by Alistair Ainscott
The prickly evergreen vines behind the childhood home of Martin Luske-Sanders rise and fall in great dunes of black-tipped thorns. There are hidden things here, inexplicable and monstrous things, lost shards of time. And it stretches before him, a dismal reflection of his future, a haunting memory of his past. A lost brother, a final truth lurking amongst the bloodthirsty thorns of the briarwood.