Now the visitor lifts her head and the light of the dying day that falls through the patio doors reveals her face. Tilda lets out a shriek of horror. This is not the first time she has seen this terrible face. It appeared to her once before. This is not the lithe, youthful woman from the boat, but the brutalized, bloody and smashed face that showed itself as Tilda looked through her binoculars. It is an image she has been trying to forget ever since, but such a thing is not easily erased from memory. The nose has been broken, so that it is both flattened and twisted. One eye is closed with blood, the other bulges in its socket, sickeningly bruised and swollen. The lower jaw has been smashed by some terrible force, so that white bone can be seen through the mess of a mouth that remains, the teeth either broken or at impossible angles. The woman’s skin is a ghoulish gray only where it is not black or purple from bruising and swelling. Matted hair, encrusted with blood and dirt, falls forward from beneath the hood of the cape, which Tilda can now see is saturated with blood.

Fighting the urge to retch, Tilda falls back, her hands behind her, and attempts to scurry away, but there is nowhere to go. A foul stench bursts from the woman’s ruined mouth as she opens it and screams ‘Llygad am lygad! Bywyd ar gyfer bywyd!’ An eye for an eye, a life to a life!

At the sound of the rasping, shrill voice, Thistle leaps at the figure, snarling and snapping as she flies through the air. Tilda watches as the dog connects with the woman, expecting to see more blood and devastation wreaked upon her broken body, but, in a heartbeat, the apparition dissolves. Thistle lands, growling and biting at nothing. Nothing.

Gone. My God, she’s gone!

Tilda struggles to her feet, her whole being in a state of shock, her stomach turning over, her heart thudding as if she has just run up the mountain. But she is alone, save for the bewildered and frightened dog. Whoever it was, whatever it was, that came to deliver its message, has vanished.

Tilda puts a calming hand on Thistle’s head. It was obvious that the dog was terrified, and yet she had found the courage to try to protect her. She falls to her knees and takes the still trembling hound in her arms. ‘It’s Okay, girl. You brave thing. You scared her off, see? She’s gone. She’s gone.’

*   *   *

In the hours that follow the visitation, Tilda knows she has to take control of her fear. It would be all too easy to pack a bag and leave.

Hurrying back to Mum and Dad, tail between my legs. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t live the life we had planned. Couldn’t hack it on my own.