You return to the place you once called home, you bring your girlfriend, stay with mam, go out to roam, in the pub a story's told, ideas for films begin to mould, through past history, you both begin to comb; there was a killer who had taken several lives, mutilating as he tortured folks with knives, you pay a visit to the scene, where the blood had poured and streamed, in all were eight, though none of them survived; you pitch the story to a channel for transmission, hoping they'll take the chance to make an acquisition, and then the road takes a sharp turn, the past untangles, things are learned, but at least you take your share, of the commission.
Review of Loch Henry
