By Thomas Clark
As the train pulled up to Ipswich, stopping before it continued in the opposite direction, Oliver noticed a little girl sitting on her mother’s lap. Her mother wrapped a comforting arm round the little girl’s shoulders. Normal girl, he thought, normal girl, normal clothes. What was striking to Oliver, however, were the large burn marks and contorted flesh that traced the outside of her mouth.
He could see the accident played out now, the child would have seen her mother filling up coffee cups from the kettle- the cool water gushing into the hole from the tap- before waddling over to the counter; trying to guzzle the boiling liquid straight from the nozzle. He could see the blood-screams. He could see the child sitting and waiting for her mother to come home from work, the sticky flesh embarrassingly red on her face.