Story extract: from ‘Dancing on Canvey’ 

When I wake the wind’s tearing at the trees as if to rip them out by the roots, but all I care about is whether it’s too late to sneak out to the dance. I grab my coat and am running along Brandenburg to the creek by the time I wish for my gloves and scarf. It’s not just raining, it’s snowing: long sharp needles of it pointing into my skin. I’ve never been out in a winter storm at night, but the last thing I feel right now is fear. More, exhilaration. A bizarre conviction that if I can find the right place for take-off, I’ll be able to fly.

“Ashfeldt is an author of remarkable power”