She trudged reluctantly towards Bernie, who had now thankfully stopped, giving her time to catch up with him, the wind coaxing her along from behind this time. Bernie was sniffing near one particular beach hut and so the woman presumed he would take another pee and move on, but he jumped up onto the small wooden veranda – his ears pricked up, as though he were now waiting for someone to walk right out. The woman arrived next to him and noticed that this hut was one of the shabbier ones on the block. The paint had probably been a bright, bold blue once, but had now been bleached an insipid turquoise and was peeling off in strips, revealing the austere wood behind it. It was mid-January, and none of the huts along this stretch would open until at least mid-March, when the owners began getting them back into shape again for the spring and summer season. But something about this particular hut had enticed Bernie over. He wasn’t any kind of working hunting dog, but occasionally something would grab his attention.

The woman stopped next to Bernie as he cocked his head from side to side the way he would when someone was talking to him in that high-pitched way people sometimes spoke to animals.

‘What is it then, boy?’ The woman’s breath was a little short and ragged from her exertion in the winter elements. She stuffed her hands further into her pockets, the bitter unrelenting wind thrust itself at her back, and she stumbled forward, taking the four steps to join Bernie on the veranda, who was in no hurry to move. These beach huts were worth a few quid more than the ones down at the tourist beach; people paid for the luxury to be off the beaten track and away from the masses – not forgetting the extra twelve square foot and extra-large window they got for their pound. The front of the beach hut was a glass bi-folding door with a net curtain running across it – perhaps to reduce some of the light bleaching the interiors, but more likely to stop passers-by stopping and staring in.

‘Come on now, Bernie. Whatever is it?’ The woman crouched at her dog’s side.

He cocked his head once more, left then right, as though he were following a conversation at a frequency beyond his mistress’s hearing.

‘We really need to be getting back now.’ She patted his head and thought of the last log she had put on the fire before she left the house; it would be burnt down by now. She braced herself to stand – she wasn’t putting up with this nonsense any more – but as she went to turn, she saw a flicker of something move in the corner of the window at the same time as Bernie let out a little bark. She stayed looking at the front of the beach hut; the bi-folding doors were on a latch, but there was no lock. This time, she dropped again to her knees. Then, just as though she had summoned it, the net curtain twitched. Then it moved a centimetre. And then a small hand pulled the curtain to one side, revealing the face of a child, pale faced, perhaps five or six years old. Their hair was cut jaggedly short so that it was impossible to tell if they were a boy or a girl. The woman gasped, stood and staggered backwards.