The Moon Spun Round by Elenor Gill Read Free Book Online Page A

coloured rain, but they are far enough away not to bother her too much. She’d grown increasingly apprehensive during the week as the pyramid of wood scraps and domestic debris increased in the field next door. Abbie had assured her that, although they would be using the far side of the field next to Sally’s place as it was well away from the stables, they would also keep a safe distance from her cottage. The horses have been taken in early and safely bedded down for the night. Sally is intending to do the same. She has locked the new cat-door to keep Cat inside with her. ‘It’s so you don’t get frightened,’ Sally tells her. Cat is unconvinced.
    It’s now seven o’clock and the bonfire is fully ablaze. Even at this distance, Sally can hear shouts and sudden bursts of laughter. Part of her longs to join them and she knows she would be made welcome, but she isn’t that enthralled by the pretty lights, and the loud bangs terrify her. She takes an occasional glance through the window, and can see figures silhouetted against the fierce blaze and the sudden blooming of incandescent flowers as the men light blue touch-paper and stand well back. Funny, she thinks, how it’s always the men who enjoy playing with fire.
    Cat isn’t being much comfort. As soon as the artillery fire began, she slouched under the coffee table, uttering deep, throaty growls. Nothing Sally says cancoax her out, although she seems more annoyed than afraid. Curled up on the sofa, Sally turns up the volume on the television and settles down to watch a documentary about prehistoric mammals in Britain. Astonishingly, bones of sabre-toothed tigers have been found in a gravel pit at Barrington, just the other side of Cambridge. ‘Look, Cat, they’re probably your ancestors.’ This doesn’t impress Cat, who continues to mutter obscenities.
    Sally enjoys her solitary glass of wine, which is becoming an evening ritual, and after a while she’s absorbed in a television drama. In fact she barely notices that the explosions have subsided until Cat slinks out and joins her on the sofa. The next time she looks out, the bonfire has died down and the party has moved back into the house for a fireworks supper. Abbie said it was a family tradition: mugs of tomato soup and hot dogs with mountains of fried onions, a relic of the boys’ childhood.
    By the time Sally is ready for bed, all of the lights in Abbie’s house are ablaze and music is bouncing over the treetops. The last thing she does before going upstairs is to unlock the cat-flap.
    ‘Go on, it’s safe to go out now.’
    Cat, who has mastered the technique surprisingly quickly, flips the door open and disappears into the night.

    Sally shifts from deep sleep to full wakefulness in an instant. It’s probably the silence that has alerted her. It takes some getting used to, sleeping in the country, when you’re programmed to the background roar of traffic and a constant barrage of noises thrown up by the city night. Here, the solitude seems to rise up out of the fields and engulf the house; only it’s not really silent, not completely. Wind slips through the trees and carries with it unexpected sounds, the snapping of a twig as some creature stalks its prey, the swoop of a wing, the bark of a fox, all magnified beyond logic and reason. A car door slams; some teenager out long after curfew? It can be heard three fields away.
    Sally had fallen comfortably asleep to the boom-box music of next-door’s post-fireworks revelry. But that must have died down hours ago. She’s completely alert, listening to the empty air and gazing at the mystery of her bedroom, which is bathed in cool, white light. Why is the room so bright? It can’t be morning, surely? Morning is grey and soft and creeps in gently, lifting shadows from the corners. This light is stark and still, as if a streetlamp had been left on all night. Only, the nearest lamp is at the corner of Wicker Lane, and the limp puddle of yellow it