If Mr Huff was a smoking candle (but was he? Was he, though?), then somewhere along the way I’d become that abandoned beach hut. A little shack. Uninhabited. Shuttered up. Quite empty inside.

And why?

Guilt.

That’s why.

Guilt.

Guilt and … and fear.

Guilt and fear and … and more guilt.

Clifford was right. It wasn’t just me. I’d buried us all alive. We were all up to our necks in fine blond sand (Goodness gracious! Is that the tide on the turn?!). And I had the spade. It was only a little spade. Not a proper tool. Just a children’s toy. Red. Plastic. But I’d done an impressive job with it.

‘It is time, meine Carla!’

Time for what, Orla? To dig us all out again? But it’s been way too long! The spade’s been carried off – way off – and is lying on the high water line! My arms are pinned to my sides! I can’t … I can hardly …!

‘Please bind us in your gentle hands

And offer us all …’

Yes. Yes. I needed to start digging (But what about God and sin and guilt and hell and … and …?).

I needed to dig us all out again (But what about … about …?).

I needed to reoccupy the hut. Yes! Tear down the shutters. Yes! Break open the padlock. Yargh! Step back inside. Blink. Blink. Breathe. Look around.

It’s what Orla wanted (isn’t it? Wasn’t it?). In … in reparation? A new kind of payback? Like … Like God’s Secretary? Remember? Who gave everything she had and then God said he didn’t like the quality of the paper she’d been using (‘But it isn’t Basildon Bond, my dear!’) so could she just … would she mind … could she possibly just re-re-re …?

And how best to achieve that? Reparation? How? Why, total degradation, of course! Complete humiliation! Confession. Confession. Give Mr Huff (my hunter, my tormentor, my opposite, my nemesis) a searchlight to shine into my heart. Open myself up to him. Reveal myself. Expose myself. Squirm. Tell him the truth. Finally. Even if he didn’t/doesn’t – as I strongly suspect/ed – actually want/need to hear it. Especially if he did/doesn’t. Yes. Yes! Exactly! Especially then.

This was to be my punishment. Then I could offer it up. As a gift. Just like … well, just like she did.

It was time. She was right.

It was time.

Meine Carla.

33

Mr Clifford Bickerton

I made a silent pact with God as I screamed her name down into the black, surging abyss. (This is ridiculous – sorry to spoil the moment – but I’d never ‘make a pact’ with a God I don’t even believe in. I’m agnostic! I mean an atheist. No. Agnostic (she can’t even get that right! Me neither, come to think of it); sorry, sorry, double bracket. And I’d never say ‘surging abyss’. Even though it was surging – the tide was high – and an abyss i.e. a sheer drop.) (Quick re-cap for those who need it: I made a silent pact with blah blah as I screamed her name down into the blah … etc.) that I’d never mention the Author again if he just let her live. Carla. Not the Author. If he just. If he – if the writer – she – he – if they just let her live. I’d never presume to (I’d never say ‘presume’! Never!) comment on/argue with/question her again. I’d just accept whatever crap she doled out (and I know we’ve been here before, but this time I mean it. Last time I was just trying it on for size. As an idea. This time I’m completely sincere). Even if – whatever she does; the so-called ‘plot’ ha! – it involves stuff that is very cruel and very ignorant and very irritating. I’d just … just buckle under and get on with it.