Evan looks out over a sea of black and white striped waving arms.  He grins at them, maniacally encouraging them to wave harder in time with his band’s music so his crowd obliges with willing desire.  Evan starts to sing again, to jump and spin on the stage in time as they sing his words back to him.

He strides forward and takes his stance once more at the front of the stage, leaning with dangerous closeness towards the front row of his girls, smiling as they strain against the metal barrier reaching towards him.

He glances across each of them, watching as their mouths make the words he sings, still surprised by their willingness to submit, even after all these years.  He tries to meet some of what they need from him without losing too much of himself, with no loss of body and soul.

He sings out a little further past them towards the dancing pit and flashes some fist pumps to acknowledge them, nodding as they reciprocate.  Anyone watching his face might be surprised to see a look and smile of real love.

But it is there.

At the centre of the pit, a troupe of women focus on their ring of furious dancing.  They dress in mixtures of soft, sheer and shift fabrics clinging to their dancers’ bodies as they move around in-between each other, making it all but impossible to determine where one dancers’ body starts and another dancers’ body ends.

They spiral from the ground up, spinning from the centre outwards, undulating from the top down and then back up again, creating an energy to build a light around them.  It fills their circle, and now, towards the end of this night, the entire room.

Evan smiles.  Only he can see this.  See them.  They are his.  He has used them to help write his songs, to help build his confidence and craft his on-stage performances.  They are his dancers – something only he has ever known about.

That’s not entirely true, is it?

He falters for a moment.

What was that?

Evan pulls back from the edge of the stage just as Jase starts his solo.  That voice.  It was like…  But that’s not possible.  Evan realises he is already nodding with the guitar rhythm, using his microphone like a mini-guitar and pretending to solo-along.

As he moves across the stage, he is eyeing the room.

A hooded figure is standing next to one of the speakers and for a moment Evan thinks he’s been shocked by the electric microphone.  The figure is stood where she once stood.  Where she once danced.  Where the music is loudest.  Where she had the desire for furious dance.

Before she fell.

Fell?  Is that what you tell yourself?

Evan looks around, the band are all looking at him.  Jase has finished his solo and Evan’s missed the intro to the final verse.  Fortune favours him as the crowd picks up the words, so he thrusts the microphone out towards them, then brings it back to join them in the final moments.

With the song finished he looks back towards the band and their questioning looks.  He says ‘tired’ and they nod agreement.  They bring themselves up for the last song of the night as Evan goes to face the crowd for his final performance.

He walks down to the front of the stage, looking out at expectant faces.  The first couple of notes ring out and his crowd screams in joy.  It’s their favourite song, saved for last.  Evan nods knowing, taking it all in.  He looks for and finds for his dancers.  But he is unable to stop there, unable stop himself from searching for the hooded figure.

It hasn’t moved yet, but now it’s looking directly at the centre of the dancing pit.  Evan stares at the hooded figure.  It seems to be looking at his dancers.  The ones who have always been with him.  But that’s not possible.  Is it?

Only he can see them.  Only him.

He starts singing the words.  Or do the words just sing through him?  Crowd doesn’t really care.  They could sing it without him.  He is just a means to an end for them.  He is only there so they can stand in the dark next to each other and prove what they know.  How well they know.

He watches the hooded figure start to move towards the centre of the room and his voice suddenly stops working.  He bows his head to the room and pushes the microphone towards them.  Crowd sings louder, proving what they know.

Evan lifts his head and watches, helpless to stop the hood’s slow smooth progress.  Evan takes the microphone back and sings with eyes closed, but not really closed, as he watches its deliberate movement through lidded slits.

It takes everything he has to control the sound coming through him, and then the first part of the song is done.  He can leave the middle part to Jase, who will take this slow-moving song and quicken it towards its rocking climax.

He puts the microphone back in its stand and moves in time with the solo, grasping and leaning on it, holding on for fear of falling.  He looks out, lurching towards the crowd at the front of the stage, closer to girls in the front row.

He doesn’t see them now, only the hooded figure as it moves towards the centre of the dance pit, certain now it’s going for his dancers.  He watches almost without breathing as it approaches them close enough to touch.

Evan sees the hood come down and hears her voice for the final time.

You had your chance.

She-hood grins horribly at him and much too wide before sinking her teeth into the first dancer, freezing in a tableau of surprise and agony.  The jolt of pain hits him in the head and only the microphone stand keeps him standing.

He watches as light above his dancers’ head is sucked down and out of her, leaving nothing behind but a spent shell.  She-hood discards the first dancer and bites into the second.  Evan feels the hit in his chest and begins to stagger on stage.

He knows he’s going down.  He fumbles the microphone from its stand.  He drops to his knees on the stage.  To the adoring crowd, it looks like he is going down before them, but his band knows something’s wrong.

The bass player Vic does a dramatic slide across the stage on his knees with a large smile on his face, and rocks out beside their singer.  Evan looks over at him with pain and gratitude on his face, then manages to lift the microphone to his lips.

He rejoins the song with the crowd for as long as he can, then pushes it back out to them for the next part so they will take over.  Just in time for the gut punch of She-hood consuming another of his dancers.

It’s not just the loss of energy being drained from him, but the scream of agony contorting the once beautiful face that no one else but him can see.  Evan looks down at his clenched hands on the grimy stage, not wanting to witness any more.

Jase the lead guitarist takes up his own dramatic kneeling position on the other side of Evan, mirroring Vic’s rock-out manoeuvres.  Only the keyboard player sees looks of concern passing between them and the singers’ slow collapse forward onto the stage.

Evan pulls the microphone back towards him once more.  He manages to put one knee up and lean heavy as he finishes the song, using the climactic ending to scream out his final echoes of frustration and pain.

The lights go dark.

Evan’s head swims with the screams and cheers that normally lift him up but now they sound out the death-screams of his dancers.  He’s having to rely on his two best friends to lift him physically from the stage.  He’s only just upright when the lights come back on.

Evan looks at the crowd, trying to focus on smiles and cheers, but all he can see is the dance pit.  The place where his dancers created circles of desire and light, discarded bodies lying on the ground.  Their energy drained, the force of their beauty gone.

How did he ever let it come this?

Then his own light falls.

The night is dark, illuminated only by a half-moon hanging low under steel-grey clouds.  The tall lithe woman with graceful step walks barefoot on her slow winding path down to the sea.  Her long black hair is loose and free, tugging back from its once lingering warmth.

She lifts the hem of her long blue dress, flowing soft as an elegant wave.  Once the colour of a light summer’s day, it is heavy and weighs her down.  The metal-frayed shoulder straps bite into her bare skin, now stained with the bruised purple of regret.

Her white toes peek out from beneath the dress at the downward steps.  The smallest slivers of moonlight glisten the eroded wooden path she must take, its unfinished light her only guide.

At the bottom she steps carefully onto the sea-jetty, smiling at the welcome touch of smooth sea-worn boards, undulating with the waters’ rhythms.  At the far end of the jetty, reaching into half-lit darkness, a large white and silver yacht dips and sways.

And she knows.  The closer she gets to it, the brighter it will shine.  When she boards the vessel its brilliance will dominate all.  But first she must reach it.  Only then will she be safe from the black and bottomless ocean that taunts her towards its surface.

She keeps the hem of her dress lifted and eyes the centre of her path as it rises and falls.  She glances over at the dark sea, watching as it swells with hundreds of tiny lights dancing across its inky surface. They light up into mini-peaks and the shapes of forgotten faces.

Come in, they seem to say, the water’s fine.

She stops and looks up at the gleaming yacht with a twinge of doubt.  If she gets too close to it and stares for too long, will it blind her to the things she doesn’t want to see?  Or will the harsh light penetrate her skin, seeking the hidden places where her darkest secrets dwell?

Her path to the yacht looks clear.  There is no gate to block her entry, no electrified fence to climb, no security guard to detain her, in fact, nothing whatsoever to stop her from walking the full length of this sea-jetty and going aboard.

Yet her mind is troubled by the thought that, this is too easy.

Nothing is given this easily, unless it’s going to be taken away.

Or you’re walking to your own sacrifice.

She chose to walk the path of sacrifice before she knew what sacrifice was.  She accepted giving everything for those who would never know who she was or what she had done.  To those who know her, either personally or by reputation, her unshakeable faith and belief in the calling was legendary.

Or it used to be.

I used to believe –

That if she were ever in trouble, real trouble, they would come for her.  So when she was taken and held prisoner, a chained captive in a damp subterranean cell, she believed.  She endured endless interrogation, without mercy or relief, and still she kept the faith.

But when her captivity passed one hundred days, her belief began to drip away as did the water down her cell wall.  Each passing day every drop conspired with the rest to channel a stream of fear through her belief.  It confirmed the real truth; she was alone, and the only person who could save her, was herself.

And so finally, she did, but the cost was her faith.

“Don’t you remember?” asks the voice of her reason.  “Why it’s worth sacrificing what most people take for granted?”

I remember.  And I used to believe the sacrifice was worth it.  But this path demands I give up everything; my self, my body … and parts of my soul, with those I love.

“It’s always been that way.  And always will be.”

I know.  But sometimes, it’s too much.

She looks down at the wooden boards, each one lashed to the next as they work together to keep her above the dark water.  With no reprieve from their task until eventually, over time and usage, they fall apart.  Then they’re replaced and discarded with ungrateful ease, their former service forgotten.

She stares into the depths of the black-water and sees nothing but her own face rippling on the surface.  Underneath the sea-jetty, dark waves swell up and push between the wooden boards to wash over her toes.  It’s warm and soothing to her feet, but gone as fast as it came and she shivers, her wet skin chilling in the cool night air.

What if I let go of this path?

What if I embrace the sea’s blank nothingness and choose the warm waters of eternal peace?

“Except it’s not full of nothing, is it?” the voice of her reason answers.  “You know what the sea is full of and how they got there.”

She stares out across the vast expanse of the ocean, unwilling to admit the real truth either to her reason, or to herself.  While the surface of the sea might imitate a gateway to peace and warmth, the faces beneath are anything but.  Their swirling souls, unhappy in their untimely end, create black mist across the surface which is gathering now towards an unnatural point.

At the centre of which and rising up from the ocean’s surface, a large dark man-shape starts moving at speed across the surface of the sea, oozing a grey sleek oil-shadow in its wake.  It spreads ever outwards, giving the ocean a thick, slimy layer of gloom and suffocating every light in its path as it heads for the white and silver yacht.

It reaches the sea-jetty and surges over its wooden lip, swelling up and beyond until its mass merges with the dark and heavy-hung clouds above.  They unite to form a vast bulging storm-cloud, blocking her view of the yacht and its light, sinking her into near darkness.

There are no lights dancing on the ocean, nor stars in the sky.

There is only the half-light of the moon to guide her.

She has never felt so alone as she does right now.

From the base of the darkening storm-cloud, a thick layer of black mist begins to slither over the surface of the sea-jetty.  It creeps across her only path to the yacht, covering each of the wooden boards, one by one.  She watches it draw closer, knowing it intends to reach her, to touch her.

She tries to back away, but her legs refuse to move and she is off balance against the motion of the sea.  She tries to keep from falling, to move her legs, her feet, but they’re fastened to the jetty by a force stronger than her.

The sickening black mist surges towards her inch-by-inch.  It is almost upon her, with nothing to stop it or stand in its way.  She watches in horror as it reaches her, as the cold thin darkness slides over her toes and begins slithering up her feet.

Then a warm sensation washes over her and she is steady once more; no longer battling the sea, but moving in time with its rhythms.  She looks down at the soft touch of the black mist as it swirls around her ankles; this is her connection to the giant living darkness of the sea beneath her.  To the storm-cloud hanging heavy in the sky.

She watches it billowing up and out, darkening into a bulbous weight that looks too dense to stay up for long.  Soon it will be full black.  Soon it will cover the half-moon and take the only light from her sky.

From the darkest depths of the bulging mass, at the furthest end of the sea-jetty, a man emerges into the half-light.  The moon’s fragile glow reveals one side of his tall, powerful physique and a single eye, gleaming at her through the darkness.  She blinks in the diminished light, staring in disbelief.

It cannot be him.

This cannot be the man she has grieved for, longed for.  The man she has whispered to in the darkness of her mind.  In private.

Only ever in private.

“How can you be here?” she finally asks.

Her hands clench into fists, grabbing at the long blue dress that once came from him.  She grips the heavy folds tight, then lets it go, grips it tight, then lets it go, over and over.

“I am here because of you,” he says.

His voice is deep and familiar, like a rough hand sensuously caressing the back of her soft neck, bristling her skin into tiny pin-pricks of pleasure.

“I don’t understand,” she says, aware her breathing has quickened.

“You want me here,” he says.

“I do?”

“Of course.”

She starts to release the dress from her fists and allows her hands to relax, just a little.

They came together over the battlefield.  She pretended to love him, to accept him for all that he was, as a tactical mission ploy, with no regrets in the aftermath.  She stares at his coarse, stubble-bearded face and the blood races through her as it did the first time he touched her.

Smiling he begins to walk towards her along the sea-jetty.  As if by his command, the black mist divides in the centre of his path, in front of his large bare feet.  She watches and waits as he comes towards her, striding in slow-motion, tall and confident as he walks down the long wooden path.

His white linen suit flaps around him in sea breezes, almost transparent, even in the dwindling light of the half-moon.  His strong, muscular body moves beneath the lightweight material and she remembers how he felt to her touch, smiling at the memory as he comes closer and awakening the low-down throb of her desire.

And then she sees it.

Something is wrong.

A small dark circle appears at the centre of his broad chest.  She watches in horror as it grows and spreads thick wetness across the clear white fabric.  The saturating patch moves out from where his heart once beat, spreading too fast, draining the colour from his face and limbs and turning once white linen to dripping blood-red.

He falters mid-stride and stops, looking down at the wetness of his darkening suit.  He seems confused by the sudden loss of his own life-blood, at the thick red drops as they form on his trouser ends and plop onto the wooden boards.

He looks up at her and tries to walk again, struggling to pick his feet up from bloody footprints, too loud in their wet stickiness as he staggers towards her.

She cannot move.

Nor can she stop staring at this blooded man coming with slow, dreadful certainty.  She feels the familiar touch of cold steel in her hand and looks down to see a sharp surgical knife glinting outwards, its handle sticky, blade dripping red.

What did I do?

His eyes search hers for answers.  Finding none, he falls forward, collapsing to his knees on the sea-jetty.  He lands hard on solid wood his death echoing back to her.  She stares in useless terror as the blood continues to drain out of him, spreading over the wooden boards and into the inky black ocean.

She throws her knife down, desperate to be rid of the instrument of his death, but it wedges with firm defiance in the wooden path, taunting her as the weapon she used to kill the man she pretended to love.

I did love him.

She looks down at the lifeless man whose warm body she once caressed with her own and watches him do something he never did the last time; twitch his long-dead muscles and start to move again.  He tries to lift himself up from the sea-jetty, but his own blood prevents it.

She hears a horrid tearing sound as he separates himself from the blood-sticking boards beneath.  He struggles to his knees and begins to crawl towards her, this pale-faced, hollow vessel with blue lips stretched wide in a death-grin of blooded teeth.

In a voice that is no longer deep and familiar, but guttural and inhuman, he speaks again.

“I am here because of you.”

She shivers at hearing this.

“I am here,” he growls, “because you put me here.”

She watches revolting dark blood ooze from his grinning mouth, dribble down his chin and drop onto the sea-jetty.  Still she cannot get away from this white shell of a man, dripping in the clothes of his own blood and now she wants to run.  The smooth dark waves rise up between the boards and lap at her feet, taunting her they can come and go, but she is forced to remain still.

Why can’t I move?

“I can tell you why,” the voice of her reason says.  “Do you want to know?”

“Yes,” she croaks.

The hollowed out man on all-fours stops at her feet and reaches out one white hand towards her.  She watches with cold horror as his icy fingers touch her foot and her entire body shudders with revulsion.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I really want to know,” she says, still trying to pull herself free as she watches him slide the white-cold hand up her foot.  He curls each finger, one by one, around her ankle until his vice-like clamp is solid and unyielding, like an ice-sculpture frozen in place.

“You don’t want to run away.  Not really.  You want him to take you down into the darkness like he did before.  You want him to keep you there.”

He starts to slide off the sea-jetty, to return his bloodless body to the waiting black-water.  He pulls on her ankle with a strong hard jerk and her feet finally come free of the wooden boards.  She sits down hard and stares in horror at the man who always had such a hold on her.  Now he’ll never let her go.

“You want to know what it’s like.  Is it warm, in the darkness?  Is it peaceful?”

He grins at her then and she sees his animal, the beast beneath the surface, the one she ignored so she could believe it was the man she had loved, not the darkness within him.  His grip on her ankle reasserts itself, tightens.  He begins to drag her with slow, inescapable progress towards the slime-covered black-water.

No, I never wanted this … this dark monster.

She flips over onto her belly, wrenching her ankle inside its socket.  Her nerves shriek out, racing up her body to her panicked mind, but she refuses to give her fear a voice.  If she starts to scream now, in this place, at this time.  She shakes her head.  No.  No.

She scrabbles at the wooden boards for help, but they are sea-worn smooth and her fingers grasp at nothing.  The back of her hand brushes cold surgical steel, but it’s gone before she recognises the knife.

Her belly scrapes the jetty’s wooden lip as she is pulled towards the dark-water.  Next it will scrape her chest, then her arms and finally she will be pulled under.  She looks over at the face of her dark lover, grinning up at her from the black-water.  He grabs her other ankle, turns his hands to get a better grip, then pulls her faster through the foul-smelling surface.

She feels the wooden lip coming quicker than she thought and grabs for it.  She finds a good finger hold and seizes it.  She stops short of her head being pulled under, but the rest of her body is now submerged in dark-water up to her neck.

The stench of slime just beneath her chin makes her gag.  She looks up at her knuckles, desperately turning white with the effort of holding on and determines she must not be pulled down through the foul-smelling greyness into the dark sea below.

“You blame yourself for his death.”

Part of her wants the empty depths of the swallowing sea, where there are none to remember her betrayal of this man, of her choice to sacrifice his life for the sake of her calling.  She alone had chosen to target and seduce him, use him and then kill him.

“The simple truth is this,” states the voice of her reason.  “You want to die.”

The darkest part of her wants to be released from this endless fight between who she thinks she is and who she really is; to embrace the final peace of silent oblivion.  Her cold fingertips are already tiring from the effort of gripping the wooden lip, her hands are painfully numb and the rest of her body is being warmed by the ripples of the black-water.

A sudden brilliance of light shines down on her and she closes her eyes, turning to face the source and receive its warm glow.  The storm-cloud blocking the white and silver yacht has slithered back into the black-water where it belongs, freeing its captive to gleam once more.

She feels temporary strength returning to her cold fingers and numb hands and she pulls hard on the lip of the wooden jetty.  Her legs kick out, fighting to dislodge the hands gripping her ankles, the warmth of the waves and the heavy folds of her dress.

She kicks hard, but his ice-cold hold on her is solid and unyielding.  Her finger joints scream in protest as she tries to flex them and look for something new to grab onto, but there is nothing.  She cannot pull herself up, only stay where she is, or sink deeper.

The knife, her only chance, is too far out of reach.  Her legs continue to kick out, but they are tiring now and the warm black-water is caressing her back.  It soothes the ache in her shoulders from holding on so long and her kicks are getting slower.

What’s so wrong with giving up anyway?

Haven’t I done enough for this lifetime?

Isn’t it time for me to let go?

Without waiting for a reply from the voice of her reason, she relaxes her grip for a single second.  As if sensing her moment of weakness, he quickly pulls on both ankles at once and she begins to sink with slow relief into the warm black-water’s embrace.

The strong white hands that were gripping her ankles let go and pull her down by her dress instead.  She looks down at her beautiful dress, once a bright symbol of their love.  Now it is streaked with heavy purple bloodstains from this man she betrayed and killed.

He grabs handfuls of her dress and pulls it deeper, dragging her down with it.  She looks for the man’s face and sees the animal waiting for her.  Then beneath him, the many faces of the others.  The others who died at her hand.  Waiting.  Wanting.

No.  Not like this.  Never like this.

Terror propels her into action and she starts scraping at the shoulder straps of her dress.  She scratches at her skin, turning it red raw and bloody as she works to get her fingertips underneath the tight metal-frayed straps.  They released so easily their first night together, when this creature clawing at her was still a man.

But that man is gone now.  There is only the monster pulling her deeper.  Soon his cold white hands will find her beneath the dress and keep her in the deep dark sea forever.  She pulls harder and is startled as the straps suddenly give way, releasing her from captivity.

Buoyant with new freedom she kicks hard and pushes up towards the ocean’s surface.  She looks back down to see if her monster-lover will rise again, but there is only a dark shape beneath her.  She races to emerge from the black-water and reaches up for the jetty’s edge.

She grabs on with both hands and heaves the top half of her naked body out of the ocean, collapsing onto the wooden boards.  The foulest layer of slime still clings to her skin as her feet dangle over the edge, dripping with the warmth of the black-water.  She rests there, breathing hard, stopping just for a moment, just to regain a little more of her strength.

She takes another breath before preparing to pull the rest of her body out, but a dead white hand reaches up out of the dark sea and grabs her ankle again.  He pulls hard and starts to haul her back down towards him, scraping her thighs on the wooden lip as she is dragged backwards.

“Reach for it,” commands the voice of her reason.

“What?”

“NOW!”

She thrusts a hand across the sea-jetty, not looking but trusting it will be there.  She recognises the cold steel of her knife and grabs hold of it.  Relief turns to pain as she tightens her hand around the razer-sharp blade, slicing into her two smallest fingers.  She can feel the quickening of her heart-beat in every pulse as she watches the blood spurt out of her hand and onto the wooden boards.

Regardless she pulls harder, dislodging the knife from its place in the boards, her almost-severed fingers hanging on by chunks of skin and muscle.  She transfers the knife to her other hand, then turns and allows herself to be pulled back into the dark sea.  The black-water soft against her damaged body becoming warmer the deeper she sinks.

She finally comes face-to-face with the man she killed.  He grips her upper arms and presses tight, almost crushing them into her shoulders.  She feels their bodies moving together with the waves, ebbing and flowing at the will of the tide as it pulls them away from the safe-harbour and out to sea.

How do you fight the tide once it has you?

She looks into the face of the man she loved, but he is not there, only the blank grinning animal she was sent to hunt, capture and betray.  It is a face of pure hatred.  This monster wants revenge.  She can feel them sinking together into the darkest depths of the ocean as they are pulled towards their inevitable fate.

This is it then.

This creature wants to drag her down to the darkest part of the ocean, but it doesn’t just want to kill her.  That would be too easy.  It wants to take its time with her, to take control of the knife she used on him, the man she took from the world above and forced into this realm below.  It wants to slice her up little by little and strip every part of her, as it eats her.

It could start with my fingers; they’re hardly there.

“You have to kill it.”

It’s already dead.  How do you kill something that’s already dead?  Something that hated you so much it survived beyond its own death?

“What’s stronger than hate?”

She looks at the creature then, into the face of its hate and forces herself to remember the man she loved.  The man who showed her deep inside his world, danced with her in the moonlight and gave her his jumper because she was cold.  She smiles and leans in, planting a small kiss on each side of the hideous face.

The monsters face ripples and she sees a battle raging within him, between man and beast.  She sees confusion in the man’s face, just like the day he uncovered her betrayal.  She sees fury in the creature’s face, fighting for control as its claw-hands grip her tighter.

Then it transforms back into the face of the man, the one she grieved for through the long nights, wearing the jumper he gave her, pretending to sleep.  The man she shouldn’t have loved, but did.  The man for whom she beat and tortured other people, even a member of her own team.

Perhaps the monster was always there, inside of him, I just didn’t want to see it.

His grip on her arms loosens and she sees the man looking at her, examining her features as if seeing them for the first time.  They begin to rise to the surface of the ocean together, looking into each other’s eyes.  The coolness of the water barely registers on her skin, but she is grateful for the air that he no longer needs.

His hands slide up her shoulders and she smiles at the gentleness of his rough touch, at the familiarity of his fingers caressing her broken skin.  As his fingertips move gently up her neck and light on her cheeks, a smile begins to form on his face and he closes his eyes, expecting her lover’s kiss.

“Just as you knew he would.”

She takes one last look at his face, drawing in every detail to remember him like this.  The beautiful fullness of his lips she kissed so many times and meant it.  She smiles back at him, but it starts to falter and quiver with fresh grief and is surprised to find herself close to tears.  She places a light kiss on his lips then brings her knife up and cuts deep across his throat.

Blood pours out of his yawning neck as his head falls back in a gruesome gape of surprise.  His eyes open and he looks at her, questioning her betrayal, but she ignores their plea and cuts into his neck again, deeper this time, right back to the place where there is bone.  His head lolls back to reveal dead flesh and release a large cloud of suffocating darkness.

Then his grip on her is gone, and she is free.  The knife falls from her hand and she watches it disappear into the black ocean beneath her along with her twice-dead lover.  Her legs kick out and disturb the bloody water all around her, churning a dark swirl to cover his sinking corpse.

The sea-jetty is so small and far away, but the ocean’s surface is clear across to it; no layer of thick and foul-smelling slime is in the way to choke her as she starts to swim towards the safe-harbour.  Her arms reach forward to draw the water back and at once she is aware of her two fingers hanging loose.  They push and pull with the resistance of the waves and feel as if they may snap off at any moment.

Maybe it would have been better to lose them altogether.

She feels the black-water pressing against her, whispering warmth to coax her back to its depths, forcing her to make slow and sluggish progress through painful strokes, each one a labour to her complaining limbs.

Her long dark hair trails behind her, ripe to be grabbed and pulled back under.  At any moment she expects to feel the cold grip of white fingers on her ankle again, or the sudden stab of a stainless steel knife, before dragging her down to the ocean’s depths one final time, to entwine with her headless lover forever.

Perhaps that would be justice.  For betraying a man in life and in death.  For killing him twice when his defences were down.

“He would have killed you.”

The wooden sea-jetty blurs in front of her as warm tears escape from her eyes at last.

“You defended yourself.”

She doesn’t reply, but keeps kicking with weak legs, pulling with aching arms, through sea-water that feels a degree cooler with every stroke.

“Twice.”

She dips her head under the cold water, washing the grief from her face and the blurriness from her eyes.  She thinks she feels a hand on her leg and the thought sends adrenaline racing through her body.

Is it him?

She reaches a hand down and runs it along the length of her leg.  Both legs.  But there is nothing there.  She looks down into the ocean, afraid of seeing him rise up beneath her, but the water is clear and empty.  She scans it a couple of times, but only sees her legs working beneath to keep her afloat.

It is enough to quieten her fear.

For now.

She kicks harder towards the jetty, new energy surging as she grabs hold of her need to get out of the water and away from him.  She cuts through the cold pure water with strong determined strokes and, before her mind can weary again, she is reaching for the sea-jetty.

Her hands grab the wooden lip and she pulls herself up and out in one easy movement, not stopping until she is safe on land and away from the water’s edge.  She collapses in the middle of the warm wooden boards and turns her head to look out over the smooth surface of the ocean for any movement.  For any sign of her dark lover returning.

Is this a Dream or a Nightmare?

“Exactly.”

She gives up trying to understand and focuses on breathing deep; to slow her racing heart and calm her chaotic mind.  She feels a warm trickle on her belly and looks down at fresh blood pumping out from her injured fingers.

Clear water from the ocean surges up between the wooden boards and creates mini cold waves to break over her.  Its harsh sting slaps her naked shivering skin into hardened goosebumps.  She carefully holds her damaged hand close to her chest and stands up, steadying her legs before she looks back down into the deep water.

The sea is no longer black, it is clear into the depths and she can see his face.  His head is still attached to the carcass beneath it, though she doesn’t care to know by how much.  He looks at her with something like reproach.  You killed me twice, he seems to say, but without the voice to do so.

Instead, she sees his clenched fist rising up, forefinger raised.  It points to his head, to his temple, and she feels her own hand lifting to mirror his.  She points a finger to the place at her temple where she tore a hole and bled for him.  A warm trickle starts there and she touches it to see fresh blood on her fingers.

I have my scars.  The deepest ones came from those I loved.

She shakes the blood off, then carefully cups her mangled hand to her heart.  So many faces are looking up at her from the ocean now, mingling together, silently screaming their last, as they were sacrificed to her calling.  She acknowledges them with a small respectful nod, then turns and walks away to the large white and silver yacht.

The brightening light almost shimmers to white on her pale skin, stark in contrast with the long red streaks of blood running down her naked body, trickling down her stomach and from her temple, flowing warm down the side of her face.

Her long black hair is stuck to her back and shoulders, dripping wet down her skin with cold drops that make her shiver.  Seawater mixed with the blood from her hair and small puddles form on the wooden sea-jetty behind her, like some terrible watercolour reminder of what she has done, but she doesn’t look back.

She winces a little at the yacht’s glaring light and releases her mangled fingers so she can put a hand up to shield her eyes from white blindness.  She steps up and onto the vessel’s wide, firm gangplank; solid and unswerving under her feet, she walks without stopping to the top.

Finally on board, she turns and leans heavily on the nearest silver rail, light and smooth, yet solid enough to help bear the burden.  With her back to the yacht, leaning against it, she breathes in deep.  The yacht’s dazzling silver-light beams out from everywhere, warming her naked body and reminding her she has been liberated from all the dark secrets she tried to keep hidden.

She looks out over the ocean’s vast expanse as it glistens with thousands of tiny moon-tinted lights, dancing out to the horizon and beyond.  The stars are brighter in her sky now; each one takes a turn to gleam with unique light before diminishing and allowing the next star its chance to shine.

Tiredness washes through her and she leans back against the warmth of the silver yacht, like a welcome radiator after the coldest of journeys home.  The brilliant white and silver light is all around her, like a halo for her body, but it isn’t just soothing her weary limbs and tired soul, it’s healing every part of her.

She looks down at her mangled hand, but it doesn’t look so hideous now.  Her fingers are no longer hanging by a thread, they are knitting back onto her hand.  Filaments of silver-light have joined the almost-separated parts together, like an otherworld seamstress working with skilful speed to mend what was broken.

The cut was smooth, as was the blade that made it and she watches the warm, healing silver-light turn her dark, blood-red gaping wounds into healthy pink skin.  She stares at her fingers; they have healed like new, as if it they were never severed.

Her scratched and red-raw shoulder skin is smooth and untouched.  She reaches up to her head, to the place where a small river of blood was flowing before, but the skin is dry and unbroken.  Only her scar remains.

And she knows.  That this is where she is meant to be, this is what she was made to do, and she will not be letting go of that.

At least not yet.

I don’t know where you are.

“I am here with you.”

Was that you?

Or is it just your voice inside my head?

Or something else?

“I am here with you.”

“Are you?”

My words echo down the lonely shadowed hallway.  Its once bright golden walls relished the warm light of the sun so much, they refused to let it go, but now they’re muted and dark, as if a storm is imminent.

There’s no movement in here.  It mirrors the stillness of my body.  I am sat on the carpeted floor with my back to the door of my office.  I stretch up carefully against the solid wood, but there’s no ache, no pain.

Where are you?

“I am here with you.”

“Stop saying that,” I reply.  “You’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“I can’t see you.”

“That does not mean I am not here.”

I can’t feel your presence.  I don’t know where your words are coming from.

How did I come to be here on the floor?

I remember completing my shift of watchroom duties, ready to welcome the changeover period.  I always look forward to your coming, with a cup of tea and a smile.  It’s always the simplest acts of love that make me smile.

Was I making coffee for you?  The air does not smell of it.

And why is it so quiet?

Even on the calmest of days I can hear the gulls crying to Poseidon; bring fish to the surface so our families may live another cycle of the tide.  But not today.  I should be able to hear the wind around our Lighthouse, even if it’s just a whispered sigh, but I can’t.

Nor can I hear the deep tick-tocking of our Grandfather clock.  I look up from the floor at his gilded face, staring down at me from the dark mahogany casing, his clock-hands frozen and metrical voice silent.

He cannot have stopped.  He has never stopped in over a hundred years of faithful winding by our predecessors.  And you would never leave him so neglected.  Just as you promised you would never leave me.

“And so I haven’t.”

“Then where are you?”

“I can show you if you let me.”

“What does that mean?”

“Which part of ‘I can show you if you let me’ is confusing you?”

“All of it.  Now tell me what you mean.”

“Exactly what I just said.  Now shush your mush, close your eyes, and let me lead you.”

I smile.  That sounds more like you.

I close my eyes, breathing in long and slow, then out as I settle myself down.  I feel a strong pull from my heart and, eyes still closed, I follow it to standing.  I pause for a moment with my bare feet on the carpeted floor.

Something is wrong.  I usually enjoy the feel of carpet beneath my toes, but I can’t feel it at all.  I squeeze my toes into the soft pile, recalling a memory of how it used to feel, and a little of that sensation returns.

Something else, too.  I did not creak like a rusted door hinge when I got up from the floor.  I did not have to straighten my spine out like the slow progress of evolutionary man; from hunched-over ape to fully standing human.

It’s been many years since I was able to move without at least some discomfort or stiffness, and now my joints feel as if they are young and new again.  Better, even, because they feel nothing at all.

I keep my eyes closed and begin to walk slowly through our home, finding my way as if I can perceive the walls and furniture around me.  I wonder if blind people develop their senses, so they can detect objects.

Or does the furniture come alive when our eyes close?  Sometimes it just seems to jump in and out of the way, depending on its mood.  Sometimes even when are eyes are open too.

“You always did have the most random thoughts.”

I can hear you smiling when you say that, you know.

“How is that random?” I ask the stale air.  “I was following my train of thought.”

“Final destination, malicious furniture with a penchant for jumping.”

You’re hilarious.

“I know.”

I find my way to the bottom of the stairs, where soft carpet gives way to cool stone, and I stop.  I don’t want to go any further.  I don’t want to go up there and see what’s at the top, but I don’t know why.

I open my eyes and look up the spiral stone staircase.  There is nothing to see except worn steps indented from many years of service, and a smooth-worn handrail of solid wood.

But nothing to hear.

It troubles me greatly that there is nothing to hear.  At the very least there should be a soft whistle of wind as it sneaks in beside the long thin windows.  I put a hand up close to the window’s edge to touch the breeze sneaking in, but there is nothing.

No air dancing on my fingertips, and no seaweed scent of the sea.

I try to look out the thin window, but there is only black.  No reflection of my face pressed against it, and nothing outside.  Just black.  I should be able to see the lighthouse beam as it arcs around.  I wait a little longer for its elegant light to sweep the perimeter, but it’s not there.

And neither are you.

I still don’t know where you are.

“I’m waiting for you.”

That’s creepy.

It sounds like you’re hiding at the top of the stairs with a shovel at the ready, waiting to cave my head in; ‘I’m waiting for you.’

“And how can you be waiting for me?” I ask the stuffy air, “If you’re already here with me?”

“Thank you, Mrs Logic.  You never could take something on faith.  Always had to see the proof of it, before you believed.”

“I believed.”

“Not all the time.”

“My belief grew over time.”

“Once you had proof.  And even then, it was never a certainty.”

“Well excuse me for having doubts.  We can’t all be as certain as you when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Your heart was never the problem.  Overthinking it was.”

“So I should’ve just stopped thinking, that’s what you’re saying?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, you know that’s not what I mean.”

I purse my lips and begin stomping up the stairs, bare feet smacking the warm smooth stone.

“Well if you’re going to batter me round the head with a shovel,” I say.  “Here I come.”

“I’m not going to batter you with a shovel,” you say, with a patience for me I have never really understood.  “Despite you pushing my buttons.”

A smile comes to my face as I continue up the steps.  I am enjoying the feel of my legs working in harmony with my body.  I’d forgotten how it feels.

“And as the Art of War guy says, ‘If someone pushes your buttons, change the combination.’”

“That’s not what he said.”

“That’s how I interpret it.”

“You always did have a tenuous grasp on historical accuracy.”

“Maybe I’m coming up these stairs to batter you, Mr Smarty-Pants.”

“That’s Professor Smarty-Pants, if you don’t mind.”

My smile widens as I reach the top, turning the corner to see a fully lit, open watchroom before me.  This part of our Lighthouse is all windows, with far-reaching views of the coast on calm days, or a close-up look at the raging seas that crash against rock and Lighthouse alike on stormier ones, but all I can see is total blackness.  And no reflections.  As if the glass has been covered, inside and out.

For hundreds of years this has been a Lighthouse, guiding Lightships and saving lives from a painful death by drowning, although at the moment there is no light to steer any lost souls to safety.  It is only during the last couple of centuries it has been transformed into –

I stop.  I cannot go any further.  I am staring at your chair.

You are there, but you are not there.

It’s just your body.

“How do you know I’m not there?”

I move towards you without wanting to.  Your skin is so pale, tinged with blue, and I know your body is cold without having to touch it.  I do not want to touch it.  And yet my hands are reaching out to you.  For you.

Except it’s not you.

It’s your body, but it’s not you.

“How do you know?”

You aren’t there to fill that body with life, with love, with your warm smile to greet me as you stand and come towards me, as you put your arms around me and your hot breath awakens my skin.

Besides, your voice is coming from inside my head, not this empty vessel before me.  I come closer and feel the tears start, blurring my vision before I brush them aside.  There is a growing ache in my limbs that wasn’t there before.

I stop beside you and look down.  You were sitting when it happened, with your head laid down upon your arms like a pillow, as if you had travelled to the land of perfect sleep with no return.

“I am here with you.”

I shake my head in reply.  The stiffness is slowing me down now, so I grab the edge of the desk to help me kneel down beside you.  I look closer at your face and see the contours I have traced with my fingers so many times.  Still they draw me to look upon them as if I am seeing you for the first time.

You look so peaceful in your constant sleep, no smiling wrinkles on your face that you always had too few of.  I cannot see your eyes with their lids closed in breathless sleep.  I love your eyes; they would look at me as if I were the greatest miracle to occur on this, or any other planet.

“You were.”

I smile and reach out a hand to touch your face.

“So were you.”

I have barely touched your cold smooth skin, when I am yanked backwards; a fast reversal of the journey I just took.  Watchroom, stone stairs, carpeted hallway floor.  Once more I am aware of the hard wooden door against my back.  Did I move?  Did I see and feel you upstairs in the watchroom?  Was that real?

Is this?

“Am I dreaming?” I ask the air.  It is harder to breathe now; I can feel it lodging heavy on my chest.  “Because if I am, I would really like to wake up.”

“You’re not dreaming.”

“Then what the hell is going on?”

“How much do you remember?”

“About what?  What is it that I’m meant to be remembering?”

I look up at the Grandfather clock, as if the answers will be written on his face, but all he says is ‘It is twenty-five-to-twelve’.  Which is odd, because I’m sure only a few minutes ago he said, ‘It is ten-past-eleven’, yet he is still frozen in time.

I stare up at him, and it finally comes to me.

Time is out of joint.

Something has caused this.

Was it me?

“Why – ”

Is that what happened to you?  Did I batter you with a shovel?  I didn’t see one upstairs.  I know our arguments get heated sometimes, but to do that?

“Why do you always have to – ”

“Did I …?  Could I …?”  But I cannot form the question in my thoughts, let alone speak them.

And then I hear laughter inside my head.  Coming from you.  You are laughing at me.

Not in a creepy ‘I’m coming to haunt you for all eternity because you battered me with a shovel’ kind of way, but the laugh I remember from when you were alive.  A laugh so wild, so free, so deeply musical, I always loved to hear it.

But not in this moment.  In this moment you’re not laughing with me, you’re laughing at me, and right now your laughter is really starting to piss me off.

“When you’ve quite finished,” I say.

Your laughter trails off from wherever you are.  You could be a thousand miles away, or on the other side of this door.  All I know is I can hear it inside my head which, for all I know, has finally lost the plot completely.

“Why do you always have to assume it’s your fault, or it’s a problem with your head?  How could you ever think you were responsible for my death?”

“It was a logical conclusion,” I say.  “Apparently, shovels and head-battering were on my mind, and I thought that maybe …”

“No.  That’s not you.  That was never you.”

Your voice is so warm, even without your breath to carry it on.

“You were never capable of something like that.  It’s absurd.”

I sigh and lean back against the door, feeling the warmth only solid wood can have, but its comfort is hard and unyielding.  It is not malleable as you once were, it cannot grow arms and hold me as you once did.

The tears return, touching my grief, and I let them.

You will never hold me close and surround me with strong arms.  Never stroke my hair and ease my doubtful thoughts into peaceful submission.  Never place a hand at the back of my neck to make me feel safe in this dangerous and unjust world.

“It’s not fair,” I say to the thick cloying air of our house, our home, and your final resting place.  I feel the rage swelling up within me; bitter rage at the universe for giving you to me, and hopeless anger for taking you away again.

“IT’S NOT FAIR!”

I breathe with a greater effort now, as if I’m eating the dense air.  The pain has returned to my joints and to everywhere else too, it seems, worse than before, so any movement I make will hurt deeper.

I feel my emotions grow colder, grow darker, like a heavy storm-cloud blackening before it bursts into uncontrollable rain on the boiling sea.  I allow the swell of emotion to rise up within me, then crash and split apart on the unyielding rocks.

Once it is has lost its force, my rage at the universe subsides as fast as it rose, leaving an empty shell within my chest.  I let go into the grief, my body shaking with the helpless injustice of it.  You were too young, I should have been the one to go first. 

I turn to the side, ignoring my body’s scream at the movement, and pull my knees up to my chest.  I rest my cheek on the smooth wooden door, pressing against its solid shape for comfort.  I stroke the wood with soft wet fingertips and imagine it curving around me, like an early morning duvet cocooning me with its warmth.

If this were my coffin, nothing would get in.

It would hold me forever.

 “It’s not enough,” I say.

“It never is.”

 “Why did you leave me?”

“I’m still here.”

“No, you’re not!  You’re just a voice in my head.  Like you were before we met.  When I thought I was off my nut because I heard your voice inside my head, telling me you would come for me.  How was I meant to know?”

“Because I came for you.”

“I can’t go back,” I say.  “I can’t go back to the way it was before you came.  Now that I’ve known a life with you.  I just can’t.”

The sadness starts to climb up within me again.

“I know.”

“Do you?” I ask, using the heel of my hand to press the fresh tears from my eyes.  “Do you know what it’s like to find your most beloved one dead?  Do you know what it’s like to never touch their warm body again?”

“Yes I do.”

“Then tell me how to deal with this.”

“Look at the clock.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing the subject.  Look at the clock.”

“The clock?  Why?”

“When are you simply going to do as I ask?  Look at the clock.”

“I already did.  It said twenty-five-to-twelve.  Which is bonkers because five minutes earlier it said ten-past-eleven – ”

“Can’t you just do what I ask?  Please just look at the clock.”

I look up at the Grandfather clock again.  The minute hand has shifted without sound or movement, and now stands at five-to-midnight.  How is that possible?  The only way a clock-hand could change so much, without sound or movement, is if –

And then it finally dawns on me.

“Oh no.”

Time is dangerously out of joint.

“Finally.  It’s about bloody time.”

The lack of feeling in my body, the suppressed sounds, the suffocating air, the missing light from outside, and windows with no reflection.

“Oh crap.”

The silence has come.

“Exactly.  Now as much as I would like to argue with you, we don’t have time.”

“Crap.”

The silence took you.  Why didn’t it take me too?

“Now, I need you believe me when I tell you that I am here with you.”

“Okay,” I say, daring the minute hand of the clock to move again while I’m watching it.

“No, I really mean it.  Believe Me.”

“Okay.”

The clock didn’t say ten-past-eleven when I first looked at it.  I was wrong.

“You have to feel me with you, only then can I pull you through this.”

“Okay.”

It was eleven-minutes-past-eleven.  Eleven-eleven.  The doorway.

“Stop saying Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Freya!”

That breaks my gaze on the clock hands.

“Sorry.  I’m here.”

“I need you to close your eyes again, and trust me.”

I glance at the clock once more, and then shut my eyes tight.

I have the strangest sensation of being pulled backwards.  Which shouldn’t be possible, because there’s a wooden door behind me.  Except now it’s pliable, surrounding me like I wanted it to.

I can feel the wood grain around me.  No, not around me.  It feels more like it’s moving through me, going inside my body as I am being pulled from the hallway to the study.  Except it isn’t moving through me, of course, I am moving through it. 

Does the door feel me?  Does it feel my heart and body, like I feel its grains and splinters?

And now I have stopped.  Stuck in the middle of its solid wooden mass.

“Stop fighting this.”

“What happened?”

“You tensed up and stopped me from bringing you through.”

“How?”

“We really don’t have time for your questions and random thoughts right now.”

I frown at your voice; it seems to be less inside my head, and more like it’s coming from behind me.

“There’s no need to get snippy.”

I think I hear a heavy sigh, while my head is surrounded by the door.  Does that mean my mouth is full of tiny wooden spikes that move in and out as I speak?  If I opened my eyes, would I see more grains of wood like the ones stuck in my body?  I might not be able to see at all because they are actually inside my eyes.  Best not, then.

“Can you feel my hands?”

I can feel hands touching my back, I hope they’re yours.

“Yes of course they are.  Focus on my hands, and you will come.”

With a single breath I relax, feeling your large strong hands as you pull me through.  I am lying on the floor of our study, looking up at you as you stand over me.

“I can see you,” I say.

“I can see you, too,” you say with a smile.

You are no longer just a voice in my head, but a face in front of me.  You offer me your hands as you once did and I take them, feeling their cool smoothness in my own.

I pause to ready myself for standing up with the effort of my years, but it is neither hard nor painful.  I stand easily and we look at each other for a moment, then you pull me into your arms and it feels like home.

 “I’ve missed you,” I say.  Your arms feel the same around me, but I cannot smell your scent.

“I wasn’t gone that long.”  Your voice is as it once was, though its resonance is muted like all the sounds in this air-soup that has invaded our Lighthouse.

“Long enough,” I say and draw back to look at your face.  It looks as it once did, though you now have a hint of that same cold blueness I saw upstairs.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

You smile at me with gentle forgiveness, as if I haven’t fully understood yet.  It’s a look I’ve come to know well over the years.  You hold me firmly and turn me to look over your shoulder.

I am there, sitting in my desk-chair.

But I am not really there.

It’s just my body.

It looks like I am asleep on the desk, my head resting on folded arms like a pillow, but of course I’m not.  I stagger a little at the sight of my body and you keep me upright, then pull me tight into your arms again.

“I know,” you say into my ear.  “I know what it’s like to find my most beloved one dead.  I know what it’s like to never be able to touch them again.”

I nod against you.

“And you know that we are touching now, but it isn’t real, don’t you?”

I nod again.  I know.  I know what this means for us.

We are dead.  The silence came for us both.  I draw back from you and stand looking into your eyes.  Once I could see clear down into their depths, but now they hold only a surface reflection, a glimpse of what was.

Our presence will remain here only until the clock strikes twelve.  Then we will either move on to our next life, or remain here to become trapped entities, wandering the earth until someone helps us cross-over.

A replacement shift will come and remove our bodies, then take our places in the watchroom.  Time will turn for them as it has stopped for us.

BONG!

You smile at me and take my hand, intertwining your fingers in mine as we have done so many times before, but for the last time.

BONG!

We move back to my body, lying so peaceful and still, sleeping forever as we hear the clock work to complete its twelve strikes.  It is the only passage of time that cannot be quickened.

BONG!

We kneel down beside my body, and I look up into my face.  It is a cool pale blue, with fewer lines than I would’ve expected.

BONG!

I look at you and ask, “How will I find you again?”

You smile and say, “I will come and find you.”

BONG!

I ask, “Will you do something for me?”

Your hand tightens its grip on mine as you say, “Anything.”

BONG!

“Come and find me a little sooner next time.”

“I promise,” you say.  “But you have to promise to believe me when I come for you.”

BONG!

Your free hand reaches out and gently tilts my head up to meet yours.  You plant a soft kiss on my cheek, then pull back to meet my eyes with a smile.

I smile back, “I promise.”

BONG!

I reach for the side of my pale blue cold face, holding tight to your hand so I do not lose you until I have to.  I touch my dead cheek, just long enough to marvel at its smoothness before I hear

BONG!

I feel a rush as we are pulled away, hands entwined.

I follow you into the darkness.

White light into Summerland.

A forest of green, an ocean of blue.

The pink darkness of separation.

I don’t know where you are.

My hand feels different.

Not the left one holding the wine glass, that one’s perfectly normal, though somewhat chilly and wet.  It’s the other one.  It feels vacant.  I transfer the wine glass to it, but it doesn’t fill the emptiness.

It doesn’t always feel that way.

Sometimes when I’m alone in a crowd, I think I feel fingers entwined with mine, but when I look down they’re not there.  When I walk alone I’ll feel someone beside me, but there’s no-one.  It’s just my imagination creating a fantasy.

I look down at the wine I’ve got left and contemplate another drink, but that means spending more time here to drink it.  I’ve taken a long time with each glass.  Not because I run the risk of getting drunk, the bar staff have been well paid to supply me with fake wine all night long.

I just don’t want to be here.

I shouldn’t feel this way at my own exhibition, but I do.

I had to be here, no choice in it one way or the other.  It took all day just to get the order of my photographs right, and even then I felt compelled to remain, walking slowly around the room in endless circles, checking and re-checking.

I begin another circuit of the room, following the sequence of black and white photographs, glancing over the small tints of carefully placed colour in each one.  Churches, graveyards, and the clock faces I have always been drawn to.

Photography is my obsession, it has been since my first throw-away camera.  Sometimes it feels like it is the only thing I want to do.  Other times it feels like a means to an end. 

Of late, my subject matter has expanded to include Lighthouses; towers that do not have a face to document time, but have a flashing light to measure the rhythm of their hours and centuries.

As I walk along to the end of the sequence, I see two women scrutinising my final photograph; a solitary Lighthouse, on its desolate rock, with dark clouds looming.  I turn my back to them, but it doesn’t stop their words from reaching me.

“She does like to shoot tall pointed objects, must be a certain Freudian influence.”

Then they laugh in that way people do when they think they’re being intelligent or witty at an art exhibition.

“Yes, yes,” the other one agrees.  “That would explain their popularity and why they are so ridiculously overpriced.”

This is their semi-literate way of saying I have a penis-fetish.

Bollocks.  Pun intended.  Perhaps next time I should photograph erect office buildings, shining tall and pink in the early morning sun, complete with two hanging bushes at their base.

These people and their opinions used to interest me, then for a while they annoyed me, now they just don’t matter.  I walk away from the women and their words, their theories and criticisms, and let them float there to be flushed away.

I don’t know what I hate more.  The crap they talk, or the fact that I have to be here to listen to it.  Sober.  I never used to be.  Sober, I mean.  I attended my first exhibition on red wine, and made an exhibition of myself instead.

Fortunately for me, I had friends in attendance who thought it was hilarious, and no-one from the press.  Some of them thought it might even add to my ‘artistic mystique’.  But really, how seriously do you take an artist after you’ve seen their knickers?  Exactly.

As I continued to reveal them to the public – the photos, not my knickers – I came to understand that once displayed, these images no longer belonged to me.  They belonged to whoever sees them and feels an emotional connection with them.

So, they belong to those women now.  You see what you want to see.  Perhaps it’s not me who has the penis-fetish, after all.  For me, their meaning is not that complicated; they’re about the passage of time, and the unseen clock-face always hanging over your head, counting down to the end only it knows.

Plus, obviously, penises.

Kidding.

Well, mostly…

I withdraw from the voices swarming around me until they become white noise and I cannot distinguish their words.  I look over at the make-shift bar, watching the clock above their heads.

If the clock hands could speak, they would say it’s almost five to midnight.  And once they strike the hour, I will take my leave.  Until then, I will linger here, hiding in plain sight from these strangers who think they know me.

What I really want is to be alone with my camera, travelling back to Scotland’s far north, where the wind races unchecked round its Lighthouses, and the sea speaks of its own time and place.

I give the clock-face another glance and think to hell with it, I’ve been here long enough, it’s time for me to move on.  I begin to saunter towards the bar as if I’m getting another drink.

I smile at a few of the attendees as I pass by their blurred faces in the crowd.  I don’t linger, or give them a second glance.  Not an opportunity to talk, just smile and nod.  I will put my glass down on the bar, and head for the exit.

“I am here with you.”

I smile at the familiar sound of his voice in my head.  The man who says he is here, but never is.

“I am coming for you.”

Really?  Again?

For all the times I’ve heard him speak, he has never appeared, not even a glimpse.  Sometimes, for fun, I follow my intuition to see if he will appear where I am drawn to, but he never is.  Some beautiful Lighthouses, though.

“I am here.”

“Of course you are,” I mutter, and immediately regret it as the people near me turn at the sound of my voice.  No bother, they’ll think I’m just a bonkers artist who talks to herself.

And they would be right.  On both counts.

I walk over to the table that has transformed into a pretend bar.  The bar staff and I greet each other as the old friends we have become on this endless journey from morning to night, and I get ready to swallow the last of my fake white wine.

“I am here.”

“Not if you’ve got any sense, you’re not,” I speak into the glass just before I drain the last of it.  I put the wineglass down and make for the door, but my way is blocked by a man.  Normally I would just keep my head down and push past, but something makes me look up.

It is your eyes I see first, so open and welcoming, so clear and so deep, with a hint of mischief around the edge that makes me want to smile.  You look into mine as if this is what you came here for.

“It is.”

Well, that’s just spooky.  That voice is so strong and clear inside my mind.  Same voice.  But you’re here, not just a voice in my head.  How can you be speaking to me like this?  Your lips didn’t move did they?

Is that really you? 

“Of course it is.  When I saw the Lighthouses in your work, I knew it was time.”

Yeah, sure.

“You doubted I would come for you.”

A little.  No, that’s not true, I’ve entertained doubts so immense I’ve taken them to Edinburgh Castle just to fit them in.

“That’s funny.”

Almost.

You’re smiling at me as if you really heard me, so once again my doubt begins to knock for attention.

“It’s okay,” you say.  “I will persuade you.  It is always my pleasure to persuade you.”

I want to believe you.  I do.  But I’m starting to feel very aware of the fact that I’m standing here opposite a man I haven’t spoken a word to yet.

“Then let me hold you, and all else will pass us by.”

I stare into your face, and you look at me like you’ve always known me.  You come towards me with your arms already beginning to open and I step into them, meeting you where we come together.

We fit as one.  I breath in to you, and we breathe out together.  Your hand reaches up and gently tilts my head to regard yours.  You plant a soft kiss on my cheek, then pull back and meet me with a smile.

I see visions.

Another lighthouse.  So beautiful.  On an island.  With strong wind and loud seagulls.

“Are they just visions?”

Maybe not.  I think they might be memories.  Or even the future.  I shake a little, but you hold me close.  My face turns in towards your neck.  Your warmth is a smell I didn’t know I was missing until now.  It smells like home.

“I’ve missed you.”  Your voice is soft in my ear as you hold me.  I know your voice.  I’ve heard it so often in my head.  It sounds different now.  It feels different, carried on warm breath.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I whisper back.  And I have.  I just didn’t know it till now.

I feel your arms relax and drop, but before I can miss them too much, you have taken my hand.  Our fingers intertwine naturally, fitting together, and I know this is the answer to the emptiness of my hand.

And now I know where you are.

“Let’s go home.”