Gulls of Kintyre

The mist rolled in from the sea. In the small car park on the island, he looked out into the swirling silver gauze that enfolded the causeway. At the edge of his vision he could see the whitewashed posts and rocks that marked the edges of the empty car park, the light grey gravel oval that now soaked into the fret. He could hear the herring gulls on the shore, but could not see them.

He thought about lighting a cigarette but decided against it. He didn't want to add to the pewter gloom. He scanned where the horizon ought to be on a late autumn afternoon, but could not make out the sun. He raised him arm but could hardly see the hand in front of him. He sighed. Perhaps it would be all right, anyway.

He re-attached the keyring to one of his belt loops and walked, jangling, up the sandy path towards the boarding house that stood silhouetted at the top of a small rise. Faint light leaked from the front bay windows as he climbed steadily, keeping his eyes on th gravel. He thought about driving out over the causeway in the fog, edging forward, fearing that the wheels would slip from the surface into the cold salt water of the bay, gripping the steering wheel like a life-preserver. Slow, slower still, as the tide crept up to the tyres and he came to a rest, halfway between island and shore. Watching the water enter the footwell, feeling the car shift as the water began to lift it from the surface of the causeway. Floating. But not for long. The water was cold. So cold.

He shuddered as he stood before the front door of the boarding-house. Damp clung to the hair that spilled long over his collar. He knocked.

A small, middle-aged woman in a black dress opened the door, peering up at him through loops of silver hair that fell from the pile pinned up on top of her head.

'My goodness, man, you look like you've seen a ghost,' she said. 'Come in, come in, Go on into the parlour and I'll fetch you a glass of mulled wine to warm you through. Go on, go on.'

He sat gratefully on one of the hard, winged armchairs, looking out into the mist as the light faded, hearing the gulls call. He turned as Mrs Gabriel came in, carrying a steaming glass mug of spiced wine. She handed the drink to him and put one hand on his arm.

'Take your time, now', she said. 'Did you try leaving?' He looked at her blankly. 'Well, it doesn't matter much, does it? You can try again tomorrow. You're welcome to stay as long as you like.'

The steam from the hot wine curled into the frigid air of the parlour. Outside the fog crept up the rise towards the house, and would soon envelop the windows. He sat still. If he didn't move, perhaps it would be all right.