Dan Coxon - This Dreaming Isle

The Beauty by Aliya Whiteley

Dj Vu by Ian Hocking

Dark Star by Oliver Langmead

Winter by Dan Grace

The Bearer of Grievances by Joseph McKinley

The Speckled God by Marc Joan

The Dancer by Rab Ferguson

Metronome by Oliver Langmead

The Arrival of Missives by Aliya Whiteley

Pseudotooth by Verity Holloway

You Will Grow Into Them by Malcolm Devlin

edited by George Sandison

The Loosening Skin by Aliya Whiteley

The Willow By Your Side by Peter Haynes

Published by Unsung Stories, an imprint of Red Squirrel Publishing
"Red Squirrel" is a registered trademark of Shoreditch Media Limited

Red Squirrel Publishing Suite 235, 15 Ingestre Place, London W1F 0DU, United Kingdom

www.unsungstories.co.uk

First edition published in 2017

Introduction 2018 Dan Coxon
Old Trash 2018 Jenn Ashworth
Hovering 2018 Gary Budden
The Devil in the Details 2018 Ramsey Campbell
Lodestones 2018 Richard V. Hirst
In My Father's House 2018 Andrew Michael Hurley
Land of Many Seasons 2018 Tim Lebbon
The Headland of Black Rock 2018 Alison Littlewood
Domestic Magic 2018 Kirsty Logan
Not All Right 2018 James Miller
The Stone Dead 2018 Alison Moore
We Regret to Inform You 2018 Jeannette Ng
Swimming With Horses 2018 Angela Readman
The Knucker 2018 Gaerth E. Rees
The Cocktail Party in Kensington Gets Out of Hand 2018 Robert Shearman
'Cold Ashton' 2018 Stephen Volk
'The Pier at Ardentinny' 2018 Catriona Ward
'Dark Shells' 2018 Aliya Whiteley

The Contributors have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of their Work

This book is a work of fiction. All the events and characters portrayed in this book are fictional and any similarities to persons, alive or deceased, is coincidental.

Cover Artwork 2018 Jordan Grimmer

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-1912658-02-2
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-907389-59-7
ePub ISBN: 978-1-907389-60-3

Editor: Dan Coxon
Proofreader: George Sandison
Cover design: VInce Haig
Text design: Martin Cox
Typesetting: George Sandison

It may send me mad. The light in the cupboard will not turn off. Light bleeds through the cracks, creating a glowing doorway in the dark. The bed faces it directly.

We are in the red bedroom in the west wing. It has a large cupboard set in the wall by the bedroom door. An overhead bulb throws stark light over the dusty interior. A cord switches it on and off, but now pulling the cord produces nothing but a robust click. The bulb burns on regardless.

I have done everything I can think of. Pulled the cord with varying degrees of gentleness and force. Flicked all the other switches in the room, hoping that one of them controls it. Searched the baseboards for another, secret switch which might have escaped my first sweep. I tried to unscrew the bulb and retreated swearing with singed fingers. I tried again, this time with a towel wrapped around my hand. The towel started smoking and now the room smells of burnt polyester.

Anthony sleeps on, of course, no earthquake could prevent that. Whorls of grey chest hair struggle through the gaps in his pyjama top. The granite jawline of which he is so proud is softening year by year. But he looks very peaceful. I am envious.

I could wake Anthonys mother Estelle and ask her how to turn the light off, of course. But I think I wont do that.

Outside the wind races, tugging and tapping at the house panes shake in their fixtures, latches rattle, slates shift uneasy on the roof. For days the rain has fallen on us from clouds of pewter. Scottish weather can give one the creeps. Theres too much low angry sky. It sees me, somehow.

Anthony and I met by the cloakroom of our favourite restaurant. There was a mix-up with the tickets and we both had the same number. We laughed but we were a little annoyed. The flustered girl searched the racks for my green linen jacket and his heavy, velvet-collared astrakhan. He is always cold.

We talked about the restaurant, how we loved the food, about how long we had been coming to this place. We each claimed it as our place. There was a friendly, competitive edge to it all which I liked. He wasnt worried by my beauty. I quickly realised that he was everything I wanted. Kind, intelligent. In search of purpose. I realised that I could give him that. Director of this, CEO of that, Trustee of whatever all the various ways of saying money. Only those who have too much feel the need to disguise it so.

He had a wife before me, Imogen. She left him, then shortly afterwards died. I dont plan to do either of those things.

For breakfast there is haggis of course pallid eggs and crimson strips of bacon that disintegrate into salty granules at the touch of a fork.

Estelle comes in from seeing to the hens. Rivers of broken capillaries run down her cheeks. She wears her wellington boots at table.

Oh, Irene, she says, in her traceless accent. Do have apiece of toast at least. Theres nothing to you.

Coffee is fine. I smile.

Anthony lowers the paper. Leave her alone, Mother, hesays, squinting slightly. He is too vain to wear glasses and he is frightened of contact lenses.

Did you sleep well?

The light in the cupboard in our room wont switch off,I say.

Oh, says Estelle. Ill ask Jamie to look at it. Jamies arms are decorated with delicate swirls of blue ink to the shoulders. He has a face that was never young or surprisedby anything. He lives in a flat over the old kitchen at Ardentinny during the week, and goes who knows where at the weekends.

Drizzle all morning, Estelle says. But its meant to clear in the afternoon. Lets walk over to the village after lunch. A good long stroll.

How long? I ask politely.

Four miles or so. Well have tea by the pier. Its lovely.

Jamie can collect us in the Land Rover later.

Through the window the hills glower behind their mask of rain.

She follows my gaze, anxious. Its better in the summer, she says. I can see her heart in her face. She is one of those women. Honestly. The sun is out all day. Isnt it, Anthony?

Yes, he says. Its heaven, Reeney.

Early on, Estelle fastened onto the idea that I want to be married in London. The thought grieves her deeply.

I have no objection to holding the wedding here. Ardentinny House is soft with age and surrounded by rolling land. Deer walk the lines of the hills in pronged silhouettes. It is all very suitable.

I am going to let her persuade me slowly. It is good to startout with her in my debt.

The sky clears after lunch. We set out towards the village under a deep blue sky. The path is green and wide. Bees crawl busy through the heather. The air is warm, smokesweet. My skin drinks the sunlight. We all feel it. Estelles cheeks pink up beneath the red. I dont know how anyone stands those grey days.

Anthony begins to whistle, something melodic with a lilt of folk song. Estelle laughs and hums along. She strides out and soon overtakes us. We dawdle behind, wind whipping our cheeks.

I take Anthonys hand. He squeezes it. Youre a peach for coming, he murmurs. Ma loves this walk.

Ahead, Estelle turns and calls, I love this walk. Come on,slowcoaches!

We hurry to catch her. She is standing in a ring of raised turf. There was a Celtic hill fort here, she says. This is old land, lived on by many people through the ages. Everyone leaves something behind. Her eyes are misty. The past is everywhere. Even the loch at Ardentinny is charmed, you know. They say you see peoples true nature in it. Before two youngsters married they would go together to the lake and look at their betrotheds reflection, to make sure they were not wedding a demon or an evildoer.