Well, of course I can. Gimme the sacrifice and we can get on with it. And… Um… Another piece of pie?"

Sarah handed him a sickly smelling sack labelled 'Offal' and he stiffened in expectation. She placed the rest of the pie next to it. The shadows were half paying attention now, though most of them still didn't really care. They were the audience, the social backdrop to P'ter's side hustle.

"Deal!", confirmed P'ter, not taking his eye off the pie, "Gimme ten minutes to get ready."

Sarah's smile, a brittled scar across a landscape of crinkles, stretched, "Take you time, P'ter."

P'ter tossed the sack over his shoulder in a perfect arch, landing it in the middle of the summoning circle. He was elbows deep in pie even before the sack landed.

To Sarah, this was a familiar routine now. Summon P'ter, get rejuvenated, wait fifty years and repeat. Thank god for pear pies.