The Eight of Swords — Not Such a Predictable Story.

Eleven years ago, I had my own market stall. One day, when I’d finished setting up, I sat down to have a cup of tea. Another trader came to keep me company. He brought with him his copy of the Mirror. We drank our tea, then he went off to look after his stall, leaving me the tabloid to read.

I skimmed through the paper until a story caught my eye. It was about an immigration officer who came home to find it inhabited by squatters. I can’t remember who the squatters were, but thanks to her connections, she had them removed within 24 hours.

For some reason, the story stayed with me. I thought about it all day long. Imagining who the squatters were and how the immigration officer must have felt coming home to a house full of strangers, her privacy invaded.

It had been a while since I’d written a story. I’d written a couple of full-length novels, but I didn’t do anything with them.

A few days later, I began to write The Eight of Swords. I had to write it. In my story, the squatters are Romanian gypsies (a more romantic option in my head, plus this meant introducing the Tarot). The immigration officer is a middle-aged woman, somewhat adrift in life.

Then disaster struck. I became very ill with pleurisy; I didn’t know it was pleurisy. Neither did five different…