Fucking them. Sucking them. Feeling them. Watching them shoot. Oh man.’ In shock, Ellie and I started laughing. Dorothy grinned. ‘My husband died ...hree years ago. No, it’s okay,’ she said as our laughter abruptly faltered. ‘He was a good man and after watching what cancer did to his body I’m glad he’s at peace. But in his prime we fucked three or four times a day. Yeah,’ she said, seeing our expressions, ‘I don’t look like I’m hot to trot, do I? But I am. And about a year after he died I went a. She saw shapes, movements, heard the words and cries and whispered threats, and these she linked to her spirit companion, the young shaman who lay in a wake-sleep state on his sleeping bag in the dark hayloft of the homestead barn.The girl was young, too young, barely nine years old. The priest, her family priest for all those years and more, was holding her against his bulging belly, his fat hands fondling her thin legs under her summer dress. She sat pinned on his lap, facing him, feeling his. More

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