26. PAST TENSE

It was a long drive to Taradale, on the edge of Loch Maree. It would probably take me four hours to get there. I was busy with other work for Trade Fairs, and the like, and so it felt like an inconvenience. This shoot was taking me well away from base. And so just as well the money was good.

I packed my road map and headed for the most remote part of nowhere, and Fionn Lodge. The house had finally found its way onto the market. Just about everyone in the North West had heard of the place and all that had supposedly gone on there - not least the staff at Chisholm and Sons, the Inverness Estate Agency, in receipt of my services, and now encumbered with the property’s future. It was an odd story indeed.

Mary Fraser, was an elderly spinster in her late nineties. She had resided at the Lodge for over half a century, before taking her own life just a month ago. She had left a note saying that her wish was to be with her long-dead son, Donald, and that the Loch would decide her fate.

Her body was never recovered. A verdict of death by suicide was recorded at the inquest. It was concluded that the old woman, burdened with grief, and advanced dementia, had leapt to her death from Slioch Broch, right on the edge of the Loch. That should have been the end of it. But then the stories began to emerge.

The local stories. Stories of a mother, Mary, and of her son, Donald, living in the big house together over many decades. They were reliant and self-contained, until Donald finally met, and proposed, to the woman of his dreams, in the nearby settlement of Poolewe.

Just a few days before they were to be married, Donald disappeared and was never seen again. The rumours quickly spread. The locals whispered that Mary had killed Donald in a frenzied rage of jealousy. She had never wanted him to leave the Lodge, and so the old woman had made sure that he never would.

Thereafter, myths evolved into predictable tales of ghostly sightings in the mists on the edge of the Loch, and lost souls wandering aimlessly, trapped in limbo, in an otherwise, deathly silent, brooding house, haunted by its past.

Following the inquest, Bruce and McKenzie -- an Ullapool-based solicitor’s practice handling the probate and settlement -- instructed an estate agent in Poolewe to sell the property. However, fuelling rumour and speculation further still, the agent refused, stating that there was no market for Fionn Lodge and that, even if there was one, he would have no hand in its sale. Subsequently, Chisholm and Sons, became involved and, in turn, my services procured.

But I had no interest in any of the ghostly stuff. My brief was simply to photograph colour and black & white exteriors shots of the Lodge. And the sooner it was done the better, as far as I cared. And so, after three and a half hours of travelling, on a dull and grey overcast day, I was now approaching the Lodge on the Loch. I was eight miles from Poolewe.

I entered the gravelled driveway and made my ascent to the house itself. At that point the sun appeared from behind thick dark clouds, beaming golden light through the spruce trees to either side. I was glad of this. I had been concerned that the photographs, especially the monochromes, would appear flat and lifeless in the absence of any bright and direct light. I knew, from experience, that the best shots would be dampened without the warmth of sunlight on the brickwork.

I parked the car and then I walked around to the front of the Lodge. I found the grass freshly mown. Someone had obviously made headway already to ensure that the property was as presentable as it could be. As I stared at the big house a cold breeze brushed across my face.

For a brief moment I had the feeling that someone was standing directly behind me but, when I turned around, there was nobody; only the house, standing silently against the backdrop of the Loch and Slioch, the 3200ft Mountain, in the distance.

The house was abandoned and paint-cracked. From another age. The forgotten past. Though it was just past midday, the paint-flaked sash-cord windows on the upper floors looked darker than night. I had to admit that the isolated Lodge was an intimidating sight. A part of me could only admire its desolate beauty as it stood bathed in the late autumn sunlight against the blackening cloud.

I used a neutral density filter to photograph the exterior. This allowed me to stop down the lens to capture long exposures that would be drawn out to over thirty seconds each. As the low-level stratus clouds were moving relatively quickly across the grey sky, I knew that this would create a blurred sense of movement in the skies, that would give more prominence to the Lodge itself as it stood silent and motionless in the foreground. My Olympus OM4 was firmly fixed to my Manfrotto tripod to ensure that the house itself was recorded tack-sharp.

By angling the camera-view slightly, and changing to a 28mm lens, I could also capture Slioch in the frame, ten miles in the distance, at the other side of the deeply grey Loch. I shot two rolls of black & white and one of colour, and that was my work complete. I packed away the camera gear and prepared to drive away. But before leaving, I couldn’t resist peering through the windows on the ground floor.

Inside, the rooms were sparse and unfurnished, dim and void of life or character. In one of the rooms, at the front of the house, a solitary wooden chair sat in the middle of the floor, facing the window. I imagined the view of the Loch from that position. (available in printed form)


27. DROWNING IN THE CITY

The City has expanded rapidly, since the Industrial Revolution, into a gigantic powerhouse of production. Hungry and desperate souls flock here in search of employment. The infrastructure has evolved to cope with the pressure … (full story available in printed form)


28. TWO LOST SOULS

(1)

Dampness permeates the night air. Across the water, in the darkness, a police-siren sounds, and a church-bell tolls. The lights of the City flicker in the distance. Cold waves brush the stony shore, illuminated by the pale and bright moonlight. A distant boat-horn groans and wails. And then there is the sound of ungainly footsteps on a muddy track.

A container-ship slowly makes its way along the river, watched by a middle-aged lady with dark, straight, shoulder-length hair. She is standing at the river’s edge, slightly smiling, as if in anticipation. A full moon shines through the broken clouds. The wind begins to pick up, and it whistles through the trees. A lighthouse pulses across the way. The lady takes a breath and then walks away from the shore.

Walking through the night, and through the woods, the lady comes across an isolated cottage. She looks cold, and her jacket is zipped up to the neck to keep the chill out. There are no lights on in the detached house. She pauses, and then heads up to the front door. The moonlight casts a sharp shadow of the lady onto the wooden frame.

The woman takes out a Yale key and opens the door-lock. The moonlight hits her face, as she glances back over her shoulder, before entering the house.

The house has two levels, and it looks in a well-maintained condition from the outside. She walks into the living room and switches on the light. The décor is modern and the house appears to be lived-in. She turns on some lamps, and the radio, and then she begins to have a look around.

(2)

After her walk outside in the wind, Carol looks a bit dishevelled, as she stands there, in the lamp-lit living room, but she’s, by no means, an unattractive woman. She’s probably about five foot six inches in height and she has a full, rounded, figure and ample bosom. Her face, has even features, and she has dark brown eyes, and a pale complexion of smooth skin. Carol is dressed casually, wearing blue jeans, and a dark-blue long cardigan, which is hanging wide open, over a green top of soft material which has six tight buttons leading up to a wide open-neck. Her chest pushes out of the top of her blouse, just enough, to draw attention.

As she flips through a photo-album, that she has picked up from a shelf, a news bulletin broadcasts from the radio.

Carol flips through a photo-album while, in the background, a news-bulletin broadcasts from the radio.

Male Radio Announcer voice: “… it’s also extremely grim out there so please do take care on the roads this evening. Gale force winds are forecast for the rest of the night and severe weather warnings remain in place across the Southwest and surrounding areas. It is really not very pleasant at all. Stay with us for updates on the weather situation every 15 minutes …”

Carol picks up some framed pictures from the bookshelf and takes a close look at them.

Announcer: “…and the headlines once again for the Southwest. The search continues for a missing patient who escaped from the Riverview secure unit earlier today. The resident, should not be approached …”

Carol is holding a small silver frame and touching the glass with her fingers. The picture is of a wholesome-looking male-and-female couple in their early forties. He stands tall, wearing a wool jumper and shirt; she is about four or five inches shorter and has shoulder-length straight dark hair.

Announcer: “… and is described as being …”

At this point there is a buzzing sound and the mains electricity cuts out. The living room becomes dark.

The radio had been plugged into the mains and so the living-room is now silent. Carol, lets out a sigh, and walks over to the wall light-switch and clicks it back and forth. There is no power. Some moonlight is shining through the gaps in the window-curtains however; just enough for her to make out the outline of a small, circular, wooden table which has, what appears to be, four glass candle-holders. Two of them are opaque and star-shaped, while the other pair are round and clear.

There is an electronic lighter on the bookshelf. She picks this up, flicks it, and lights up all four of the candles. One of the star-shaped candle-holders is deep blue, while the other is dark green. The remaining two are clear and show a golden flame. The candles all glow-away nicely on the small wooden table which Carol has moved over to sit right next to a big, comfy, sofa-chair which has wide, soft, arms. There are folded wool-blankets hanging over back of the chair, and the candle-light casts a wavering shadow of Carol’s head onto the plain wall directly behind her. She looks over to the face of a ticking-clock, sitting on top of the bookcase. The hands display a time of twenty-five past midnight.

Carol sits back on the sofa, rests her head on the blankets, and tries to relax. Her legs are crossed, and her left-foot sandshoe twitches up and down. The strong wind howls through the trees, shaking the branches. Eventually, Carol doses off. Her eyeballs move slowly, back and forth, under her eyelids, as she begins to dream. Outside, there is the sound of twigs cracking, under the force of footsteps.

There is the sound of footsteps approaching the cottage. Carol continues to dream and is unaware of this. Then, there is a loud, single knock, on the door. Carol’s eyes snap open wide. The handle of the door now rattles, repeatedly. Carol rises up from her chair, looking fearful.

(3)

Carol stares at the outside door, and then her gaze fixes on a stand next to the fireplace. The door-handle rattles impatiently. Carol’s brow is deeply furrowed and her heart is pounding in her chest. She steps, quickly, to the fire-stand and grabs a thick, iron, poker. She holds it with both hands.

Carol now stands at the outside door, poker in hand. A young-sounding voice of a man shouts “Hello! Can you let me in?” His voice sounds urgent, but not unpleasant.

“No, go away!” Carol shouts back, with strain in her own voice.

“Please, I need help!” the man pleads.

“Well, who are you?” she asks.

“I’m hurt, please!” he says. “Can I just use your phone, or anything, just for a minute. Please!”

Carol is in a dilemma. She huffs, and puffs, and sighs. But she also keeps a tight grip on her poker. Finally, she releases the bolt, and opens the door, slightly, and peers out. Standing, at a lower level, down a step, is a man of about twenty, who has thick, short, dark hair.

“What do you want?” she asks, through the gap in the door, while holding the poker up in front of her. “Do you know what time it is, for God sake, what are you doing here?” she says, firmly.

“Please, let me in,” he says. “I fell. I think I’ve busted my arm. Please.”

Carol hesitates.

“Okay, well, hurry, before we both freeze to death.” She opens the door, and the young man follows her in, along the short hall, and into the living-room. He is carrying a small backpack.

As the outside door clacks shut, the draft blows out the candle-flames on the table, and now they both stand in the living-room in near-darkness. Carol, still holding her poker at chest-level, takes a good look at the young man. He stands a few inches taller than her and has an athletic-looking, strong, body. His small backpack hangs over his left shoulder and he has his right arm tucked up, and wrapped around his torso as he winces in pain. He doesn’t look that threatening and his eyes don’t hold steady contact with hers. Instead, his uncomfortable gaze moves back and forth, from her face to the poker she is holding. As he stands there in the dim light, hugging himself, he appears more vulnerable than dangerous.

He appears more vulnerable than dangerous and Carol quickly concludes this. And so she puts the poker down as he is no threat to her. Her tone changes.

“Here, put that down.” She gestures to the bag he has over his shoulder. Her voice softens a bit. He puts his bag down on the floor. “You’re freezing, you poor thing,” she says, in a mothering type of way. He awkwardly sits down on a big armchair. She gets a blanket, spreads it wide, and wraps it around his shoulders, as he lets his weight fall into the chair. Carol then stares at the blown-out candles on the table. She holds her gaze on them and seems a little bit perturbed for some reason.

Carol stands above him, looking down. “I’m sorry there’s no electric,” she says, “the lights went out with the storm earlier.” Carol speaks with good diction and some authority. She sounds educated, perhaps middle-class. She has the sort of voice that commands attention. “Hmmm, they’ve been flickering on and off for ages but I think they have finally given up the ghost,” she says, casually and clearly.

“Ah, I don’t mind,” he says, sniffling and shivering, “it’s better than being out there.” his speaking manner is polite, and eager to take instructions for his own good. It is the voice of a boy, in a sense, rather than that of a man-of-experience. The time on the clock says twenty-five to one am. Carol sits back on the arm of the other chair and looks at the lad, wrapped in his blanket, and gently sighs.

“What the devil are you doing out, on a night like this, you’re lucky you didn’t catch your death?” she asks, slightly scolding him, but with a caring tone.

“Thanks for opening the door,” he says, gratefully, in a shivering voice. “It’s fucking freezing out there”

“Yeah, precisely,” Carol is sitting just a few feet from the lad, and looking at him sympathetically. Her open-neck blouse, revealing her chest cleavage, is at his eye-level. Carol then gets up from her sitting-position, on the chair-arm, and heads out of the living-room. “I’ll find you another blanket,” she says, as she walks out of the room. The lad sits on the chair, yawning tiredly, and clutching his sore arm.

Carol heads into a nearby bedroom, picks up a blanket off the bed, and then pauses to think. In the living-room, the lad looks towards the door to see if she is coming back, and he also takes the opportunity to glance around and get his bearings. With signs of pain in his face, he reaches out and picks up his rucksack from the floor and carefully places it next to him on the big armchair. Meanwhile, Carol is standing in the bedroom, clutching a blanket, and speaking to herself. “It’s fine, it’s all fine, I’m fine” she says, reassuring herself, and then she lets out a sigh.

"It’s fine, it’s all fine, I’m fine." Carol tries to reassure herself, and then she lets out a sigh of frustration and doubt. She actually has a thick towel in her hand, not a blanket.

She walks back into the living-room. “Found a towel. This will do, won’t it?” Carol places the bath-towel over his midriff and legs. She then freezes and fixes her gaze on the now-lit, and glowing, candles on the table. After a pause, she picks up a clear, round, candle and holds it very close to his face. He looks a bit perturbed at this, as he sits there wrapped up.

“Do I know you?” she whispers to him. She is only about a foot away from his face. Very close.

She keeps staring at him. Finally, he grunts in pain, and this breaks the spell.

“What have you done to yourself?” she asks him, as if talking to a child. “Let me see.” She folds back the blanket hanging over his shoulder. “Don’t be a baby,” she tells him, “I used to be a nurse … well … I wanted to be.” He groans in pain.

“I helped the nurses,” Carol informs him. “Anyway, let me … see. Well, do you think it’s broken? When you fell, did you feel it break, or hear it snap?”

“Fuck knows,” he says, with a pained expression. “I heard something, but it could have been the bits of wood or twigs I fell on.”

Carol puts her hand out to his arm. “I really need to …” She grips his arm. He winces in pain. “Fuck!” he says.

“Hmmm, can you move it at all, your fingers?” He twiddles his fingers a little bit.

“I don’t think you’d be able to move it at all if it was broken. I remember when my little boy broke his arm. And I think you’d be in a lot more pain …”

“More pain?” he snaps back at her. “It hurts like a bastard already.”

“How did you fall?” She puts a questioning tone into the word “fall.”

“I was running, I don’t know, and then I tripped over a fucking tree stump, and bam down, I fucking went.”

Carol puts her hand over her face in a gesture of angst. She then meets his eyes directly. “Look, I know you’re in pain, but I really would appreciate it if you wouldn’t swear quite so much. My husband always swore, and I hated it. I am sure it’s not that necessary,” she says, sternly.

“But it hurts like … a lot”. He moderates his language.

“There. That’s better,” she says, putting on a face of approval.
“So, we’re looking at it, just above the elbow. I think we need to take the weight off it for a start.” Carol looks around. “There’s a scarf I saw somewhere, we can use it as a sling.” She walks out, through the door, and then “Oh!” she exclaims, and comes back in. She picks up a candle, from the table, and then leans forward to just be just a few inches from his face. “I can’t see a flaming thing,” she tells him.

Carol heads into a dark bedroom with the glowing candle. She places it on top of a mirrored clothing-chest. She opens and shuts the drawers, in search. She finds a set of spectacles, and tries them on. Now on his own, the young man looks about a bit. His curiosity draws him to a small picture frame on the library shelf.

He looks over at a framed-picture of a male-and-female couple in their forties. The man is wearing a wool jumper and shirt; she has shoulder-length straight dark hair. And then the lad thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. The lady in the picture begins to look like Carol. He lets out a gasp of disbelief.

(4)

In the bedroom, Carol takes the specs off and places them down on the cabinet top. She holds out a long scarf in her hands and starts to twist it around and play with it. She starts to feel a buzzing sound, and whispering voices, in her head. She wipes her brow, and shakes her head a little, as if to brush-off a strange feeling or memory. Meanwhile, the lad is shifting around in his chair, grimacing in pain. Carol waits in the hall, and peers through the gap in the door at him for a while. Watching him closely. He starts to get the creeps. He calls out “Hello?” in an unsure tone, to check where she is. She stares, through the gap, for a while more, but doesn’t answer him.

And then she finally enters the living-room again. “Why are you shouting? I’m just here,” she says, reassuringly, with a slight smile on her face. But he looks a bit disconcerted.

She starts to get slightly bossy. “Now, let’s pop this off.” She removes the blanket from his shoulder. “Right, just lift your arm up a little bit. Pop this through there …” She starts to sing a lullaby to him and hums away. “There, how’s that, better? She has slinged-up his sore arm. He looks slightly worried, in reaction to her motherly manner.

“That’s much better, thanks,” he says, politely.

“See, told you I used to be a nurse.” He gives her a little smile of gratitude. She flops back onto the main couch. “I would phone for a doctor, but the phone is dead.” Carol holds a cordless handset to her ear. She laughs. “What’s silver, and doesn’t work?” she asks him, with a giggle. She then stands up, moves forward, and puts the handset to his ear. “This telephone,” she chuckles. And then she flops back onto the couch, giggling.

He produces a mobile phone from his pocket and starts to tap it. She looks a bit disconcerted at this action, and her giggling face falls. Her tone gets serious. “I doubt you’ll be able to get a signal, in the middle of nowhere, or hadn’t you noticed?”

He produces a smart-phone from his pocket and checks the screen.

“I’ve got no battery left anyway,” he says, with a shiver. “It’s ok, just let me warm up a bit, rest, and I’ll get out of your way.”

“You wanna go back out there again?” she says, sharply. “In this? You wanna break your neck as well?” The living-room lights come back on.

“And then there was light!” she announces, in a shrill voice, with her arms splayed.

Carol has a big beaming smile on her face. “Yay!” she says, as stark white light fills the living room. He chuckles at her reaction. “Ah, thank goodness,” she says, laughing. And then her face goes stern and she stares at him.

Her sudden change of mood spooks him. “Are you okay?” he gently asks her, warily. Carol sees a vivid picture, in her mind, of a young boy, in a striped T-shirt, playing outside in a garden. The boy, in her mind, is playfully waving a bottle and there is a jet of water spraying out of it. And then the lights snap out again.

“Oh!” Carol slaps her hands on her knees and lets out a groan of frustration. “What a bugger! Or as you might want to say, what a fucking bugger.” She glares at him with hostility.

He laughs at her ‘joke'. “Oh well, it looks like we’re stuck here for the night. And, if that’s the case, I for one, would like to know your name.” She puts out her hand to shake his. “I’m Carol.” He can’t shake back with his right hand as it is in a sling. There is an awkward pause, and then he says, with a wince, “I’m John.” She grips his other hand a bit, to complete the ritual.

“That’s a lovely name,” she says, gently, looking at him with care. “Always liked it.” He looks down, not meeting her eyes. “It’s nice to meet you John,” she says, more formally. He gives her a bashful smile. She looks a bit wistful.

There is an awkward silence, between them, for a moment. And then she says: “I’d prefer more candles, if I can find any.” She stands up, holding one burning candle in her hand, and stares, somewhat transfixed, at a star-shaped candle, and a round one, sitting together on the circular table. His rucksack then falls down on the floor. A thick roll of £20 notes drops out of a side-pocket and momentarily lies next to the bag. He quickly puts it back out-of-sight into the sack. Carol heads into the dark kitchen with the small, clear, candle.

Carol finds a big, thick, candle in a kitchen cupboard. “How far from town are we?” John shouts from the living room. Carol, puts the lit candle under her face, to make herself look creepy, and comes back into the living-room. She makes her eyes stare and puts on a ‘Cornish’ accent.

“Ooooo, many many miles, John. Many many miles. ‘Tis a very lonely ‘ouse you found ‘ere. Very lonely and very … dark.”

John looks decidedly unsettled at this ‘stunt’.

She then snaps back into her normal accent, as she places the candles down onto the round table. “I’d say about 10? 11? Miles to the village. She lights the big, thick, candle. “Although, it’s easy to go round and round in circles at night in the dark and so you could end up walking 20. I’ve been lost walking, loads of times, out there in the middle of the night.” She sits back down on the arm of the chair so that her chest meets his eye-level.

John looks at her. “What?” she says, sharply.

“Why were you out walking in the middle of the night?” he asks, cautiously.

She makes a small laugh. “Well, you know … it’s nice to go walking … at night. It’s peaceful. There’s lots of reasons to go walking at night. Walking the dog? They always need walking. That’s enough reasons to go walking at night, isn’t it?” her voice is going up in pitch.

“Have you got a dog?” he asks.

This question ruffles her. “No, of course I haven’t got a dog! Do you see a dog?” She picks up some cushions to ‘check’ for a hidden dog, and then bangs the cushions back down in a strop. “I’m just saying, if you had a dog, it would need walking … at night.”

She carries on, in a shrill voice. “Besides, I can walk anywhere anytime. I don’t need permission, I am allowed. Young John, with the 20 questions. Huh, who’s in charge here?”

“Sorry, I … didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, apologetically. “I just think I may need a doctor, for my arm, that’s all.”

Her voice is still stroppy and she shakes her head about. “Yes, I know, your arm, your arm. You poor thing.” She calms down a bit. “I’m sorry.” Her voice becomes softer. “It’s so late. I’ve hardly slept, with this blooming weather and … what with the lights flickering on and off, it’s enough … enough to drive anyone up … up the wall, isn’t it?”

“You must be tired,” John says, sympathetically.

“Yes, I am, very. Just have to make the best of it. Sit it out ’til morning.” She walks over to the curtains, draws them back, and presses her face to the window. The wind howls outside and the full moon, dramatically, lights up her face. “It looks freezing out there. Not much better in here. I used to love watching storms, as a child, from the window.” She turns away from the window. “How old are you?” she demands, in a high-pitched voice. He doesn’t answer. She turns back to the window. “When I was 11 there was a storm, huge. Hellish.”

“I’m 19” he says. She doesn’t acknowledge this.

(5)

Instead, she turns back to the window, puts on a serious face, and begins speaking in a melodramatic tone. “When I was 11 there was a storm, huge. Hellish. No-one would let me watch it though, I was too little. Stay away from the window girl, it’s dangerous. They were all at the bloody window though, both my parents and my older brother.” She looks over to him, to check that he is following her story. “There was a massive bolt of lightning and the window was struck. My father was killed instantly, and my mother lost an eye. My brother was cut badly, but nothing more.”

She turns towards him and smiles. “Hey, it’s fine. My mother wears an eye-patch now and my brother, well, he recovered with only a few scars. Oh, my father … didn’t like him much anyway. So it’s all good!” She says, cheerily.

“Now I can do what I like. I can watch any storm I want from the window. Though frankly, there’s not much to see, is there. Just a lot of leaves blowing about. Don’t know what all the fuss was. Certainly not worth losing an eye over.” She closes the curtains over. Carol then flops, horizontally, over the back of the sofa, and stares at him.

John becomes uncomfortable. She then slinks over towards him, sits next to him, and puts her arm around him. She starts to stroke his neck. “So, what am I going to do with you, John?” She rubs his hair, and then grips his shoulder. “I mean, what can we do to while away the hours on this long dark night. Any ideas?”” She strokes his hair.

“What do you mean?” John says, nervously. She stares at him. “Look, I’m only 19,” John gulps. “You’re okay looking … I mean … you’re really pretty for your age, but you’re just … so much older than me,” John stutters.

Carol takes her hand off his shoulder, and looks appalled. “What are you blithering on about?” she says, with annoyance.

“I just think you’re a bit too old for me.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. “And … my arm really hurts…”

“What!” she leaps up and stands over him.

“I’m not interested in you!” she scoffs. He’s taken aback. She laughs, loudly, at him. “Goodness, that’s hilarious.” She spreads her arms out, and looks to the heavens, in a display of scorn. “I’m not Mrs Robinson,” she sneers.

John looks really embarrassed.

“Oh, you’ve no idea who I’m talking about, do you,” she says, mockingly. “She’s what you might call the ultimate cougar. Which I am not!” Her voice is high-pitched. “The very idea! And besides, you need to have two fully workable arms to have any chance with me. Oh gosh!” she cackles, “you’ve made me all coy now.” She fans her face with her hands, and then covers her face with her palms. Johns looks away. “You’re so naughty.” Carol then walks out of the room, giggling, and leaving John dumbfounded.

Carol goes into the dark kitchen and sits on a bench, still giggling. She talks to herself. “He’s young enough to be …” Her face becomes serious. Meanwhile John, wrapped up in the blanket, sits and listens out for her, in the candlelight of the livinroom. He takes the blanket off of his shoulders, with difficulty, as he grimaces in pain. John then removes the towel from his lower half. He stands up, and puts the rucksack over his left shoulder. He wanders around a bit, looking at pictures on the wall, and objects lying about. Carol is keeping silent, and watching him, through a gap in the door.

While John is having a look around, Carol is keeping quiet and watching him, through a gap in the door. John walks over to the window and folds the curtains back a bit to have a look out. She makes her move.

Carol rushes into the living-room. “Oh, look what I’ve found!” she declares, in a strident voice. She holds a pile of board-games in her out-stretched arms. “Monopoly, Scrabble, even a jigsaw. Although I hate jigsaws, don’t know why I brought that out. Keep us occupied for days."

Carol takes the board-games over to the table and starts to set them up. John sits down on the chair, reluctantly. “Em … I’m pretty thawed out,” he says. She gives a small, dismissive, laugh and carries on setting up the pieces. “I’m a bit warmer at least, might be able to get going soon. What do you think?” Carol says nothing. “Perhaps you could give me directions?”

“For goodness sake,” she says. “What’s the rush, John? I’m not going to jump on you. I thought we’d just established that. Uh! There’s no dog.” Carol exclaims. “I’m always the dog.” Her face screws up and she lets out a big sigh. She throws the pieces back into the box, in disappointment, shaking her head.

With great effort, and a lot of painful grunting and groaning, John lifts himself up from the chair and moves onto the wider sofa, for comfort. “Okay, Okay, I know, your arm,” she says, in an annoyed voice. “I’ll drive you to the village when it gets light.” she says. “As soon as my husband gets back in the …” Her face freezes.

"As soon as my husband gets back in the …in the … em…"

In Carol’s mind she sees a mental picture of a car pulling up towards the cottage. It is bright daylight, and calm, in her mind-image. The kind voice, of a mature man, then says “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Carol says, in her mind. “I’m feeling really good,” she answers the man, with a lift in her voice. She then snaps out of her dream and is back in the candle-lit living room. “When is he back?” her voice now sounds unsure, and her face looks confused. “Morning is it?” John just looks at her. “Yes, yes, the morning, of course silly woman.” She gives herself a row. Her voice goes unsure again. “Maybe it’s the afternoon he gets back? I’m sure he wasn’t going to go for long.” She shakes her head. “I mean, he … he didn’t pack very much, not very much at all.” She begins to stammer, and her voice becomes shaky. There is concern on her face. “He should have told me though. Let me know, you know.” Her voice becomes sad.

(6)

“He’ll be back, don’t you worry,” she states, unconvincingly. She catches a grip of herself. “Anyway, whenever he’s back, I’ll take the car, and you’ll be returned to civilisation, how’s that?” she says, matter-of-factly.

Johns, nods his head. “Great,” he says, with a smile.

“Nice though, you have a husband.” John nods his head towards the photo-frame of the couple, on the shelf. “The man in the photo.”

“Yes, he’s my husband, we’re married, we’re very happily married.”

“I’m sure,” John says. His face doesn’t look too convinced, however.

She gives him daggers. “Oh, you’re sure, are you?” She puts on the mocking voice of an idiot, “nice that you have a husband” she shakes her head about in mockery.

John takes a deep breath. “Just glad you’re not out here alone,” that’s all. His voice has gone up a pitch.

“Alone? Out here?” she fires back at him. “How silly. Alone? And besides, I’m not the one running around, in the middle of a forest, with a bloody broken arm, am I John?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” John’s tolerance of her is being pushed now.

“Have you got any pain-killers?” he asks. She makes him squirm for a bit, and doesn't answer.

Eventually she says, grudgingly: “As you are in such pain, I’ll see if I can find anything in my cupboards for it." Carol walks out of the living room … (full story available in printed form)