Living on an island by Quentin Bates  Share Button  Right now
I’m finishing a a short story set in Iceland, the kind that gets
sold as a Kindle-only effort at a minimal price. It doesn’t have
a title yet, but it’ll be out early next year, a few weeks ahead
of the next book. I’m working on the denouement and (without
wanting to give too much away) the villain’s attempted escape.
Of course that means the airport and that’s what made me scratch
my head. We’ve been here before, surely?  That’s one of the
restrictions of setting your fiction on a lump of rock in the
middle of the Atlantic where only a few people live. In Britain
or mainland Europe, you can disappear. Admittedly, it’s not as
easy as it might have been before CCTV, computers and all the
paraphernalia of the nanny state watching over us, but it can be
done. A few generations ago, just moving forty miles and calling
yourself by another name would have done the trick, but today
there’s an electronic and document trail that makes the process
harder.  In