Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine

the distance the shingle gave way to muddy sand and she could see dunlin and redshank at the water’s edge. Save for them she appeared to be the only being alive in the world.

      She came level with the cottage, appreciating from here how sheltered it was behind the shingle banks, only a narrow section of its face visible behind the waving grasses and heaps of sand. In front of her, beyond the dunes, the beach swept away around the corner. There a narrow inlet led into the shallow, muddy waters of Redall Bay with its network of small islands and tidal creeks.

      By the last of the dunes she stopped. Part of it appeared to have fallen onto the sand, and in the hollow on its seaward side there were signs of recent digging. Curious, she walked towards it, her boots slipping in the deep soft mixture of stones and mud and sand. The top section, out of sight of the cottage, had had a neat transverse slice removed from it. About ten feet long and two feet deep the interlocking grasses had been sectioned away and below it the sand had been scooped loosely into piles. Jumping down into the hollow she stared at the exposed wall of the dune. The resulting scar in the sand looked too regular and neat to be the result of a child’s game; and it had certainly not been caused by the tide, although further along the cut had been lengthened and randomly enlarged by a muddy landslip where tell-tale strands of weed and a scattering of whelk shells betrayed a recent high tide propelled by an easterly wind.

      Intrigued, Kate ran her hand lightly over the sand face. Who had been digging here, and why? Was it something to do with sea defences? She turned and looked back at the beach. The receding tide looked gentle and benevolent now, but she was under no illusions about the force it could muster if wind and moon were right.

      She was about to scramble out of the hollow to resume her walk when her eye was caught by something shiny sticking out of the sand. It looked like a piece of pottery. She picked it up and examined it, then, frowning, she looked at it more closely. It was thin, fine, red, decorated with a raised pattern and it looked very like the Samian ware she had seen in the museum only yesterday. But that was impossible. She turned and surveyed the sand face again. Was this some sort of abandoned excavation? She stared down at the piece of pottery in her hand almost guiltily. Perhaps she shouldn’t have touched it. On the other hand it had been lying in the loose spoil, obviously overlooked. With another high tide it would have been buried and lost. Pulling her scarf off her hair she wrapped the piece carefully and put it reverently in her pocket, then she turned and examined the exposed sand again. It was in a very crumbly state. The lightest touch dislodged another shower of soil. A few feet to her left she spotted something dark protruding from it. Cautiously she touched it. Metal. Scraping at the sand with her fingers she tried to see what it was without disturbing it. The narrow twisted neck of metal stuck out at right angles from the sand. She must ask the Lindseys. They would know who had been excavating here, and why they had stopped. She eyed the piece of metal longingly. If she touched it and it was of archaeological interest then she might be destroying valuable evidence – on the other hand another tide might remove it even more irrevocably. As she was standing there, trying to make up her mind what to do, a small crack appeared of its own accord in the top of the dune. As she watched a lump of wet sand broke away and fell at her feet. A minute later another six-inch section fell, taking the metal object with it. She bent and picked it up. Twisted, corroded, the metal was heavy and cold in her hand. She could not begin to guess what metal it was. Not gold certainly. Bronze, perhaps, or even silver. She examined it in excitement and awe. In all probability she was the first person to touch it for over a thousand years – perhaps two, perhaps more. It was a torc.

       MY LOVE

      The voice in her head had spoken so loudly she thought it was real. Dropping the torc she put her hands to her ears, looking round.

      There was no one there. An oystercatcher was plodding slowly along the tide line near her, dipping its beak into the sand.

      She could feel her heart beginning to hammer in her ears again, as it had in the woods in the dark the night before. Taking a deep breath she bent and picked up the piece of twisted metal, then she scrambled out of the hollow. She stared round, her arm across her eyes to hold back her streaming hair, loose now she had removed the scarf. There was still no one in any direction as far as she could see. Besides the voice had been inside her own head.

      Taking a deep breath she turned towards the cottage. Get a grip on yourself, Kennedy. You’re imagining things, she told herself sternly. Too much fresh air, that’s your trouble.

      The panic had gone almost as soon as it had come. Out here in broad daylight, in the brilliant sunshine and the light, tossing wind with birds patrolling unconcerned along the tide line, her moment of terror seemed absurd. It was imagination, that was all. A visit to the museum, a new preoccupation with Boudicca and the events of nineteen hundred years ago, together with the isolated situation and already she was having hallucinations. Strong coffee would soon sort that out.

      Slightly faster than she would normally have walked she retraced her steps towards the cottage. Only once did she look back. There in the dazzle off the sea a sand devil whirled in the hollow where she had been standing. She watched it for a moment. It looked almost like a figure. Then it disappeared.

      Letting herself in out of the wind, she shook her hair back from her face and putting her finds down on the kitchen table she put the kettle on even before she removed her jacket and boots. While the kettle was boiling she went to the phone but there was no answer from the Lindseys.

      Picking up her coffee and her two artifacts she carried them through into the living room and put them down on her work table. Automatically she turned on the word processor. Waiting for it to summon up her programme she picked up the torc and examined it again. It was large – large enough to go around the neck of a full grown man at a guess, and still heavy in spite of, or perhaps because of, its corrosion. She stared at it for a long time then carefully she placed it on the windowsill before sitting down before her keyboard.

      When she next looked up it was nearly one o’clock.

      This time Diana was in when she phoned. Her query about the digging on the beach was greeted by a moment of embarrassed silence. ‘You were there this morning, you say?’ she asked cautiously.

      ‘I was walking on the beach.’

      ‘Of course. I think the place you’re talking about is where my daughter has been doing some digging. It’s for an archaeological project at school. It’s not a designated site of any kind.’

      ‘I see.’ Kate frowned. She could hear the defensiveness in the other woman’s voice. ‘It’s just that there seemed to be signs of some kind of ancient usage –’ Her eyes strayed towards the doorway into the hall. She couldn’t see the windowsill where her finds were lying. ‘I felt that probably someone qualified ought to take a look at it. It could be an important site.’

      ‘I think you’ll find Alison has that in hand. It’s her project entirely, Kate.’ Diana’s voice took on an unaccustomed firmness. ‘Please leave it to her.’

      And keep your nose out! Kate muttered as she put down the phone. She wandered back into the sitting room and stood looking down at the metal torc. If Alison was going to inform the museum then that was fine. She would show them her two trophies at the same time. She picked up the piece of twisted metal and examined it once more. It was badly corroded and bent, but the basic design of intertwined strands of metal wire was clearly visible. She scratched at it cautiously with her fingernail. A pale gleam appeared. She hesitated, then she scratched at it again, this time harder. The faint scratch showed a distinctly silvery sparkle. It was silver. She was holding a silver torc.

       I CURSE YOU, MARCUS SEVERUS, FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE HERE THIS DAY

      The voice was so sudden and so loud she dropped the torc onto the table. Frantically she shook her head. The sound had been inside her ears; it came from her brain. From her head. From her soul. Frightened she stared round the room. Then taking a deep breath she picked up the twisted metal again. It was very cold beneath her fingers. As cold as it had been when she first picked it out of the wet sand.

      ‘This is stupid.’ She said the words out loud, and her own voice sounded light