...This is the narration of the room and outside, these things may or may not be real...

...This is inside her head, these are her thoughts...

...This is the narration of the room next door to this room. He sits in here...

The fly buzzes, a low-flying bomber plane, around the strip light on the ceiling. The light flickers, a hysterical mockery of Soho night lights, throwing bright colours, lingering shapes across the retina. The colour is only of light creation; the walls a bare white, softened only by the slight brown in the paint: old sail white apparently, the colour of thick harsh canvas. When wet it is heavy, drowns sailing boats.


Circling the room, the fly, blue and splendid in its own importance, searches; a business man with calls to make, things to do, if only it can find the right location. Finally, the bloated insect lands on the form sitting below the light, tasting the sweat and congealed, thick, rich blood; a gourmet feast for those in the know, flashing crisp notes at the manager.

Nikolas is dead. Nikolas is dead. Nikolas is dead. Nikolas is dead. There will be no more summer mornings spent giggling under the soft white sheets that seem to lose their freshness as soon as they absorb a warm body. There will be no more glimpses of a strong, straight back, standing before the ironing board, tapping a foot as the iron slowly warms up. The laundry needs doing; the plastic bin is overflowing. Clothes need to be separated: white, coloured, dark, black, bright blood red...


So much blood, where did it all come from?


Lunch needs to be made, vegetables chopped with the new knife, purchased in Llanrwst. Meat, red and raw, purchased from Mr Griffiths down in the town yesterday. Then, later, Bara Brith for tea: warm, rich and moist in the mouth, a present from Bethan, brought this morning as the sheep were, protesting, herded down the mountain for dipping later today.


Nikolas is dead. Who will run the farm now? Who will mend the fences; laugh in the morning mist; run down the long, twisting road to help the Davies, Ty Coch, when the foal is born; swing me in his arms until the world becomes a blur, hot with desire? Who's going to drive the Landrover?

The form twitches, a shudder of movement, such a great effort, and the bluebottle takes off, a momentary confusion of backwards motion before the world is righted and it moves forwards away. Encountering a fence, a gap, wide open space, a wall, a rough, heavy wooden door, it makes its escape out into the mountain air. Air thought to be so healthy, air that makes you strong, air that chases illness away. But not air that will bring back the dead.

Through the door from the old sail white painted room, another form sits at a table, also covered in sweat and the rich, congealed blood that seems to have appeared everywhere as if by magic. He sits with his head on the table, his face scratched by the coarse, unfinished surface. The hammer, blood on the head, lies before him with long straight nails, waiting to fix the front fence. It is a never-ending job, there is always one more thing to be done before bedtime, one more thing to be done before tea, one more thing to be done before climbing behind the wheel and jogging down the mountain to town. The mountain that holds so many secrets, so much old jealousy, love, hate, compassion, understanding, death.

She sits up finally, creases worn into her face from the table. They watch her, silent, accusing.

Accusing what? Forgetting to bake a sponge for the competition? Well I win every year, but not this year. I wouldn't win anything this year, except perhaps a prize for being a coward, for not quietly leaving everyone and letting them live their lives without me dragging them backwards. Besides, the new French oven that does radiators and hot water doesn't, however, appear to do baking so well. It is not my fault. Nikolas will have to take a look at it.


Nikolas is dead.


Leave me alone! Go and bother someone else. Watch Iestin as he cuts the branches from the tree outside Nain's house. Let me sit here. Let me breathe, each breath a chore, forcing a weight from my chest, letting it drop back again; a sinking towards my stomach. If only I could figure out how to survive without breathing, I would do it. Lifting limbs heavy and aching, dragging against my will, thudding back into position; dead lead. Maybe I have the 'flu.

A movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention and she slowly rolls her eyes to look. It's gone as soon as her eyes move; it was a cat surely, black and sly. But Old Tom is in the house, too old now for ratting, and besides, he's a deep caramel yellow.


They take the moment to move in closer, crowding around her.

I haven't done it! I'm tired, please, I have to sleep. This magic blood, appearing so suddenly as I sat here, it can wait to be washed away, streaking down the drain. Just now I have to sleep. I'm cold, despite the summer sun, despite the vest, t-shirt, Navy shirt, fleece, sweatshirt, Gurnsey jumper. Perhaps the quilt will make me warm. It didn't last night as I curled up with my layers, trousers, socks on. Why do tears come to my eyes? There's nothing to cry about...

"I hope you don't suppose those are real tears, when you're only a thing in the Red King's dream!"

I am real. This is my hand, this is my nose, this is my pulse coursing slowly, sluggishly through my veins. So tired, so much pain. If only I could go back to sleep. There's Nytol in the house. Three should give me some time. Only they make my mouth so dry and I have to make lunch. That damned lunch! Why bother? It all tastes like ash in my mouth. Did I leave the iron on? Is it slowly burning a hole through the rug, setting the room on fire, tearing down the house? Who cares now? I have to sleep, there's no point in going to check, I'll probably trip and fall again. Why bother doing anything? It's too difficult, too much trouble, too much pain. Let Nikolas do it.


This knife, shining, strong, so pure. Not like me. I don't deserve it, not anything, this knife, the Bara Brith, this farm. It'll go now anyhow.

There is a noise outside, footsteps, firm and demanding on the gravel, a clinking as the latch on the door is lifted. They retreat, shrinking into the shadows, a distant audience now, not a close, intimate gathering. She senses them leave. She never sees them, but she knows they are there, watching her, laughing as she struggles to do the things expected of her: to wash in the morning, make tea, dress, go outside into the harsh day that seems too wide and threatening.


A gasp, scuffled foot twists as the noise outside turns from the next room and stumbles towards the house to call the police and find Catrin. Where is she? She should be in the kitchen preparing food. Or perhaps in bed? She has seemed low recently, but they all told her, cheer up the world's not that bad! You have no reason to be depressed! Nothing terrible has happened. You need to lighten up and laugh a little, enjoy yourself more, don't take everything so seriously!

He curses himself as he fumbles for the telephone, seeing Catrin through the barn window sitting at the table, blood spattered on her face, a glassy look on her face as she smiles at the brand new knife he saw her buy.

He should have helped her. He should have trusted his instincts, taken from 40 years tending the sick of the area. He shouldn't have turned away, promising to return in a fortnight.

She shouldn't be cheerful now. There is a reason to be depressed. Something terrible has happened. It is not to laugh at or to enjoy. It needs to be taken seriously.

Nikolas is dead.