Once I saw a flash of white light arcing through the drizzle ahead of me. I thought it was a torch but then it disappeared, and it seemed more likely to have been the headlights of a car moving along the harbour road, or even a fishing boat on its way out to sea. I must be nearly there; nearly at the end of the drive. I quickened my pace, sloshing unevenly through puddles and bruising my ankle on a fallen branch.

The gates. Finally. I breathed out and rested my forehead against the wrought iron bars.

My eyes flicked open and I lifted my head.

What gates?

Slowly, meditatively, I wrapped my fingers round the rusty bars. What gates? I thought back to the day I’d arrived, and all I could remember was a gap between two stone pillars.

I stepped away, picking shards of flaky paint off my hands with deliberate carefulness. It didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything. Perhaps this was a different entrance; perhaps the driveway had diverged at some point. It’s not like I’d have noticed in the dark. But the sky was turning pale ahead of me, and the two stone ravens were in silhouette on top of their posts—one headless, both chipped by old age and weather. I recognised them, and I recognised the mossy posts themselves, and the road I’d trudged in August, and the back of the dilapidated sign that read—if I remembered rightly—BYRNE HALL. NO TRESPASSING. Either side of the gateposts was a solid muddle of ivy-covered brick wall, and shrubs, and rusty barbed wire.

So the gates had been open in August and now they were closed. What of it? I gave the bars a gentle shake. They yielded an inch, jarred, and bounced back. I pushed again, more roughly, and the same thing happened. I ran my hand along the join and found a keyhole without a key, and a chain, and a rust-free padlock.

I moistened my lips and brushed my hands down my jeans. It was silly to panic when I could see the public road; could reach through the bars and touch the wet tarmac if I wanted. For heaven’s sake, I could see the masts in the harbour, and lights in some of the guest houses. Day was breaking, and someone—a dog walker, a boat owner, a postman—was bound to come by at any minute. I was not trapped. I could not be trapped.

I rattled the gates, swore at them, tugged at the padlock. I wasn’t going to cry; the whole thing was too stupid for crying. If I could climb over? Or if one of the bars turned out to be loose? I gave each one a vicious, two-handed throttle, and ended with my hands around the padlock.