The Magistrate …
There was a knock on the door of the last house on Craigmillar Castle Road. The tat came before the rat, though the a-tat remained in pretty much the same place, producing a distorted, yet familiar sound, but then Alfonso Pfukuto, the knocker, was an ambiguous man. Nothing was quite what it seemed.
Alfonso waited a moment, whistling Fishers Of Men, his favourite ditty, and then pressed his ear against the door before bending down and pushing the flap on the letter box open and shouting, “I know you’re in there. It’s me.” He fidgeted, sighed, paced, knocked again and waited. Once, he’d been a welcome visitor. If they didn’t want to see him now, let them tell him to his face. He was a shameless man.
I needed to know just what Alfonso had done, or how things had changed in this household, that would mean he was no longer welcome to visit.
Now, I am but a short way into this book, yet already captivated by The Magistrate and his fellow Zimbabweans; The Maestro and The Mathematician, as they try to carve a place for themselves in the Britain that they call home.
You can read more about both book and author here …
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