The house was in darkness, a cold spray laden wind bustled round the eves, a loose slate lifted intermittently and dropped back on it’s neighbours with a dull clack. By the door at the side of the house a pot with a tall dried looking plant fell and scurried away into the dark, a fat fluffy tabby mewled without much hope of gaining entry on the outside ledge of the kitchen window. The wide squat house offered little resistance for the wind but still it moaned slightly as it was forced round and over. The other side of the road, beyond the narrow strip of sheep shorn grass the waves seethed through the pebbles of the beech. It wasn’t much of a wind in the scheme of things, enough to curl the tops of the sea into a white foam, enough to start the discarded bags and shore line detritus dancing and spinning. Out in the bay the navigation lights of a single boat rose and fell on the slight swell, dark moonlined clouds scudded rapidly accross the sky. Where the smooth curve of the shore was shattered by a jumble of rocks that climbed haphazardly into the hill twin cones of light angled skyward anouncing an approaching car. Inaudably they swung back and forth, now pointing out to sea, now spotting the heather covered rise behind the village, now gone and back again as the car came down the twisted road to shore level. Picking up speed on the straight road it flashed along the front of the houses scant feet from their front doors. The engine note rose and then trailed of as it shot past the last house in the row, seconds later the red embers of it's tail lights blinked out as it turned inland.

A light suddenly spilled from the kitchen window, the cat started again with it’s plaintive let me in song. A shadow fell across him and a tap was run, he padded the window sure now that he would get in and perhaps fed. Sure enough the sound of bolts being drawn were enough to tempt him away from the window and round to the door. "Come on boy, in you come" She wore a long white night gown which the wind greedily tugged at, snagging it for a moment on the split wood at the bottom off the door while the cat negotiated the legs and slippers and boots in the hall. The night dress was hauled back inside and the door pushed firmly shut, the bolts thrown again the wind curled back defeated for a moment before resuming its gentle abrasion of the house.

"Are you hungry darling?" the cat didn’t have a name, Mhairi didn’t believe in giving animals names; boy, love, honey would suffice or in less friendly moods bloody cat or you clumsy little scrote would get the message across. The cat usually knew who she was talking to, at least she assumed so, it never paid much attention no matter what she said unless he was after something like now. "What’s the matter?" She bent and ran her fingers down his back. He chirped and pushed up against her hand. "No mousses to to kill? Will the birdies not play with you tonight?" She fetched down the box of dried food and filled his dish, filling a bowl with water to accompany the cat’s meal. His purring became the loudest noise in the warm quiet kitchen. She took her time completing her own drink now that the cat's needs had been attended to.

Mhairi wasn’t sure what had woken her, from inside the thick walls of the stout little house the noise of the wind was almost imperceptible. She liked having the house to her self, alone except for the cat and her books but for some reason she couldn’t sleep more than a few brief hours alone in that bed. It wasn’t the end of the world not sleeping much, her half day at the surgery wasn’t the most physically exhausting job in the world and in all honesty sleep was a waste of good reading time. She wasn’t fussy about what she read, historical fiction, murder mystery, horror stories were her current bag, anything but the kind of drippy romance that comes in a pale pink sofback cover with some sad water colour of a wistful hunk on the front. One day she hoped to do something useful with her time. Take a degree course like her sister Morag. Not that Morag had exactly shot up the career ladder since achieving her doctorate in business management but then there wasn’t much of a ladder down at the prawn packers.

It had crossed Mhairi’s mind at one time that she might start a family. While he had been here it was almost taken as read. Once he had a proper job, once they finished the house, when she was ready they would have a couple of little ones. Send them to the little one room school at the end of the row of cottages. Be just like all the other young couples here but some how Mhairi could never quite see it. She had never been ready. She couldn’t imagine having something alive inside her let alone picture how it would come out. Christ Morag couldn’t laugh without having to change her knickers and her youngest was 9 this year. Pelvic floor exercises she had chided, I’m doing it, I’m doing it Morag had assured her. You could hardly check could you. 

She tried to picture herself with a pushchair taking her child down to Scot's. Bundled up in her red sweater, bright colour against the washed out little white cotages. Good, but she couldn't see the baby. Perhaps in Scot's buying nappies and jars of carrot and pea baby mush? Oh no, no it wasn't her. She could be feeding the child now she supposed, curled up in the huge armchair by the Aga. Could you read while feeding them? She didn't know. How would it look? Babies always looked so ugly, their squashed fat faces all screwed up ready to scream at any moment. The screams, she remembered the screams of George, her neffew. How could she have a child? She couldn't even baby sit for the children of her one and only sister, they scared her. What if it wanted something? What if they need feeding? What if they break something? She didn't even like talking to them, why couldn't they talk like real people. No children where not her bag at all. Lachlan had liked them, liked Morag and David, liked their children. While she had drank wine and gossiped with her sister they had played outside, some game that involved running around and whooping. He had gently picked George up when he fell, cleaned the dirt and blood from his hands with the tail of his shirt. Yuck, how could he, germ ridden little noise makers. Even when she wasn't visiting her sister Lachlan would be down there, he had helped build the tree house. It was so high that tree house, Mhairi had been convinced someone was going to break their neck but Morag had told her not to be so silly. She could believe now looking back that Lachlan had got on better with children than he did with adults.

She picked up her book and huddled further down into the arm chair. She was fairly sure what was going to happen next. She knew that the Indian spirit trapped in the school was going to consume another pupil and that more through chance than good reasearch the hero would find some ancient indian lore than would destroy or more likely banish said spirit. If only her life would follow such a simple plan. She wondered if he would call in the morning. She wondered if she would answer if he did. Tomorrow she would get out of the house, away from the phone. Perhaps she was doing what she was expected to. Perhaps it was time to break out of that. The cat mewled to be let back out into the night.