Aftershock

Ninety-four

The artist known as Caitlin Summers looked out of the window of her new home. Never in her wildest moments had she ever dreamed of waking up in a Stevenson lighthouse, but that was what she had done less than an hour before.

At first, when they had told her of the accommodation that had been rented for her, she had feared that she would have to maintain the light, and had been relieved to learn that it was no longer operational.

She sipped from her mug as she surveyed the seascape, looking north along the coastline towards Dunbar, the nearest town. The view to the south was less attractive: Torness nuclear power station was never likely to be short-listed for a Design Council award. Still, she had seen uglier structures, and uglier people, in her time.

Her sudden fame had taken her by surprise: she still marvelled at the skill of her managers in securing the First Minister to open her exhibition, with the attendant publicity it had brought. But that was their job, she supposed; just as she had hers.

She checked her watch: it was time for her morning appointment. She finished her coffee, rinsed out the mug and slipped on her waxed cotton jacket. ‘Well, Caitlin,’ she said aloud, ‘let’s see what wildlife we can spot this morning.’

A soft wind was blowing off the sea as she stepped outside; the tide was on its way in. She picked up her pace quickly as she headed north, hoping that she would reach the fossilised remains of the prehistoric forest that she had been told about before the water covered it. The team from the BBC news programme Reporting Scotland had suggested it as the ideal location for their interview.

A few seagulls greeted her as she walked along the grassy path, above the narrow beach. ‘Sorry to disturb you, birdies,’ she told them. ‘You’re probably not used to human company out here.’

The coast was wild and desolate. There was not another soul in sight and yet, somehow, she did not feel in the slightest alone.