Terry is bending over my shoulder. She lays her hand on my shoulder.

‘I’m ready,’ she says.

I shall close the door with a slab of stone. We are happy to go.

NIGHT

TERRY IS DEAD. When I see it there—Terry is dead. Why do I keep on writing for none to read, rending my heart to write Terry is dead. No, no, this is the pencil she gave me, nothing’s changed, all’s the same, this is our cave, our home. These walls that shelter us—I strike my hands on the rock. It’s rock, this is her pencil, speak to me, Terry. Terry is dead. She won’t speak, she’s dead. What’s dead, a word, a sound, a thing of no account? Dead, dead, dead. Waken, blind fool, din death to crack the frozen air until your ears hear and your mind knows and your heart believes Terry is dead.

She went dancing before me down into the gully. She never looked back at the place we were leaving. We climbed the far side of the ravine, slowly with our load. It was dark when we came out on the summit.

‘Keep close to me,’ I said. ‘We’ll strike the path to Dalwhinnie soon.’

‘I’m here, give me your hand,’ she whispered.

We advanced carefully. All of a sudden I heard sounds like low voices near us.

‘Hush,’ I said, halting to listen.

She stumbled over a stone and her feet dislodged a loose rock.

A voice cried, ‘Who’s there?’ We stood motionless. The voice called a second time. Then a rifle fired twice, and once again. The first two bullets screamed over our heads, the third struck heavily beside me. Terry seemed to wince, and stumble against me. She said, ‘Hugh!’ in a faint voice.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ I whispered. ‘We’re quite safe.’

She did not answer. How could she answer when she was dead?

I brought her home. Christ make them stay till morning.