Just before three thirty, the sun slipped below the hills on the mainland, and I replaced my sunglasses with regular glasses. The sky was an astonishing shade of violet, as was the sea, which now stretched out in every direction. Soon, it had covered most of the marsh and was lapping at the roadside.
I smoked another cigarette and watched as the land, sea and sky grew darker and darker, until finally I couldn’t distinguish one from the other.
It was dark, but not completely dark. Or perhaps, more accurately, it was so dark that the little light there was seemed almost an abundance. I’d underestimated the difference the moon would make out here. It shone low in the west like the blade of a scimitar, and was reflected in the sea as a long ribbon of silver light. Beyond this, there was a kind of diffuse glow, and then just shifting shadows, a vast mass of black water that rippled through the wider fabric of the night. I couldn’t make out the shoreline – I couldn’t see anything solid past the nearest marker-posts – but there were isolated lights out there too: the lights from the farm buildings at the edge of the mainland, and, looking in the opposite direction, the streetlights of Lindisfarne village. The latter, I knew, would be on all night, so however dark it got, I’d have at least one anchor to give me a sense of distance and direction.
The temperature must have dropped by three or four degrees since the sun went down, so I put on another layer of clothes, along with my gloves and scarf. While rummaging in my bag, I also found a small packet of biscuits, a muesli bar and some mints – relics from some walk I’d taken the previous month. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but it was better than the nothing I’d been expecting. I washed it down with a few mouthfuls of Diet Coke, followed by another cigarette for dessert, and afterwards felt surprisingly satisfied.
By then, the sea was audible again; I could hear the faint hiss of the breaking waves, which told me the tide must have dropped some distance back from the causeway. But I had to wait a while until I could actually see the foaming edge of the water, and it did not stay visible for long. By the time the water had receded almost to the refuge point, the moon was so low it appeared little more than a curved needle of light poking out of the horizon. A few minutes later, it set completely. And then it really was dark.
I let over an hour pass before I went down the ladder again. I used the light from my mobile phone to illuminate the entrance point, removed my gloves so I’d have a surer grip, and then shuffled forward on my bottom until I felt the heel of my boot slip over the edge of the platform. Once I’d located the handrails, I turned and manoeuvred both feet onto the first step, and then the second, before returning my phone to my back pocket. After that, I descended very slowly, into absolute darkness, counting another six steps before I again retrieved my phone. Holding it low in one hand, I could make out the sand, just one rung beneath me and dry once more.
I urinated in the same spot as before, but this time it was slightly easier, despite the fact I couldn’t see a thing. Afterwards, I faced away from the refuge point, held my breath, and took ten large strides out onto the sand. I don’t know why, exactly. I suppose I just wanted to test myself, to see how it felt to be out there in the open, with nothing but darkness on every side.
It felt okay, or it did for a while. It was only when I switched my phone display on again that I felt afraid. Because then I could see how isolated I was. When I looked back the way I’d come, I could no longer see the refuge point. I was standing in the centre of a pool of blue-white light, but beyond this, there were only curving black walls, endless and impenetrable.
Of course, I knew there was nothing rational about my fear; all I had to do was follow my footprints and I’d be back where I started in a matter of seconds. But right then, this felt a matter of faith rather than fact. Confronted by a void in every direction, it was just as easy to believe that retraced steps might lead somewhere else entirely, or nowhere at all – that the refuge point might even have ceased to exist the instant I let it slip from my sight.
But after a few moments, these thoughts started to wane, and soon I could see how ridiculous they were. I was even a little irritated at myself, which is perhaps why I didn’t head straight back the way I’d come. Instead, I got a cigarette from my coat pocket and smoked it almost down to the filter, until I felt absolutely calm once more. Then I aligned myself with my footprints and walked the ten large paces back to the refuge.
When I found myself again at the foot of the ladder, it felt as if something inside me was subtly different, as if I’d achieved something more than a short walk on the sand.
Back on the platform, there was now a small breeze blowing in through the entrance point, so I relocated to the corner diagonally opposite, where I set about fashioning the best bed I could. Using my rucksack as a pillow, and with a long cardigan as a blanket, I lay down in the darkness and looked up at the sky. There were stars, of course – hundreds of them, scattered like glitter. I’d grown used to seeing stars since I left London, but this was something else. Every inch of the sky seemed crowded with them, ready to burst.
After a while, I realized that my lips felt cold. My face was the only part of me still exposed to the night air. My gloves were back on and I had my Eskimo hood pulled up so far that its furry lining stroked my cheeks when I moved. But now I also pulled my scarf up over my face, leaving only a very thin visor through which I could continue to look at the stars. Later, when the temperature seemed to drop further, I covered my eyes too.
I’ve no idea how long I lay like that, in this strange cocoon I’d built for myself, but time, as far as I could gauge, passed quickly. Soon, I was aware of the sound of the sea again, the increasing rush of approaching water. I didn’t check my watch or get up to smoke or stretch. Oddly, the longer I lay motionless on that hard wooden floor, the more comfortable, the more at ease, I felt. I’d been aware of little irritations at first – the lack of cushioning at my shoulder blades, the moisture from my breath – but before long, these things were barely perceptible. Or perhaps it was that I chose not to perceive them; I just shifted my attention slightly, and they faded out of consciousness.
Then, for a long time, I felt like I was on the cusp of a dream. Scraps of thought – images from the past six months, mostly – came unbidden, with one flowing seamlessly into the next. But there wasn’t any logic I could discern; just lots of disjointed impressions that rose and fell in gradually diminishing waves. The last thing I remember seeing is Marie Martin curtsying to me in that ridiculous restaurant in Soho. And soon after that, I must have fallen asleep.
It took me a few moments to get my bearings when I awoke. Then it all came surging back: I was on an eight-by-eight-foot platform in the middle of the sea, waiting for dawn and the tide; and it occurred to me then that this was probably not the kind of thing I’d ever be able to tell anyone about, and that it was probably better that way.
I removed the scarf from my face and was greeted by a blast of air cold enough to sting my cheeks. The sky above was still flooded with stars. I checked my phone and saw that it was six fifty, which meant it would be getting light within the hour.