She turned on the pillow, her face now away from the light.

On the beach, there were rock pools and crabs crawled from the edge of the sea between the pebbles and shells that littered the sand. Dragonflies hovered at her eyeline, flying ahead of her like messengers announcing her arrival to the forces of nature in which she walked; dragonflies, their bodies made iridescent by the sun, the fragile structure of their wings made visible in the morning light.

Somewhere in the house, two clocks ticked out of time with each other, creating a continuous sound that echoed from the high ceilings and the wide walls of the cavernous rooms.

But what was that sound in the sand? What vibration rose from the beach?

Darkness emerged from the sand. A curve of black iron. The shape of a skull. The beginning of a face. The head of a giant man rising from the earth. Throat. Shoulders. Arms. The figure of the man was silent, his face expressionless but his whole being endowed with colossal power.

Another figure and another figure and another and another and another. Rising from the sand, rising from the water, their dark bodies made green by the elements, spaced at different places in relation to the sea and the sand, their silent faces all looking in the same direction, at the horizon and beyond.

She made to run towards the water, towards the nearest Iron Man…

Asleep, Norma made a noise from the depths of her dream, between a cry of despair and a sob of terror.

… but found she was frozen to the sand, now sitting in her wheelchair, as the iron giants of Crosby Beach turned a half circle, some less, some more, but all in her direction. They stared at her in random judgement with sightless eyes, accusing her with dumb mouths.

In the water and on the sand, the Iron Men’s arms rose from their ribs and their legs moved as they stepped towards the horizon. With each step, they sank deeper into the water of the Irish Sea.

She watched, dumbstruck and paralysed, as the Iron Men disappeared step by step under the waves for ever while she was rooted in her wheelchair on the sand.

She turned from her side on to her back, felt the tug of consciousness.

Soft, quiet classical music drifted into her head.

Norma sat up slowly, pulled her eye mask down and looked directly into the landing outside her bedroom. There was nothing and no one there.

She looked at the empty pillow next to hers, pictured Fran sleeping lightly, eyes closed, blonde hair spread across the pillowslip. It was a vivid picture, so powerful in her imagination that it was almost real.

Norma reached out but all she touched was the pillowslip and the air above it.

‘Goodnight, Fran. Sleep tight.’