Strange Shores

14

Again he is overwhelmed by the odd feeling that he is lying on the floor of the derelict farm, haunted by an unseen presence. He must be hallucinating. He knows he is no longer at the old house. He must have left, or he wouldn’t be able to see the stars in the night sky.

But perhaps that is part of the hallucination.

He turns his head to where the door should be but sees nothing but inky blackness. Reaching out his arm, he touches the rough, damp render of the wall. He has a torch somewhere. He gropes for it and switches it on. The beam is weak: it casts a feeble glow over the surroundings — the empty doorway to the hall, the broken windows through which the cold air is streaming, the ceiling that has collapsed here and there. He has a powerful sense of a presence but can see no one.

‘Who’s there?’ he calls. There is no answer.

Rising to his feet, he picks his way across the room by the beam of the torch. He can see no sign of the traveller he remembers standing in the doorway, then later lighting a fire on the floor and talking to him as if they were acquainted. The vision has gone, yet he has the bizarre impression that the event has yet to happen.

He has made up a bed for himself in the sitting room where the couch was in the old days. It consists of a thin mat, two blankets to cover his sleeping bag and a rucksack for a pillow. Next to it are his scuffed hiking boots and a bin bag containing a few scraps of food. He has made an effort to keep the place tidy, helped by the fact that he doesn’t have much luggage. The house may be nothing but a bleak ruin, open to the wind and weather, but he moves around the room with the respect for the home that was instilled in him as a child.

‘Is anybody there?’ he asks in a low voice.

His only answer is the moaning of the wind, accompanied by the squeak of a door still hanging stubbornly from its hinges, and the creaking of two sheets of corrugated iron which cling with extraordinary tenacity to the roof. He steps into the hall and shines his torch outside into the yard before entering the kitchen. As the beam gradually fades, the night closes in around him. The faint circle of light flickers over the bare shelves. The table used to stand under the window facing the byre and barn, and beyond them the moor and mountains. Every new day would begin at that table and end there in the evening.

‘Is anybody there?’ he repeats in a whisper.

He continues his search, out of the kitchen and down the short passage to the bedrooms. He can’t get into his parents’ room because the roof has fallen in over the door and part of the passage. There his father had sat after his descent from the moors, inconsolable, aware that his two sons were still out there; sure that they were lost. He had known better than anyone what conditions up there were like and his collapse had been total. There were ugly patches of frostbite on his face as he sat there while the rescue party gathered in the kitchen.

‘Is anybody there?’ he whispers a third time. The torch beam fades still further and begins to gutter. He bangs it on his palm and the light grows momentarily brighter. The battery is almost dead. He proceeds to the room he once shared with his brother and illuminates the place where their beds used to stand, separated by a night table. There was a small wardrobe in the corner and a thick rug to protect their toes from the icy floor. Now the room contains nothing but darkness.

The realisation finally hits him that there is no one else in the house. The presence he felt was merely an illusion. There is no one left but him. He turns and makes his way back past the kitchen and hall to the sitting room, where the torch conks out. When he thumps it again it sheds a weak light on the wall opposite. The shadow of a man plays over the rough surface and for an instant he sees a figure with back turned and head bowed, as if in defeat. The vision startles him so much that he drops the torch and it goes out again.

Stooping, he fumbles for it, then knocks it on the floor three times until the bulb comes on, lighting up the room with an instant of brilliance before finally dying for good. He looks around frantically but the man has vanished.

‘What do you want from me?’ he murmurs into the night.

He is lying in the cold, eyes half open, unsure how long it is since the involuntary shivering ceased. He can’t feel his hands or feet, is no longer aware of being frozen. He knows he will soon fall asleep but struggles against the drowsiness. It is vital to stay awake as long as possible but his strength is dwindling. He remembers seeing the stars as he lay in the snow.

Through the brain-numbing cold it occurs to him that he is no longer in his right mind.