Leila’s front wheel wobbles when she cycles over a crack in the tarmac. A car behind blares its horn as she struggles to steady the books in her basket and keep her summer dress from flaring up.
‘You daft old cow,’ the driver yells as he overtakes. He waves a flabby arm at her, blurry tattoos stretched all out of shape. She gives him the finger back.
‘Prick!’ she calls out as he speeds off.
The books are ok. All still there. No problem. She’s nearly home.
The bike hasn’t fitted in the hallway for months so stays outside, leaning against the bins. Leila shoulders the wooden door to her cottage open and wedges herself in as a tower of stacked novels tumbles onto her. Paperbacks, luckily. She picks them up and balances them back in a pile, taking her time to look and smile at the cover of many of them.
Her new charity shop gems will make a great addition to the growing library. When she finally gets round to reading them all she’ll have the best few months of her life. Hmm… maybe years now, actually.
There’s a sort of tunnel through the hallway books, thanks to Mum’s old table. Leila was able to stack books on top of it, in front of it and all around it, but still crawl under it—between the ornate carved legs. Outside the kitchen now, hugging the new books close to her chest, she wonders whether to add them to the kitchen pile or work her way upstairs.
She decides they’re really more bedroom books. Cosy crime—definitely bedroom. The steps are stacked with books though, so she pulls her weight up the banister and hoists herself over the railing. More books fall on top of her before she makes it to the literature-laden landing and she covers her head for protection from two hefty Hemingways and a hardback collection of short stories by Margaret Atwood. She hurries to the back bedroom, but the books keep falling, knocking her flat to the ground. She tries to stand again, but books pile on top of her, pinning her down and squeezing her tight—Paul Lynch, Douglas Stuart, Damon Galgut, Bernadine Evaristo—her Booker prize-winner collection turning against her. She tries to scream but paper crams itself into her mouth, scrunching in to fill her cheeks, pressing against her teeth, lips and tongue. The books keep forcing their way in, pages pushing down her throat and windpipe, scratching and scraping.
***
Leila wasn’t found for many days. Although it wasn’t clear how she’d gone, the coroner’s report noted that, despite her mouth being stretched wide by pages from a dickens novel, Leila died with a very definite smile on her face.
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Peter McAllister teaches Creative Writing for the University of Hull. He is the editor and co-founder of Inkfish Magazine and a committee member for the Penzance Literary Festival. In 2025, Peter is the Writer in Residence at The Morrab Library, Penzance, UK.
Peter’s writing builds layers of narrative through linked pieces that result in profound moments of self-realisation or dramatic action. He has been shortlisted and highly commended in several International Literary Prizes for his short-form fiction and poetry. His work has been published online, in print journals and numerous anthologies.