Just as she is starting to shake off the memory of the face that had so startled her earlier, she senses rather than sees something moving in the water to her right. From the corner of her eye, not daring to turn her head, she follows the ripples that glide along beside her. She fights conflicting desires; the first being to run faster, to put as much distance as she can as quickly as she can between herself and whatever it is that is stirring beneath the water. The other instinct, the stronger one, as it turns out, the one that wins, compels her to stop. To stop and to face the danger. She stands firm, hands on hips now, looking braver than she feels, watching the surface of the lake as it undulates in shallow waves that are still speckled and peppered by the incessant rain. Her ears are filled with the hiss of water falling on water, to the accompaniment of her own pounding heartbeats. Rain washes over her face, distorting her vision further. She wipes her face with her hand, determined to look, determined to see whatever there is to see. Slowly the eddies and swirls cease their forward motion. The water is disturbed in one place only now, directly in front of Tilda, only a matter of yards from where she stands, her breath held, her fists clenched.

Whatever it is, let it be real! No more ghosts. No more madness.

As she stares hard at the boiling lake, rain running unchecked into her eyes, down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw, a shape begins to emerge. Something dark. Something smooth, reflecting the weak, silvery light of the water-filled day. Tilda gasps, and then, suddenly, she is standing face-to-face with a diver, complete with mask, breathing apparatus, and wet suit. Tilda did not know what she was expecting—or dreading—but it was definitely not this. Not this slightly comical figure, which is now removing his mouthpiece and lifting his diving mask, to reveal a young man, dark skinned, with bright green eyes and a ready grin.

‘Good morning!’ he calls to her over the noise of the rain. He is close to the shore but he treads water rather than standing and stumbling in the mud that must be beneath his feet. ‘Wet day for a run,’ he says, taking in the drenched state of Tilda’s clothes. ‘You should get yourself one of these,’ he adds, indicating his wet suit.

The sudden relief, as fear and tension melt away, leaves Tilda quite drained and not altogether in the mood for banter with a stranger.

‘I don’t imagine you can see anything down there,’ she says, pointing to the lake. ‘It must be so muddy, and dark, and churned up by the rain.’

He lifts a large underwater torch, making Tilda feel a bit stupid.

‘What are you looking for, anyway?’ she asks.