A wave burst on the rocks behind me, showering me with cold water and flecks of foam. I shivered. I was on a rocky outcrop in the darkest gale-torn night, and before me stood a lighthouse. The wind whistled and moaned around the tower and a flash of lightning struck the apex. The bolt coursed down the earthing cable and trailed a shower of sparks, leaving behind the acrid stench of brimstone. The lighthouse was as black as obsidian and, as I looked up, it seemed as though the arc lamp rotating within the vast lenses was floating in midair. The light swept through the inky blackness illuminating nothing but a heaving, angry sea. I looked backwards in my mind but could see nothing – I was without memory or past experiences. This was the loneliest outpost of my subconscious, a memoryless island where nothing existed other than that which I could feel and see and smell at this moment in time. But I still had emotions, and I was aware of a sense of danger, and purpose. Somehow I understood I was here to vanquish – or be vanquished.

Another wave burst behind me and with beating heart I pulled on the locking lever of the steel front door and was soon inside, safe from the gale. The door securely fastened, I looked around. There was a central spiral staircase but nothing else – not a stick of furniture, a book, a packing case; nothing.

I shivered again and pulled out my gun.

'A lighthouse,' I murmured, 'a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere.'

I walked slowly up the concrete steps, keeping a careful watch as they curved away out of sight. The first floor was empty and I moved on up, each circular room I reached devoid of any signs of habitation. In this way I slowly climbed the tower, gun arm outstretched and trembling with a dread of impending loss that I could not control, nor understand. On the top floor the spiral staircase ended; a steel ladder was the only means by which to climb any higher. I could hear the electric motors that drove the rotating lamp whine above me, the bright white light shining through the open roof hatch as the beam swept slowly about. But this room was not empty. Sitting in an armchair was a young woman in the process of powdering her nose with the help of a small hand mirror.

'Who are you?' I asked, pointing my gun at her.

She lowered the mirror, smiled and looked at the pistol.

'Dear me!' she exclaimed. 'Always the woman of action, aren't you?'

'What am I doing here?'

'You really don't know, do you?'

'No,' I replied, lowering the gun. I couldn't remember any facts but I could feel love, and loss, and frustration, and fear. The woman was linked to one of these but I didn't know which.