ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?
The road Angela saw in her dreams was fresh enough to sink your heels in, slick liquorice tarmac licking the horizon like a long black tongue, forked at the end. There were no workmen in her dreams, no dull machinery; instead the road swept down the main street in a viscous tide, pushing Mrs Gardner and the vicar into the dull shop windows, lapping tar against the sides of the Post Office. In reality she was sure she’d heard from someone that they were thinking of putting it a mile to the east, opposite the church, so the ancient Red Centurion pub could get the extra traffic.
When she ran her hand over the road it was cool and smooth like the back of a snake. It bucked up into her touch.
“We shan’t stand for it,” said Mrs Gardner firmly. In town meetings she glared daggers
