‘What is it?’ I said, standing on the lip.
‘Victorian.’ He jumped in, didn’t wait for me. ‘Rubbish pit.’
I lowered myself down. In an oven tray he had collected pieces of coloured pottery, a clear bottle with a marble in its neck, a broken ceramic pot stamped with ‘Bloater Paste’. I picked out the edge of a plate, licked my thumb and rubbed until the pink glaze on a dinner service appeared.
‘One man’s rubbish…’ I started.
‘On top.’ He rattled the tray. I looked again and saw a smooth brown stick, jagged at one end. ‘Human,’ he said.
My novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, has been longlisted for The Guardian’s ‘Not The Booker’ prize. The next stage of the competition is a public vote. So, if you’ve read my book and liked it, it would be great if you could vote for it here. You need to choose two books from the longlist and write which two you’re voting for in the comments section, including a short review about one of them. Thank you in advance!