David Philip Ireland
Bio
David Philip Ireland was born in Cheltenham in 1949
David has published work in music, novels and poetry.
To discover David’s back catalogue, visit: linktr.ee/davidirelandmusic
Stories (43)
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Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-seven Stonehouse The boy never came now. Nor did the Mother. The Husband had looked in once or twice before the snows had gone, but he had soon relinquished the chore. The old man was seldom lonely as he sat out his days in the first floor council flat. The gas meter ticked on, consuming the nickel coins he set aside. The world had shrunk to the dimensions of the cramped kitchen, to the area of the chipped Formica table. He sat there between sleep, sipping the cooling instant coffee that stood ever within his reach. One or the other of the books would lie open before him; diary or the book of Ilya’s verse. The verse was never read, the strong line-work of the illustrations too powerful a magnet to allow his eyes to stray, but the power of the images paled beside his own words. The fragile scrawl held the ghosts within the prison of the cracked kitchen walls. The dark stars of her eyes held his own as he followed the marks he had left on the pages of the diary.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-five Stonehouse The old man was a prisoner once more. His kitchen was the one warm place in the apartment. The familiar ice-scapes had masked the view from the bedroom windows, and there were crystallised plumes of frost spreading out in all directions on the inner walls of the toilet and the stairwell. The old man huddled close to his gas stove, an old grey blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A tin of Co-op soup stood in the pan of water, its paper label floating helplessly in the bubbles. The air in the kitchen was humid and reeked of tinned tomatoes.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-four Outside The Cotswold Cottage A city had grown up around the cottage, beyond the perimeter of the Victorian wall, in the once open fields. Silent shapes bowed low beneath the rotor blades that circled slowly over head. There were those with eyes that could see in the dark, tracing the frames of the windows through infra-red lenses, accurate barrels lining up their sights with the seventeenth century leaded lights.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-one “MUMMY!” The voice split the night, echoing through the house. Trim was instantly awake. He sat up, his body aching, the glutinous ooze smeared on leather. He listened. Acrid sweat poured from him. No other sound came. The child slept on. Three-ten. Trim pulled himself from the leather unit, his hand sticking to the surface. Sleep, in the master bedroom, was a feverish, broken stretch until the black beyond the window became grey. From the outer edge of sleep he could hear the child. She stirred in the second bedroom. The first day was beginning.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen Amsterdam. January 23rd Kramer counted lab tile, uncomfortable in the sterile surroundings, wheezing in the antiseptic air-conditioned atmosphere, too cold for January. The forensic scientist working alone at his desk would have preferred solitude, but the asthmatic fat man had insisted upon remaining in the room. De Winter, the scientist, bearded, forty, had planned a different Saturday; a day of family delights yet, here he was, verdomme, a snatched breakfast repeating on him, tearful kids waving goodbye from the back of his ex-wife’s Espace.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
