Gareth Robertson has been writing for as long as he can remember. A fan of such masters as Stephen King and Graham Masterton, he has had no formal training in the art, subscribing instead to the old adage: read a lot, write a lot. When not engaged in the craft, he can be found in some of Durban’s darker corners, feeding the warped engine in his head.

This is Gareth's first story for Something Wicked.

extract from Child

Jenny was standing at the kitchen sink, her forearms all but coated in a frosting of soapsuds, when the van rolled down Madson Avenue and pulled into the driveway of the old Harris place.
  She paused, flicking soap from one hand to swipe an errant lock of hair from in front of her eyes and deposit it behind her ear. Her face felt slick and greasy in the small, hot kitchen. Even with the window open and the back door ajar, that room never seemed to lose the balmy, humid atmosphere which was a trademark of Durban summers lately. She remembered summers from her childhood in Pietermaritzburg, days Ma and Pa would claim to be just about hotter than the old pottery kiln that Ma kept behind the kitchen for casting her 'projects'. Surely even those days had never been as hot as this.
  “Hotter than the devil's butt hole,” she muttered, snatching a disheveled handkerchief from the counter top and quickly mopping her face. As she did, she caught sight of herself in the side of the stainless steel KIG kettle Meredith had given her for Christmas. With her loose-fitting housedress and sweat stains the size of saucers beneath each arm, the red-faced woman that looked back at her might have come straight out of the slums of a Charles Dickens novel.
  Jenny looked away quickly before her mother could start ranting in her head. If Mrs Derringer decided to stop by now for a cup of tea, she'd have to hide in her bedroom until the woman went away. It would never do to be seen like this.    
               

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