Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine

was prickling on the back of her neck. It was a strange feeling, one she couldn’t remember experiencing before, but instinctively she knew what it was. She was being watched! The words of a poem flitted suddenly through her head. Her mother had read it to her once when she was very small. The blood of the small, impressionable Alison had curdled as she listened wide-eyed, and the words had stuck. It was the only poem she had ever learned.

       When sunset lights are burning low,

       While tents are pitched and camp-fires glow,

       Steals o’er us, ere the stars appear,

       The furtive sense of Jungle Fear …

      Primitive fear. Fear of danger which you cannot see.

      She licked her lips nervously. ‘Silly cow,’ she said out loud. It was herself she meant. ‘Stupid nerd. Move. Now. What’s the matter with you?’

      The sun had risen further. A red stain began to spread into the sea and imperceptibly it grew lighter. She clenched her fists and took a step towards the spade. Her mouth had gone dry and she was shaking. With cold. Of course it was with cold. Gritting her teeth she jumped back into the hollow and grabbed the spade, holding it in front of her with two hands. The wind had begun to blow again and it lifted the skirt of her jacket, billowing it around her, whipping her hair into her eyes. The dust was spinning again, rising near her feet. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist. The sand was lifting, condensing. Almost it was the shape of a human figure.

      Slowly she backed away from the dune and, scrambling out of the hollow, she began to move towards the cottage. Seconds later she broke into a run. Hurtling across the lawn she dived down the side of the building, threw the spade into the shed and pelted down the track towards the trees.

      In the dune the piece of red-glazed pottery lay forgotten, covered already by a new scattering of sand.

       VIII

      Kate lay for a moment disorientated, staring up at the heavily-beamed ceiling, wondering where she was. Her dream had been so vivid, so threatening. Huddling down into a tight ball under the bedclothes she tried to piece it together, to remember what had been so frightening, but already she was having difficulty recalling the details and at last with some relief she gave up the attempt and, sitting up, she gazed around the unfamiliar room. It was ice cold. A diffuse grey light like no light she had seen before filtered in from between the undrawn curtains. It was eerie; luminous. Dragging the quilt around her she climbed out of bed and going to the east-facing window, she peered out. The sea was slate black, shadowed with mist and above it a low sun hung like a dark crimson ball shedding no reflection and little light. It was a cold, unenticing scene without perspective. She shivered and turned back into the room. Gathering up her clothes she ran down the stairs on ice cold feet and looked into the living room. There the curtains were still closed. After drawing them back she opened the doors of the woodburner and stared at it, depressed. The fire was out and the metal cold.

      ‘Sod it!’ She looked down at the single log. It was barely scorched from last night’s paper blaze. To light it she would need firelighters, twigs, more paper …

      Of course there would be no hot water either. Shivering, she abandoned the idea of washing and pulled on a pair of jeans. Thick socks and a heavy sweater and she was ready to forage once more in the log shed.

      The outside world was bitterly cold. The garden – no more than a piece of rough turf and a couple of small bare flower beds – appeared to surround the cottage in a small compact circle; beyond it in the cold early-morning light the grass grew wilder and more lumpy and matted before almost at once giving way to the dunes and shingle banks which backed the sea.

      As she stepped out of the front door a movement at the side of the cottage caught her eye and she stopped, astonished to find that her heart was beating faster than normal again. The fear in her dream was still with her and the silence and emptiness of the woods unnerved her. Forcing herself to walk outside she peered around and realised, relieved, that what she had seen was a rabbit. Three rabbits. They all straightened for a moment as she appeared, their ears upright, their eyes bulging with terror and then they bounded back into the trees. She smiled, amused and not a little embarrassed by her own fear. She was going to have to take herself in hand.

      In the doorway of the shed she stopped. The spade was lying across the threshold. Stooping she picked it up. There were clods of wet muddy sand attached to the shoulders of the blade. Someone had used that spade recently – certainly since she had come out to the shed last night. She surveyed the woods but as far as she could see they were silent and still. Even the rabbits had gone.

      Shrugging her shoulders, she gathered up another armful of logs and, this time spotting the pile of neatly stacked kindling in the corner of the shed, filled her pockets with twigs and small slivers of wood to help light the fire.

      Hot coffee and a blazing furnace in the woodburner did much to restore her optimism as did the discovery that there was an electric immersion heater in a cupboard in the bathroom as a backup to the more esoteric uncertainties of hot water from logs. She ate a bowl of cereal and then set about unpacking in earnest.

      Several times as she glanced through the windows she noticed that the day was clearing. The mist was thinning and the sun had gained a little in strength. By the time her bags and boxes were empty and she was storing them in the spare bedroom, the sea was a brilliant blue to match the sky.

      Turning from the curtainless window her eye was caught by a stack of canvasses behind the door which she hadn’t noticed earlier. They stood, face to the wall, in a patch of deep shadow. Curious, she turned one towards her. The painting was of the sea – a strangely surrealist, nightmare sea. With a grimace she pulled out another canvas. It repeated the theme as did the next and the next. Then came two more, scenes of the cottage itself, one in the autumn where a bland chocolate-box house was surrounded by a curtain of flame, the other a representation of the house as it would look beneath the nightmare sea. She stared at the latter for a long time and then with a shudder she stacked it back against the wall. They were all painted by the same hand, and a hand which commanded a great deal of talent and power, but she did not like them. They were cruel; twisted in their conception.

      Closing the door with a shiver she ran down the stairs and back into the sun-filled living room where her books and papers were laid out on the table ready to start work. Putting the paintings firmly out of her mind she stood looking down at the table.

      The book was there, in her head, ready to start and it was going to be even better than Jane. Kate smiled as she pulled her notepad towards her and switched on her word processor.

      The knock on the front door two hours later took her by surprise. She had completely forgotten Bill.

      ‘Hi!’ He grinned at her as she led the way into the living room. ‘How are you? Ready for lunch?’

      She stared at him, miles away, reluctant to lose the mood, aching to go on writing.

      Bill was watching her. ‘Penny for them,’ he said softly. ‘You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? I’ve boobed. I’ve intruded on the writer with her muse.’

      ‘Oh, Bill, I’m sorry. Of course I heard you.’ Kate dragged herself back to the present and gave herself a little shake. ‘Blow the muse; she can go back in her box for a few hours. And yes, that’s a super idea. I’d love lunch.’

      The walk through the wood was thoroughly enjoyable and eagerly she looked around, noting the crisp air, the soft muddy track, the whispering fragrant pines, the winter-dead oak, and birch and hazel bright with young catkins, as she plodded beside him, her hands in her pockets, throwing off her preoccupation with the background of the poet’s father, mad Jack Byron, in order to recount her adventures of the night before.

      ‘That’s typical of Greg, I’m afraid, not to tell you about the fire or leave you any logs,’ Bill said, shaking his head. ‘There’s a petty streak to him. He’s angry about