The Mirror World of Melody Black

by Gavin Extence

  Miranda had said she’d be back at the cottage by midday, and the agreement had been that I’d leave in the same taxi she arrived in. All in all, it had seemed the obvious plan. Except, when I woke up that morning, I knew straight away that I didn’t want to be waiting around until noon – and I didn’t feel like being indoors.

  I sent her a text at nine o’clock, on the emergency mobile number I wasn’t allowed to use: Hello Miranda. It’s Abby. I’ve decided to walk back to the mainland. I’ll phone for a taxi once I get there. The key will be under the plant pot.

  After that, I boxed up all my spare clothes and walked down to the post office with them. The box was heavy and cumbersome, so I had to stop a few times to catch my breath, and it took at least twenty minutes to walk the half-mile to the village square. But this seemed the simplest solution. I wasn’t going to attempt to hike across the sands with a fifteen-kilogram rucksack on my back.

  The box of clothes was addressed to my mother, since I’d decided the previous night that I should go back to her house for at least a couple of days. Time to adjust. Right then, the idea of London – of King’s Cross and the Tube at rush hour – felt completely out of the question. Besides, in all honesty, I wasn’t sure what in London I’d be going back to. The last time I’d written to Beck, nine days earlier, he hadn’t replied, and I’d heard nothing from him since. To be fair, most people would have snapped long before he did.

  After I’d helped the man in the post office to manoeuvre my box into the back room, I bought twenty Marlboro, a sandwich and two bottles of Diet Coke. Then, for the last time, I walked back to Miranda’s cottage.

  It was 9.59 when I left, and 10.18 when I reached the narrow, stone-strewn beach separating the road from the sand flats. I was dressed sensibly for the weather and terrain: Eskimo coat, complete with furry hood, sunglasses, thick jeans, thick socks and the boots I’d bought in Berwick three months earlier. These were not boots in the same sense as the six other pairs of boots I had crammed into a wardrobe in London. They were actual hiking boots – strong, sturdy and with a sole that could grip on an incline. When I’d set out, I’d also been wearing woollen gloves and a scarf, but these were now stowed in my mostly empty rucksack. Once I’d started walking, I got warm pretty quickly.

  The sand flats were deserted, as I’d expected them to be on a weekday in winter. The only signs of life out there were a scattering of wading birds pecking at the ground and a dozen more circling in the sky. When I looked straight ahead, all I could see was perfectly flat and uniform sand, stretching on and on to the bluish smudge that marked the rising hills of Northumberland. Aside from that smudge, only the receding line of wooden posts broke the emptiness of the landscape.

  Although it was low tide, the sand I stepped out onto could not be described as dry. It was like the sand right at the edge of the sea – dark, compacted and sodden. It was quite yielding, too – more in some places than others, for reasons I couldn’t work out. Before I’d even walked to the second marker-post, there were a couple of points where my boot squelched an inch or more into the ground.

  This was the first indication that the environment wasn’t quite as uniform as it appeared to be from the shore, and as I walked on, this fact became increasingly evident. The falling tide had left little pools of water here and there, suggesting there must have been small, localized variations in the lie of the land, otherwise undetectable. Then, on two occasions, I came across channels of running water blocking my path. They weren’t very deep or wide, but I still had to deviate from the route set out by the posts so that I could find a sensible place to cross; and when I did, the water flowed almost up to my bootlaces.

  On the far bank of the second channel, the sand was covered with tiny white shells, thousands and thousands of them, stretching ahead like an elaborately patterned carpet. I’ve no idea why they had clustered like that, on this particular area of sand – whether by blind chance or according to some obscure underlying principle – but they seemed to go on and on for ever. They crunched underfoot like broken glass, and for a long time this was the only sound I heard. The wind was barely a whisper, and, behind me, the occasional rush of traffic on the causeway had already faded to nothing.

  After an hour or so, I reached the first refuge point, and there, I stopped for a break. Although I’d grown accustomed to walking everywhere on Lindisfarne, the soft ground of the sand flats was more tiring than I was used to, and I thought it would be nice to take the weight off my feet for a short while. I knew I still had plenty of time before my route started to flood, so there was no need to rush on yet. Besides, I wanted to take a better look at the refuge point, which prior to now I’d only seen at a distance, from the causeway.

  It was hard to guess when it had been put there. It looked as old as a storybook shipwreck; but, then, anything built out here, among the salt and the sand and the water, would probably start to look like that in a matter of months, if not weeks. The rounded stilts that supported the four corners were identical to the marker-posts – a little more than a hand’s span in diameter and darkly water-stained to a height a few inches above my head. In one corner was the ladder, rising about twelve feet to the platform that perched safely above the highest waves at high tide. After a short hesitation, I climbed up.

  It wasn’t a difficult climb, even with my rucksack. The planks that formed the rungs of the ladder had been spaced about a foot apart, and at the top were iron handrails affixed to the chest-high fence that enclosed the platform. I eased myself through the narrow entrance point, then removed my rucksack and set it down in the opposite corner.

  The platform was a perfect square, about eight feet by eight feet, formed by ten wooden boards in varying states of disrepair. There was lichen growing on most of them, and a couple had started to rot and splinter. But the floor still seemed solid enough underfoot. There was very little give in the boards, and I assumed that someone, somewhere must have had the periodic job of ensuring the structure was fit for purpose. In any event, it didn’t seem in imminent danger of collapse.

  Once I’d satisfied myself of this, I stood at each side of the platform in turn and took in the panorama. It was hard to gauge distances across such an empty and almost featureless landscape, but I thought I must be somewhere very close to the middle of the sand flats. Looking ahead from this height, I could just make out the point where the marker-posts appeared to end; and looking back, I could likewise see the sliver of grey where the road met the beach on the curve of the headland. The mainland was off to the right, perhaps less than a mile away, and on my left was a mulchy saltwater marsh, stretching back to the causeway and the pale sand dunes beyond.

  Having taken all this in, and having reassured myself that I didn’t have so far left to walk, I sat down next to my rucksack, in the corner opposite the entrance point. I ate my sandwiches and then smoked a cigarette, using the empty food packaging as an ashtray. I didn’t want to leave any mess behind.

  I’m not sure when I decided to stay, or even if I did decide, as such. I suppose if I did make a decision, it was made through conscious inaction rather than action.

  Midday came and went, and I told myself that I’d wait another fifteen minutes, smoke one more cigarette, and then get up. Then, very quickly, it was twelve thirty and I was aware that if I left things much longer, I’d be hard pressed to finish my walk. I could actually see the water pushing in at this point; what had started as a narrow trickle in the middle distance was now a swelling river, running faster and broader with every passing minute. And still I did nothing other than watch.

  By one thirty, I could see that the water had reached some of the more distant posts on either side of the refuge. I was on a shrinking peninsula of sand, and the marsh stood between me and the dunes beyond the causeway – the nearest high ground. From this moment on, I was effectively cut off.

  Oddly, I didn’t mind. In fact, I felt a little lighter now the point of no return had passed, despite the glaring consequences o
f my lack of action. For the next seven or eight hours, minimum, I was staying put. But realistically, it would be even longer than that. If high tide wasn’t for another three hours, then it would be pitch-black by the time the water had receded far enough for me to continue my crossing. The moon was already up, and it wasn’t much of a moon: a very slender crescent, barely noticeable in the still-bright sky. It certainly wouldn’t provide much illumination after the sun went down. It was going to be a dark, dark night, and in all likelihood, I wouldn’t be leaving the refuge point until morning.

  I still had good phone reception, so I sent my mother a text saying that I’d changed my plans and wouldn’t be back in Exeter for another night. Then I stood facing the mainland for the next hour or so, watching the water creep and creep until it was just a few metres away.

  It was at this stage I realized that if didn’t want to hold it in for the next seven hours, or go in the corner – which I didn’t – I’d better nip down the ladder to urinate on the sand. So I did; except, of course, it was a little more complicated than that. I’d never had to pee outside before, or not in the large portion of my life that I remembered. To say it was a challenge would be an understatement. In the end, I half squatted with my jeans around my ankles and my back braced against one of the support stilts, facing away from the road. This last precaution was probably unnecessary – from the road, you’d have needed a telescope to make an accurate diagnosis of what was going on out here – but still. It’s hard not to feel self-conscious when you’ve just exposed yourself in the middle of a wide-open space. I got through the whole procedure as quickly as I could, and then scrabbled back up the ladder to safety. Then I resumed my position overlooking the oncoming waves, and thought some more about the situation to which I had irrevocably committed myself.

  On the face of it, the choice I’d made was just plain crazy – as crazy as anything I’d done over the past six months. Yet that was not at all how it felt. In all honesty, it seemed the obvious and inevitable conclusion to my time on Lindisfarne. It was very peaceful out here, with the sea now swirling below me, and a perfect cloudless sky overhead. Now that I was back on my platform, I didn’t feel at all vulnerable, and I certainly wasn’t in any imminent danger. The weather forecast had said it would remain dry, and even if the temperature was now dropping, it was meant to stay well above freezing overnight. I had spare clothes in my rucksack, along with the two small bottles of Diet Coke, as yet untouched. All in all, I felt very calm and self-assured, and this sense of wellbeing only increased as the minutes ticked on.

  Just before three thirty, the sun slipped below the hills on the mainland, and I replaced my sunglasses with regular glasses. The sky was an astonishing shade of violet, as was the sea, which now stretched out in every direction. Soon, it had covered most of the marsh and was lapping at the roadside.

  I smoked another cigarette and watched as the land, sea and sky grew darker and darker, until finally I couldn’t distinguish one from the other.

  It was dark, but not completely dark. Or perhaps, more accurately, it was so dark that the little light there was seemed almost an abundance. I’d underestimated the difference the moon would make out here. It shone low in the west like the blade of a scimitar, and was reflected in the sea as a long ribbon of silver light. Beyond this, there was a kind of diffuse glow, and then just shifting shadows, a vast mass of black water that rippled through the wider fabric of the night. I couldn’t make out the shoreline – I couldn’t see anything solid past the nearest marker-posts – but there were isolated lights out there too: the lights from the farm buildings at the edge of the mainland, and, looking in the opposite direction, the streetlights of Lindisfarne village. The latter, I knew, would be on all night, so however dark it got, I’d have at least one anchor to give me a sense of distance and direction.

  The temperature must have dropped by three or four degrees since the sun went down, so I put on another layer of clothes, along with my gloves and scarf. While rummaging in my bag, I also found a small packet of biscuits, a muesli bar and some mints – relics from some walk I’d taken the previous month. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but it was better than the nothing I’d been expecting. I washed it down with a few mouthfuls of Diet Coke, followed by another cigarette for dessert, and afterwards felt surprisingly satisfied.

  By then, the sea was audible again; I could hear the faint hiss of the breaking waves, which told me the tide must have dropped some distance back from the causeway. But I had to wait a while until I could actually see the foaming edge of the water, and it did not stay visible for long. By the time the water had receded almost to the refuge point, the moon was so low it appeared little more than a curved needle of light poking out of the horizon. A few minutes later, it set completely. And then it really was dark.

  I let over an hour pass before I went down the ladder again. I used the light from my mobile phone to illuminate the entrance point, removed my gloves so I’d have a surer grip, and then shuffled forward on my bottom until I felt the heel of my boot slip over the edge of the platform. Once I’d located the handrails, I turned and manoeuvred both feet onto the first step, and then the second, before returning my phone to my back pocket. After that, I descended very slowly, into absolute darkness, counting another six steps before I again retrieved my phone. Holding it low in one hand, I could make out the sand, just one rung beneath me and dry once more.

  I urinated in the same spot as before, but this time it was slightly easier, despite the fact I couldn’t see a thing. Afterwards, I faced away from the refuge point, held my breath, and took ten large strides out onto the sand. I don’t know why, exactly. I suppose I just wanted to test myself, to see how it felt to be out there in the open, with nothing but darkness on every side.

  It felt okay, or it did for a while. It was only when I switched my phone display on again that I felt afraid. Because then I could see how isolated I was. When I looked back the way I’d come, I could no longer see the refuge point. I was standing in the centre of a pool of blue-white light, but beyond this, there were only curving black walls, endless and impenetrable.

  Of course, I knew there was nothing rational about my fear; all I had to do was follow my footprints and I’d be back where I started in a matter of seconds. But right then, this felt a matter of faith rather than fact. Confronted by a void in every direction, it was just as easy to believe that retraced steps might lead somewhere else entirely, or nowhere at all – that the refuge point might even have ceased to exist the instant I let it slip from my sight.

  But after a few moments, these thoughts started to wane, and soon I could see how ridiculous they were. I was even a little irritated at myself, which is perhaps why I didn’t head straight back the way I’d come. Instead, I got a cigarette from my coat pocket and smoked it almost down to the filter, until I felt absolutely calm once more. Then I aligned myself with my footprints and walked the ten large paces back to the refuge.

  When I found myself again at the foot of the ladder, it felt as if something inside me was subtly different, as if I’d achieved something more than a short walk on the sand.

  Back on the platform, there was now a small breeze blowing in through the entrance point, so I relocated to the corner diagonally opposite, where I set about fashioning the best bed I could. Using my rucksack as a pillow, and with a long cardigan as a blanket, I lay down in the darkness and looked up at the sky. There were stars, of course – hundreds of them, scattered like glitter. I’d grown used to seeing stars since I left London, but this was something else. Every inch of the sky seemed crowded with them, ready to burst.

  After a while, I realized that my lips felt cold. My face was the only part of me still exposed to the night air. My gloves were back on and I had my Eskimo hood pulled up so far that its furry lining stroked my cheeks when I moved. But now I also pulled my scarf up over my face, leaving only a very thin visor through which I could continue to look at the stars. Later, when the temperature seemed to
drop further, I covered my eyes too.

  I’ve no idea how long I lay like that, in this strange cocoon I’d built for myself, but time, as far as I could gauge, passed quickly. Soon, I was aware of the sound of the sea again, the increasing rush of approaching water. I didn’t check my watch or get up to smoke or stretch. Oddly, the longer I lay motionless on that hard wooden floor, the more comfortable, the more at ease, I felt. I’d been aware of little irritations at first – the lack of cushioning at my shoulder blades, the moisture from my breath – but before long, these things were barely perceptible. Or perhaps it was that I chose not to perceive them; I just shifted my attention slightly, and they faded out of consciousness.

  Then, for a long time, I felt like I was on the cusp of a dream. Scraps of thought – images from the past six months, mostly – came unbidden, with one flowing seamlessly into the next. But there wasn’t any logic I could discern; just lots of disjointed impressions that rose and fell in gradually diminishing waves. The last thing I remember seeing is Marie Martin curtsying to me in that ridiculous restaurant in Soho. And soon after that, I must have fallen asleep.

  It took me a few moments to get my bearings when I awoke. Then it all came surging back: I was on an eight-by-eight-foot platform in the middle of the sea, waiting for dawn and the tide; and it occurred to me then that this was probably not the kind of thing I’d ever be able to tell anyone about, and that it was probably better that way.

  I removed the scarf from my face and was greeted by a blast of air cold enough to sting my cheeks. The sky above was still flooded with stars. I checked my phone and saw that it was six fifty, which meant it would be getting light within the hour.

  I wasn’t very comfortable any more: my feet were cold and my neck was stiff and my back bruised, and my stomach felt small and tight. But despite this, when I stood up to stretch I found that I felt remarkably refreshed given the circumstances, as if I’d slept for eight straight hours on a well-sprung mattress rather than just a few on bare wooden boards. And my head felt clear too – completely free of clutter, like it had been cleaned and rebooted overnight.