I’m not a poet. It’s important to make that clear. Poets create works of the imagination. Their reality is different, more intense, not rooted in the prosaic. Their words sparkle and reflect like shards of ice in sunlight. My truth is solid and rooted in the mundane. I write fiction, but you could find my stories in any newspaper. A dead prostitute in a canal. An unfaithful wife strangled. A corrupt police officer. I have no interest in the beauty of words, only in their ability to describe clearly and accurately. And that clarity and accuracy are my trademark. It’s why I’m famous and why, even before I’ve reached the age of thirty, I’m a wealthy woman.

So why am I here? Why have I agreed to spend a month as writer-in-residence, employed by Shetland Arts Trust (though no payment at all has been mentioned)? Because I have unfinished business in Shetland, and I refuse to let fear haunt me.

I climbed the ladder to the loft, dragging my bag behind me. I had brought very little. Unless it has changed a good deal, Shetland is not a place where it’s important to impress with smart clothes. The Oxfam shop probably still does a good trade. And the essentials of my work – a computer and Internet access – had been provided for me. Part of the deal of the residency. The bed was low, hardly more than a futon, though it had a comfortable mattress. I lay down to try it out. There was a narrow window in the eaves, looking directly out to sea. The snow had stopped as suddenly as it had started and there was a thin moon and a scattering of stars, very bright. After living in the city, the intensity of the stars, the detail of the Milky Way, came as a surprise. In Shetland there is little light pollution.

Downstairs again, I switched on the kettle. The kitchen was well stocked. There was real coffee and a filter machine. In the fridge, white wine, and on the table a bottle of good French red. Shetlanders have become affluent and accustomed to the good things in life. How will they adapt to poverty if the oil stops flowing altogether? On the table there was also a note from John Sinclair, the arts officer: Sorry I couldn’t be at the airport to welcome you. Please make yourself at home and give me a shout if you need anything. Then two telephone numbers – a landline and a mobile.

The kettle switched itself off, but I ignored it and opened the wine. There were bannocks from the Walls Bakery on the bench, and Shetland cheese, butter and milk in the fridge. Smoked salmon and smoked mussels. Slices of reestit mutton. John had done all he could to make me feel at home. After I’d drunk half the bottle I set it aside, out of my line of vision. It would be very easy to finish it all. It was only nine o’clock, but I’d been up early and I was tired, yet too restless to go to sleep. I stood at the window that made up the whole of one of the downstairs walls and looked out. It was triple-glazed, but still I could feel the chill through the glass. The wind had dropped entirely. On the other side of the harbour the trawlers were covered in snow and looked ghostly in the moonlight. I turned back to the room and switched on the computer. My BlackBerry had no signal here and I wanted to check my emails. We were waiting for the TV adaptation of my first book to be given the green light, and my agent might have some news.