Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

But then, the world’s an odd place.

Then we are on our own.

I manage to read another chapter of Lorna Doone , and note that people were much more courageous in the old days.

Sixteen games of patience, four go out.

Dylan . Wrong.

Cohen . Wrong.

Coltrane . Wrong.

I look closely at the roses. They are not quite red. I drink two tumblers of wine before bed, and that helps to some extent.

The shortest day.

At The Stag’s Head in Dunster, where we have a simple lunch — a ploughman’s and fizzy water — we get into conversation with a local fudge maker. I’m grateful for every form of human contact, and it seems the fudge maker is as well. He tells me that his ex-wife runs a little delicatessen shop in the town, and although it’s fifteen years since they divorced he is still responsible for making the fudge. Selling it is still the cornerstone of the whole business, he stresses: people come from as far away as Taunton and Barnstaple to buy Mrs Miller’s Home-Made Fudge. Occasionally they even get customers from as far away as Bristol, and during the weeks leading up to Christmas she sells as much as during the rest of the year put together.

I promise to call in and buy a few lumps.

‘Vanilla,’ he says. ‘Take the classic stuff. Or possibly coffee, but don’t go for any of the newfangled fancy tastes. Fudge ought to taste like fudge, for God’s sake.’

Then he asks where I come from. I tell him I’m a Swedish writer but I’m spending the winter on Exmoor and writing a novel. He asks where I’m living, and I tell him I’m renting a house just above Winsford.

‘Winsford!’ he exclaims, and his expression becomes distinctly dreamy. ‘I had a girlfriend there once. I should have married her instead of Britney. She runs the pub there, by the way — perhaps you’ve seen her?’

‘Rosie?’

‘Rosie, yes! She’s a fine-looking woman, isn’t she? Not as attractive as you, of course, but pretty good by my standards.’

I make a non-committal response and we chat for a while about Exmoor and the way that life makes up its own mind about how it’s going to proceed. When we say goodbye I can’t avoid thinking what a small world it is, here on Exmoor. The fact that a fudge maker in Dunster was once sweet on a pub landlady in Winsford is nothing remarkable. I also remember clearly Mark Britton’s estimate of the number of marriageable women on the moor. Rather less than zero.

And that makes me think about something else as I sit chewing fudge in the car on the way back to Darne Lodge: how many people actually know that there is a mad Swedish woman author sitting writing in that old house, the scene of several suicides?

One or two, presumably.

The evenings are the worst. Unless I think about going to The Royal Oak Inn, and I’ve decided not to do so today. Better to save it up for a day or two. Once before Christmas Eve, once afterwards, and then Mark Britton will be back and as the new year dawns I shall be in a fit state to make plans. To create a future for myself.

I try to convince myself of this as I wander around the house, as I make a fire, as I put stuff into the refrigerator and sip at a glass of port. It’s five o’clock and already pitch dark, impossible to move around outdoors. I recall that the moon was shining the evening I came here, briefly at least, but I don’t think I’ve experienced a moonlit evening since then. Ten metres away from the house is the overgrown stone wall, I know that, but there’s no chance of seeing it from my window. Tonight it’s foggy as well: it’s usually possible to detect the borderline between heaven and earth, where the rounded hill with a handful of trees on the summit can be seen to the south; but not the way things are this evening.

Not in the evening of the year’s shortest day.

I manage to make the hours pass with the aid of routines. I avoid thinking about Soblewski. Avoid Samos and Taza and all that. I make some soup instead, working at snail’s pace so that time can pass unhindered. I eat half the soup, put the remainder into a plastic container then stow it away in the tiny freezer compartment.

Wash up.

Give Castor some food.

Another chapter of Blackmore.

Sixteen games of patience. At last it’s eleven o’clock.

Three more attempts — that’s also a part of the routine now. I’ve spent the last half-hour sifting out this evening’s words.

Garbo . Wrong.

Monroe . Wrong.

Novak . Wrong.

I write them all down in my notebook. Put more wood on the fire to keep us warm during the night. Let Castor out to do his business while I brush my teeth.

I go to let him in. It really is impossible to see more than two metres out into the darkness — the faint light that seeps through the door opening seems afraid of venturing too far out. As I stand there I can feel that it has become colder, and I remember my fudge-making friend going on about the frosty nights we had in store.

No sign of Castor. I whistle twice, have no desire to stand there getting cold.

He still doesn’t appear. That is odd. I hope he hasn’t found something and is busy chewing it. His stomach can be rather sensitive, and half-rotten meat is not what he needs. Come on now, you blasted mongrel, I think.

But he doesn’t. I whistle again.

I look at the clock. He must have been out for five minutes. At least — perhaps seven or eight. He usually needs only one or two. I almost close the door. Then change my mind and open it again.

Shout for him.

Once. Twice.

I feel frightened, suddenly and overwhelmingly. I shout again. My voice sounds weak and terrified, and is gulped down by the darkness.

But I shout once more even so.

Again and again.

It’s the longest night of the year, and there is no sign of my dog.

I put on two more jerseys under my jacket and go out again. Walk round the house several times, shouting and whistling. To the south, where light from the two windows produces a slight trace of illumination, I can see for about three metres; but nothing at all in any other direction. It seems that my eyes have not yet grown accustomed to darkness. Nothing can be darker than the darkness that surrounds me now.

A faint whine from the wind can be heard from the moor, but nothing of the metallic sound that I had noticed on several evenings. In the far distance, in the direction of Exford I think, I hear the sound of a car accelerating, but it lasts no more than a second.

I walk over to the wall. Shout three times before climbing over it. The chances are that he must have gone in this direction, I think. In the other direction is the fence and the gate. Needless to say he could have negotiated those if he had really wanted to, but I have to make a choice.

I am breathing very heavily now. When I’ve climbed over the wall I stand quite still, partly in order to calm down, partly to give my eyes the chance of seeing something.

After a while I can make out my feet and a metre or so around them. Make out , not see: the nearest to any light in the darkness is the mist that is floating around and seems to be oozing forth out of the ground itself. I remain standing there, wondering about this silent and fluid movement as I continue to hold on to the wall and shout at regular intervals.

My voice still sounds very feeble, and it doesn’t penetrate many metres out into the emptiness. But Castor’s hearing is better than mine. He ought to hear me if he is around — hear me and bark in response.

I don’t dare to leave the wall. After five, perhaps ten minutes of shouting and listening I go back into the house. I fetch my torch and check that the batteries are working, then dig out two spares before going out again.