For time and time and time and time I lay waiting The Makers came and asked me If I knew what to do When the end of me was fixed I said I fly Fly to my destiny of the pattern Now I am falling The end of me a whole grey light Burning steady My destiny a pattern in my mind My only one Shapes of grey and brown and green Are below me I fly to match my mind to my world Now I am falling Tilt forward, tilt left, tilt forward The grey is there A burning wonder and joy and love My only one But now I am closer I see movement Around the grey The rounded colour shapes of Makers I am falling And in this moment I know my work To unmake them To turn to all the Makers to grey Light take them Burn their forms to a shapeless Pattern of joy And in this moment I know what I am I am bomb Now I am falling Now I am falling Now all is grey

For one lurching moment Tarek shook with an impulse to get back onto the plane. The hot dry air was like a wall. The hot dry earth under his feet. Then. Shouting and his mother's tears washing his face. Now. Fingers teasing the cuff of his suit. Tarek Fathi, UNFPA Assistant Investment Officer. From Manchester, England. Not from not Al-Kufra, Libya. Not anymore.

The giant blue sky loomed over the airport building and everything else around. Uncle Adel stood by a Toyota pickup talking to a couple of soldiers. Chatting online hadn't shown Tarek the size of his uncle, Adel was a big man, able to swallow up the two soldiers with room to spare. One of the soldiers lazily held an AK-47, the other had his weapon slung round his back. Tarek ignored the thoughts of NGO workers kidnapped and held for ransom by one of the warring tribes. Only at the last did he look up into his uncle's eyes to check they were smiling. Their hands clasped, skin thick and hard as leather gripped him

"Peace be upon you Tarek, you are a grown boy!"

"Peace be upon you Uncle"

"You left when everything was falling apart, twenty years?"

"It is twenty years, I'm glad to be back and to see you and your family"

"And my nephew working for the United Nations, a big man!", Adel laughed, releasing his hand and turning to the soldiers, "and from Manchester"

"Manchester City!", the soldier not holding the AK-47 cheered and rattled off player names. They swapped predictions on the coming match with Liverpool, and lamented injuries and referees. Then Adel was motioning for Tarek to get in the pickup as the soldiers sauntered away

"So nephew, you have money to invest in my farm?", Adel's big hands moved on the wheel as they drove away from the airport. The pickup passed by a tumble of tents and shacks, a child with impossibly dark skin running naked alongside them, waving and laughing, a shadow

"The investment is in infrastructure, we have a report recommending transport investment, healthcare, but water networks are a priority", Tarek looked at the shopfronts and had a dizzying sense of being back in England. Bright signs and well-dressed people. A tall young woman with a small dog. Two soldiers stood on a street corner looking at her. Some more tents and shacks tucked between buildings. The spell was broken.

"Water, everyone wants it and only so much to go around, we need it, they need it, but investment is good", Adel waved to the thriving street, "Al Kufra is good, no fighting now, people with money, but I want more money for my farm", his big face looking at Tarek and laughing loud

"I can only make recommendations to the team”, Tarek straightened, “but agriculture is a priority"

"Good", Adel swung onto a rougher road, away from the whitewashed buildings.

"These are all migrants, workers?", Tarek looked out over a field of breezeblock built huts covered in corrugated metal

"Migrants, refugees, escapees, they all pass through Al Kufra", Adel gestured around them, "but we give them houses, food, water"

"You give them aid?", the next field was the same, knots of people dotted between shacks, a group of soldiers walking through.

"For a price", Adel laughed, "this is my agriculture now", the car bumped around an old crater mark.

Tarek tried to find words. He was to help bring investment, increased living standards, and then peace and democracy would surely follow. His contacts in Al Kufra would ensure money flowing to the right pockets. Criminality would wither on the vine. A bitter taste twisted in his mouth.

Adel laughed again "they have money, they pay the soldiers of Subul Al-Salam, they pay others to take them on, and they pay Adel for a room, that is the real world boy, don't listen to what they tell you at the United Nations, and we treat them good, a nice room, not like some others, not like other places, if they are no trouble"

A few men were putting up yet more breezeblock huts, they raised their hands as the pickup drove by. "Abdul, you remember? My second son, you remember, you always were playing in the irrigation channels, my precious water, splash splash splash, all day, ha!” Tarek looked at the faces, trying to guess which one was Abdul. A memory of a stream in the sand, running with the cool feel of wet clothes, waving.

"A traffiker", Tarek barely spoke the word

"Yes, yes, a trafficker. We are all traffickers now, better business, better wages, and always more trade", Adel gestures to the house in front of them. Big metal gates swing open, a man dressed in black salutes. Private security. The house is new, big, big windows, big doors, the pickup slewed to a stop just short of the entrance.

Adel shrugs and sighs, clasping his hands together, "after you left, maybe we live, maybe we die, we are on the edge, one tribe wants this, one tribe wants that, bombs land on my farm, guns at my head, at my sons, my wife, but then when the refugees came, we are builders, we can take care of people as well as crops, we can do business, we are useful and now we live", Adel gestures to the house and then behind them to the fields of refugees and migrants, to the town and the airport

"You can come in and pray and then we talk agriculture" Adel looks at him and smiles his broad smile, "or you can go back, it's ok, the hotel always has a room for my friends, there are many flights now"

Tarek looked at the house, built with the profits of everything he had come to destroy. All Tarek’s dreams became fractured, blown around with the dust. Then images came, of running alongside a car, waving, clothes cool with the water. A shadow. Then he knew. He would bring them water. He would help them grow. And maybe good could still bloom. Tarek opened the door and stepped onto the hot dry earth, walking through the gates.

I live. Why do I live? The dead were better people than me. The dead had more to give. But it is me who survives. The dead were beautiful and kind. The dead had more intelligence. But it's me who is alive. Stumbling lost after the apocalypse

I am afraid of the life I hold. I don't know why it still burns inside me

The dead are all around me in the spaces they have left. The head that isn't on the pillow. The laughter that isn't echoing round Bee and Kate's bedroom. The dining room is noisy with silence, so busy with their absence that I can't go in there. My home office is the safest place. I can imagine that the world outside is the same, pretend nothing has changed. I find myself sleeping under the desk, wake up to stare at a pair of shoes and a blue plastic pen that has rolled onto the light brown carpet

It's day twenty-five of the apocalypse. My stomach gnaws at me, my mouth rasps.

There is water in the taps but no food in the cupboards or fridge that I can eat. It has been three days since I have eaten anything that could be called a meal. I need to go outside. But I am not alone in this world. There are the undead. I watch them, hiding behind the curtain so they don't see me. They call to each other in meaningless shouts. Carry out strange routines and ceremonies. They have tried to get in the house but I shout and raise a noise and that drives them away

Today I leave the house and confront the post-apocalyptic world. Not because I want to. Only because the emptiness of my stomach burns harder than the emptiness of my soul. I can't even honour the dead by dying

I open the front door. The air and light and noise hits me. The leaves on the ivy flutter in a cool breeze. I stand on the doorstep for some time, no reason to move, but then I walk. I am desolate. I am despair. But my body carries on. One step and then another, the feel of the paving stones under my feet a reminder I'm not some ghost that has floated here from the morgue. I survived the apocalypse. But I don't know why

On the main road there are hordes of undead. One of them tries to stop me. It forms thick words on its tongue and throws a babble of words at me but it's just noise. I push the creature away, put my head down and carry on, mixing in with the other undead, pretending I am one of them

There's shelves of food in the supermarket. My stomach and watering mouth remind me of hunger. My basket is full and I stop for a time. Remembering before. The girls would ride on the front of the trolley. Sarah holding up jars of pasta sauce. The mushroom or the basil? And then the sweet aisle and the clamour of pleaaasseeee from the girls and we would haggle and bargain and laugh as we gave way

"Bee and Kate's daddy? Hello. I'm sorry about what happened to Bee and Kate. We all miss them", a child of the undead is speaking to me and I recoil from the words and stare. Dark eyes. A blue ribbon bunching an unruly frizz of hair. Those eyes. A little like Kate's.

There is a party I remember. A girl with frizzy hair and blue ribbons next to Bee. A balloon filled with sweets popping and the children scampering to gather them up and Bee saying they had to share equally and that was important and I was proud. So proud. I said, that's a brilliant idea and smiled at her. And my smile was reflected by my daughter, and beside me my wife, beside me my other daughter. The girls

I have to put the basket down. Steady myself, hand clutching at a shelf. My legs are not sure if they can keep me up. My face seems all wet

"Mr Holdswith told us and we were all sad. And Bee and Kate's mummy. And that it was a car accident. Are you crying because you are sad?" The girl looks at me. Not the undead. Just a little girl. Her mum comes shushing like a steam train, all red-faced. Apologies. Apologies. So difficult. So difficult. So very sad

"I'll be ok", I croak with my voice unused to speaking, I try a laugh, "my world has ended, but I'll be ok".

Why do I live? The dead were better people than me. The dead had more to give. But it is me who carries their memories. Of them. Of them with me. I smile at the little girl and see it reflected. After the apocalypse, perhaps I can survive after all

The gate was secured with a weathered padlock the size of a fist. A hand painted sign told him that this was the Steeple Vineyard and that it was open weekdays, 9am till 5pm. But the paint was peeling and the gate shut. Beyond was a gravel track quickly lost in the vines. A walk wouldn't be so bad though. When the sun broke through the clouds it gave a flash of midsummer warmth. David was a big man, carrying a middle-aged paunch, but he scaled the gate more easily than you might expect.

It didn't feel like England. The terracotta red roofed church at the turn-off had a flavour of France or Spain. The vines weren't bursting with grapes but bunches were ripening, dark reds on the right, greens on the left. A jumble of weeds carpeted the ground under the vines, but even here the colours were strange. Big purple leaves between slender yellow flowers, light green fronds danced. David let himself enjoy the warm air and the buzz of insects, the sound of his shoes on the gravel. No thrum of traffic, no shouting on grey streets. A pressure lifted, but the lightness was checked by the familiar feel of his shirt, by the weight of the badge in his pocket. No matter how it felt, this wasn't a holiday.

The track rounded a corner and then stopped dead in front of a wooden shelter. David blinked. The shelter had been patched up, new wood pale and clean against the old, a glint of new bolt heads. It wasn't abandoned but the track he'd expected to take him to a farmhouse ended here. Beyond the shelter were vines, and to the left and right. No signs or a contact number. The number he had for Muiranne had gone straight to voicemail. Not an easy woman to talk to. David studied the shelter and then leaned against one of the posts, as if expecting a lift or waiting for a date. Then it came, on the breeze, a call or maybe laughter off to the right, up a gently rolling hill where rows of vines rose in layer after layer. There was a narrow rutted track up through the rows and he followed it, black leather shoes slipping here and there on the chalky soil.

The laughter belonged to a group of around twenty men and women scattered along a row, paying no attention to the vines but cutting back and digging up some of the plants in between. David saw now that what he'd taken to be weeds were some other crop, a mix of crops, picked by a ragged mix of workers. A babble of languages. Faces furrowed with age and smooth with youth, skin black and fair, a jumble of saris and nike tracksuits and a patched jacket daubed with ink slogans. Love everyone. Respect the Earth. Our Law.

"Can I help you sir?" a small man at the end of the group, weathered skin and an easy smile. That mouth would soon be making jokes about the big guy wearing the ironed shirt.

"I need to speak to Muiranne", several others stopped their chatter at the name and examined David, trying to read his stiffly foreign body language

"She's up on the rise, that's where she works, just keep heading up the track, you can't miss it", the small man gave a shrug and a smile, "unless you get lost", eyes sharpened. I know you, copper, I know you

On the way up the hill David passed another big group off to the left, talk and laughter hidden amongst the leaves. On both sides of the track the weeds were cut making a soft bed of flowers and leaves. Then a family, singing as they worked. Thin but healthy faces. Mum and dad leading the song. Two children who were school age and not at school, joining in on the chorus

"Dolly-szute, dolly-szahh"

Slender fingers reached into cloth bags and scattered something amongst the cut weeds. The mother glanced up, noting his shirt and trousers, ironed creases. David was never a bearer of good news, especially in a place like this

"Dolly-szute, dolly-szahh"

He left them at their work, heading up, sunlight sparkling through the tall vines. So far away from the city, from all the troubles of the world

"Dolly-szute, dolly-szahh"

He saw Muiranne amongst them immediately. Even though there were several women and a few men and children to outnumber them all, he saw her in a moment. It always pays to know who the leader is. A woman with dirty blond hair pointing, assuring, directing. Arms and face and body big enough to gather all of her flock together. Two dark haired girls, no older than five, acted as her assistants, pointing as Muiranne pointed, shaking heads as Muiranne shook hers.

The vines stopped short of a ridge, just short grass and a view to fields in front, a line of the sea. Vegetables and plants were being bunched, laid out on mats, a barn was off to one side, smoke drifting out the top. A chatter of east-European, of Bangladeshi, of east-London, all out of place and out of time

"Muiranne Cullen?", he spoke as she stopped to look at him, glances and looks from all around. He was the one out of place here.

"Yes, that's my name, can I help you?", Irish by way of Essex, some of those soft Gaelic vowels sharpened on the chalk hills of England

"I'm detective inspector David Lofthouse, of the National Crime Agency, I'm here investigating a serious crime, I'd like a talk, in private, if possible please", the children kept on playing but the adults were quiet, working or watchful or both

Muiranne pursed her lips and looked about, "Of couse, Farz, look after things will ya?". A woman in a blue sari kneeling amongst others raised her hand in response and nodded. Muiranne turned her large blue-green eyes on him, "I need to see how they're getting on down the way" and she was leading him off back down the slope, shooing the two dark haired girls, promising they'd have to cook for a week if they didn't go and the girls ran away laughing

"You've got a lot of people working here, most farmers seem to struggle for workers nowadays", his shoes slipped again on the rutted track

"Be careful there, can twist an ankle on these paths", a warning, but not an undertone to it, genuine, "they aren't seasonal, they live here for a while, they move on, I can always use the help"

"All documented I hope", the vines stretched away, beyond were fields. If someone were hiding here the whole met couldn't find them

"Of course, there's a couple of charities I work with, you can see the paperwork if you like, I don't let just anyone stay, there's rules, rules for those who want to stay here"

"I'm sure there is. Minimum wage too?"

"They are paid for what they work, take off the bread and board, everyone helps out as well, voluntary", and Muiranne pauses, hand resting on one of the vines, looks along the row, and then to him, "I'm not getting rich off this if that's what you mean. This is a safe place. People need safe places. Too much of this planet has people scratching out each other's eyeballs. Here we give our thanks to the mother for what she gives us, I have a contract for all the grapes, the other food we eat or sell, there's room in the barns and house for a hundred, I gave up the cattle for wine after my husband passed. It's amazing what many hands working together can do"

David nodded, he understood belief, he understood wanting to help, "I'm here about a man, Ghulam Sardar, also known as Glam or Gary, Afghan, twenty three, about five seven or five eight, usually wears a moustache but might have shaved it off, a couple of friends of his came through your place a couple of months ago and we think he followed them here, probably not going by that name"

"Maybe his friends moved on and he went with them, it's quiet here really, not for every young man, did he do something?", she was a head shorter than him, as they stood on this level, but broad as she was tall

"He was involved in the death of a man"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, not murder I hope?", the face was open but her eyes were intent, the grip on the canes holding the vines had tightened. A mother worried one of her children had done wrong. David knew then. Ghulam was here.

"It's not for me to judge, it may not have been unprovoked"

"Self-defence then?", the grip relaxed

"We need to know who else was there Muiranne, what happened there, we can protect Ghulam", she gave a sceptical raise of the eyebrows but he persisted "for his own safety it would be best if Ghulam came forward"

"If I couldn't find this Ghulam, but I found someone who had spoken with him, could that answer your questions?", an offer of a bargain, not one he could take easily

"He's wanted in connection with a very serious crime"

"Aye, but he's not the one you're after"

David looked out and saw the steeple of the red church poked up between the vines, "the law is the law"

"The law of your land might not be the law of this land", a curve of a smile crept into her face

"Nowhere is exempt Muiranne, even in deepest Essex", he smiled back. He was going to give way, if the information was good, he had let go of far more

"Maybe so, maybe not, we have east Europeans, east Asians, south Asians, south Africans, everyone in between here, country doesn't matter much, the land is the people and the people the land, and this is good land", a wasp sniffs around them and the flies off, Muiranne follows it with her eyes as he watches her

"If this friend of Ghulam's can give me the names of the gangmasters, then yes, otherwise I'll have to question more widely, and I don't want to cause upset here, this is a peaceful place, god knows the world needs more peaceful places", and he liked her, this mother to so many lost children

"And there would be no arrests, no mention of Steeple", a fierce look in those big eyes, "it is peaceful here, people know it as such, it's why they find there way, and find their way from it."

"Just a talk", he held his hands wide, palms empty, nothing hidden, "and I'll follow the law of this land"

"Good, you're a good man, if you carry on being good you can have some of the stew we're making", and the smile again, as warm as the sunshine through the clouds

"Then I'll be on my very best behaviour", and they started walking down the slope to where voices laughed and spoke and sang

It's half an hour's walk to Henry and Amelia's flat. You wanted an Uber but she wants to walk. The breeze is cool, a quiet night and quieter still with her silence. You try and keep rhythm with her steps. She notices things out of place. It draws her attention. If, god help you, you hesitate where she walks on, or walk on whilst she waits, then you are an impotent coward or a witless fool

At Henry and Amelia's there will be the usual chat and wine. But you will take care not to get drunk because each word you say will be examined. The tone and shift of every syllable. Meaning drawn from them, torn from them, and fashioned into weapons of war. When she has you away from the world again

You look at her without looking. You don't want to look at her because she probably won't do or say anything, but she might. A look can ignite a stream of violence that will last until she tires of it. So you look without looking. The strong cheekbones and full lips, the bright eyes and graceful neck. Her face has so much life, it is no wonder you fell in love

Such a pity she is a monster

"Why did you say that?", she would ask. Not why you thought her a monster. You made a throwaway remark about a colleague or a film or something you had bought. And instead you find yourself in a war-zone.

"Don't say that about Kathy, she's a good colleague, you're completely out of order, you are a crass idiot. Sort. Yourself. Out."

It's no use protesting or trying to reason. She enjoys this and you...

You are being surgically separated from your soul

Just before your birthday, you spoke about going out for a meal. If the Thai on Rockingham would be better than the Italian down by the Town Hall. And at the restaurant, you had chosen the Italian, after you had a glass of wine and enjoyed the starter of olives and bread, she says

"Why did you say that?"

You say "say what?" and you are smiling because her serious face must be a play. She likes playing and you liked that about her. That confidence. That strength. And she says "you said the waiters at the Thai restaurant are over attentive. They are not over-attentive, they are being polite. It's good service."

You make some weak argument but she is picking at another sentence and another. It is as if she recorded your every word and one by one they are being dismembered. Her soft voice worrying at them, shaking them till whatever meaning she chooses falls out

If the waiters heard her call you a 'fucking witless fool' then they didn't comment. They didn't come as you looked round desperately for help, or help when the world seemed to be falling and falling. You don't know why you didn't leave then. Or the next time she did it. Or the next.

Slowly you stop talking unless it is something she wants to hear. Agreement. Compliments. Subservience. And because every word you say is on record. Because word stored for the next time. Mostly you give her silence

"How do I look?", she turns to you. The lights of the flats reflecting in her eyes. And then...

"Beautiful, you are very beautiful". You mean it. She is. What an honour to be the favourite of a beautiful monster. What use are words compared to that? What use a soul? Tonight you will do well. Tonight you will do better. And you lead her up to the dinner party

It's the red of the legs. Like a scarlet flower. She wants it. Like a shattered ruby. When the light shines through them. Like blood on the screen. A hard droplet splashed and then frozen. A beautiful spider. She should show it to David

"Hey, I got this weird bug on my phone, like a real bug!", and they would laugh and David would lever it off with something and study it like a scientist

She keeps the phone in a deep pocket. Turns it to silent. Keeps it secret. When he is sleeping she pulls the phone out. The screen flickers. Apps and pages and images flash. And the light glows through the red legs. She doesn't sleep. Hold it close

"This is so weird. I've got this spider thing that's on my phone, no... actually on it, kind of freaky", and David would cut it to pieces and get it away

She hides the phone from him. Hides it from everyone. Hold it close. But then he finds it. Why was he looking? Book a hotel in Birmingham, pay for it on the credit card. They can't find her. Why was he shouting? She doesn't need to take anything. Just the phone. It's hers

"Have you ever seen anything like this? As big as my hand! I don't know", and a man would smash it and burn it and the spider would die

Red leg spikes outwards from spider. A needle of scarlet ruby blood. Safe now. Screen flickers underneath spider body. There was a man. Ruby blood scarlet spike. Holding it in translucent hands. Thin skin and bone. There was a man. Smashed and cut and keep it secret. A hotel room. Hold it close

"Have you seen this? I like wearing it. All red and beautiful", but the man is just a picture on the phone and the screen goes black

Screen glows under spider. Blood scarlet ruby spike. Hold it close. My secret. Smashed and cut he is gone away. They can't find her. The spider is singing. She needs to hold it closer. The screen glows through her skin. My ruby spider screen flashing scarlet spike hold it closer skin like paper the spider is singing. There was a woman. My blood. Hold it closer. My blood. Hold it closer. Hold it closer. Spider sings to my eye and red ruby spike. There was a woman singing with spider blood spike scarlet glowing black

The streetlight shines through her long red legs. The hotel room is cool. Window open. It isn't far to the street below. There are so many of them going home or going out. Hundreds. Thousands. Her children flicker and wriggle in her belly. Little red spikes. She spins a web through the phone. The streetlights and phones and dashboards go out. And into the screaming she jumps

The map shows mile after mile of aimless streams, shapeless gradients, and tumbledown field boundaries. No tower. No landmark. Except here it is

"Some mad billionaire built a folly then?", I speak to it, eyeing the entrance in case anyone emerges. But there's just the wind and a grouse calling somewhere

The tower is in the middle of a peat bog where only those stupid enough to take a shortcut across Haverton Moor would find it. It is in a natural hollow, probably a mud lake in winter, just boggy now, all long grasses and reeds and thick tufts of moss underfoot losing their colour in the evening light. The landscape seems to be turning grey. I tuck my map, which had become increasingly useless as I had become increasingly lost, into a pocket

The outside of the tower is a three storey chessboard of black and white tiles. All spotless and gleaming, loftily ignoring the miles of sucking mud that surround it. Gold glitters around the high window, catching the setting sun. The window is at the top of the tower, and I am at the bottom, in front of an entrance with grey steps spiralling up out of sight. It was... what? Mock Arabian? Pseudo MC Esher? Inventive at least. The billionaire was very inventive, or mad, or weird. There are probably cameras watching me, CCTV, or a waiting television crew

"Anyone in?", I call, "Do you do food?". Not serious. Definitely not afraid, because I'm making a joke, and that proves I'm not afraid. The sunlight has gone from the top of the tower now and down in the hollow there's a chill that curls around me. I step forward, and again

The tower has a smell of age, a sandy smell of a school trip to Callersey Castle, or some other ruin. It doesn't look old though. Everything is smooth and polished, the painted steps clean and unscuffed. My heart is beating hard and I've barely started climbing. It's not the climb that makes my stomach churn. I check behind me and the miles of bog are still there, but darker and darker, grey and with a mist seeming to rise out of it

Stupid, just tired and hungry and stupid. I think of David from quality control, the way he taps a pen against his mouth when thinking, looking down. I could tell him about this place, then... Then he'd ask, "what were you doing on the moors on Saturday night? On your own?", and in his eyes I see myself

Weird. Stupid. Weird. Lost.

I keep climbing and it gets dark, really dark. There's no light in front and none from behind, lost amongst the spiral staircase like spirits in a witch mark and my hands and feet feel their way and the air seems to thicken and a panic rises in my chest but I don't trust myself to turn round now and I have to keep on going up and up and what if there's a locked door and what if I slip and fall and what if

Light. There's light

"Really should put in some lighting ... and a handrail ... and some rest stops ... with a well-stocked bar"

Because I'm not scared, definitely not. There is a door half open with a dim light coming down the grey walls of the staircase. I stop and catch my breath before going through to the small room. I'm at the top of the tower. The floor and ceiling are black, the walls white. I can't work out if they are painted or if it's some kind of weird dyed wood. The door is a chessboard of white and black

"So you like chess then?", my voice is too loud for the room

There's a white bench, or maybe a low table, with some black blankets piled up on it. The window is opposite, the sill almost at floor level, dangerously low and I don't want to go near it that in this gloom. Nothing else in the room. No sign it's been used, the blankets are clean. Maybe it's a shelter just for a this sort of thing. People getting lost

There's a bolt on the door and that makes my mind up. The bolt slides smoothly across and the door is closed and locked. It's a weird kind of B and B but not bad. A couple of blankets on the floor make a bed, they are softer than they look and feel warm. For my evening meal I drink the last of my water, stomach gently worrying for the food that's all gone. My rucksack is a pillow and other blankets swaddle me

I can see stars through the window. Then an animal sound. Bird probably. And now just the wind and the sound of water. Another aimless stream. No chatter of traffic and sirens and the thrum of the city. Just the wild. After a while, I realise I'm happier than I've been in a long time. There's a warmth in the blankets. A light breeze brings sweet pure air. A hope

And then I sleep

I wake and it's morning, a car is sounding its horn outside and the horn goes on and on, but I feel the blankets and touch the smooth floor see the black and white and it's not a car horn, too broad for that, fills the room with a gentle sonorous call. I should be hungry but the sound of the horn fills my stomach. It is morning and the sky is blue

"What's that...?"

The sky is blue but the glittering trunks that spiral up through it are golden. Great twisting limbs in the distance, specks swim around them. Not birds, but things that move with slow grace. I blink, confused about this view that doesn't make sense. Stumbling to the window, a falling feeling in my stomach. Outside is water. Lapping against the bottom of the window. A lake. And a black and white walkway jags from the window to a far shore. No bog or grassy moor. The edge of the lake is lined with small trees, movement in them and beyond them. No reeds but darting colourful birds. And shapes like people walking this way and that. And the horn sound ebbs away to be replaced by softer sounds carried by the wind and my own voice

"No no no..."

My world sways as my mind bucks against what my eyes are seeing. I am dreaming. The golden frame of the window feels cool and smooth and solid. I am hallucinating. There is a gentle lap of water against the tower, a flicker of triangular shapes dart underneath the surface of the lake. It's some trick. On the rippling surface is a reflection of the great trunks that stretch up from the horizon into the sky. Outside the window is the cool air of morning. There is a shape approaching along the walkway from the shore, a person walking unhurried. The walkway zigzags, but I can see they are coming to the tower. Coming towards me. I jump back into the room with a shout like the window has burnt my hands and eyes

It takes moments to throw things back into my bag. I slide the bolt and slam the door aside. Leave the room. Get out. Wake up. Get away. I go down the steps. My footsteps clatter along with my heart. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out.

Into the darkness again I slow, go slower, go carefully, don't want to fall, stay on the outside of the spiral, feet reach for the next step, hands bracing against the wall, the air thickens like black water, but I have to go down, and then I stumble

I stop, shaking

My mother died last year. David asked about my holiday and I said it was nice. The pen bouncing on his lips. I had to stop reading the eulogy halfway through, I couldn't see the page anymore, my tears getting the paper wet. I said I went to the coast with friends, said it was great, and saw myself in his eyes. I didn't say that everything had gone and that I was lost

I stop

If I keep going down they will bolt the door behind me. I know this. If I keep going down there will be mile after mile of grey bog and aimless streams and when I get home I will still be lost, and all there will be will be a tapping of a pen and my reflection and a grey life in a grey city and grey and grey and grey

Stop

My breathing loud in my ears. The walls hard and smooth, my hands shaking. I stare ahead into nothing, and behind me. Behind me was something wonderful and strange and different. Black and white and black and white. Laughter and tears and happiness and fear and anything but grey. The door might be still open. If I can get back in time. I am touching unfinished grey walls and I know at the top of the stairs is a door that is grey on one side and a chessboard of black and white on the other. And there is a walkway with a person walking on it and I could meet them and not run away and walk on the black and the white and look to the blue sky and the glittering golden trunks twisting up into space

And I turn from the darkness and grey and climb the stairs as fast as I can

I adore you my love Praise the heavens for sending you And if you left my heart would rend in two My hopes asunder

My love I adore Your generous spirit of giving And belief that life is for the living You are glorious

So please accept my proposal For a marriage that is blessed And hopefully gone in a flash

For I dream of our betrothal Followed by your death So I get my hands on all your cash

Vulcanised rubber strips Between me and death's grip Just a slip and I'm dying in a gallows choke Just a trip and I smash into the valley below Just a rip and They haul me up crippled and broke But it's for charity So I laugh and I joke About my impending bungee rope horror And I hope Hang on so tight to sweet bloody hope

I'm holding a miracle cure

Twenty four red and yellow magic beans that rattle and jump

To be taken with food

Eat me and the cancerous growth shrinks away leaving you like the red queen

Victorious and undefeated

A fairytale where the giant is slain and the prince and princess wish

With a kiss for many more days

More days

To sit in that chair with the plastic mat

That stops the piss staining it and a lingering smell mingles

With the bellowing television

And the carer comes and turns it off whilst you sleep the days away

Because the nights are all memories and pain

And now I am to prescribe you more days

More days

A promise of twenty four embryos shuffling in plastic cribs

Ready for life

Ready to birth hope infused with industrial pharmaceutical miracles

And your eyes are screaming

And we cure and cure all that is set before us as time tears at every cell of you

I know that what you pray for isn't

More days

I tuck twenty four fluttering birds away in my white pocket

To be released in another place

I will give you the news that death is coming and we just have to wait

I will hold your hand

Will find you comfort and kindness and with every bit of love

Will wait for

A miracle