It was a clear evening - the sky's cold skin stretchedto breaking point. She did not want to draw the curtainsin the front room, even though passers-by would starein, because the deepening blue was too fine to miss. Soshe sat at the window and watched the dark come. Onlywhen the last change had been wrought did she close offthe chill.

She had no appetite, but she made herself some foodnevertheless, and sat down to watch television as she ate.The food unfinished, she laid down her tray, and dozed,the programmes filtering through to her intermittently.Some witless comedian whose merest cough sent hisaudience into paroxysms; a natural history programmeon life in the Serengeti; the news. She had read all thatshe needed to know that morning: the headlines hadn'tchanged.

One item, however, did pique her curiosity: aninterview with the solo yachtsman, Michael May bury,who had been picked up that day after two weeksadrift in the Pacific. The interview was being beamedfrom Australia, and the contact was bad; the imageof Maybury's bearded and sun-scorched face wasconstantly threatened with being snowed out. Thepicture mattered little: the account he gave of his failedvoyage was riveting in sound alone, and in particularan event that seemed to distress him afresh even ashe told it. He had been becalmed, and as his vessellacked a motor had been obliged to wait for wind. Ithad not come. A week had gone by with his hardlymoving a kilometre from the same spot of listlessocean; no bird or passing ship broke the monotony.With every hour that passed, his claustrophobia grew,and on the eighth day it reached panic proportions,so he let himself over the side of the yacht andswam away from the vessel, a life-line tied abouthis middle, in order to escape the same few yards ofdeck. But once away from the yacht, and treading thestill, warm water, he had no desire to go back. Whynot untie the knot, he'd thought to himself, and floataway.

'What made you change your mind?' the interviewerasked.

Here May bury frowned. He had clearly reached thecrux of his story, but didn't want to finish it. Theinterviewer repeated the question.

At last, hesitantly, the sailor responded. 'I lookedback at the yacht,' he said, 'and I saw somebody onthe deck.'

The interviewer, not certain that he'd heard correctly,said: 'Somebody on the deck?'

'That's right,' Maybury replied. 'Somebody wasthere. I saw a figure quite clearly; moving around.'

'Did you ... did you recognise this stowaway?' thequestion came.

Maybury's face closed down, sensing that his storywas being treated with mild sarcasm.

'Who was it?' the interviewer pressed.

'I don't know,' Maybury said. 'Death, I suppose.'

The questioner was momentarily lost for words.

'But of course you returned to the" boat, eventually.'

'Of course.'

'And there was no sign of anybody?'

Maybury glanced up at the interviewer, and a look ofcontempt crossed his face.

'I've survived, haven't I?' he said.

The interviewer mumbled something about notunderstanding his point.

'I didn't drown,' Maybury said. 'I could have diedthen, if I'd wanted to. Slipped off the rope anddrowned.'

'But you didn't. And the next day -'

The next day the wind picked up.'

'It's an extraordinary story,' the interviewer said, content that the stickiest part of the exchange was now safelyby-passed. 'You must be looking forward to seeing yourfamily again for Christmas ...'

Elaine didn't hear the final exchange of pleasantries.Her imagination was tied by a fine rope to the roomshe was sitting in; her fingers toyed with the knot. IfDeath could find a boat in the wastes of the Pacific,how much easier it must be to find her. To sit with her,perhaps, as she slept. To watch her as she went about hermourning. She stood up and turned the television off.The flat was suddenly silent. She questioned the hushimpatiently, but it held no sign of guests, welcome orunwelcome.

As she listened, she could taste salt-water. Ocean, nodoubt.

She had been offered several refuges in which toconvalesce when she came out of hospital. Her fatherhad invited her up to Aberdeen; her sister Rachel hadmade several appeals for her to spend a few weeksin Buckinghamshire; there had even been a pitifultelephone call from Mitch, in which he had talked oftheir holidaying together. She had rejected them all,telling them that she wanted to re-establish the rhythmof her previous life as soon as possible: to return to herjob, to her working colleagues and friends. In fact, herreasons had gone deeper than that. She had feared theirsympathies, feared that she would be held too close intheir affections and quickly come to rely upon them.Her streak of independence, which had first broughther to this unfriendly city, was in studied defiance ofher smothering appetite for security. If she gave in tothose loving appeals she knew she would take root indomestic soil and not look up and out again for anotheryear. In which time, what adventures might have passedher by?

Instead she had returned to work as soon as she feltable, hoping that although she had not taken on all herformer responsibilities the familiar routines would helpher to re-establish a normal life. But the sleight-of-handwas not entirely successful. Every few days somethingwould happen - she would overhear some remark,or catch a look that she was not intended to see -that made her realise she was being treated with arehearsed caution; that her colleagues viewed her asbeing fundamentally changed by her illness. It hadmade her angry. She'd wanted to spit her suspicionsin their faces; tell them that she and her uterus werenot synonymous, and that the removal of one did notimply the eclipse of the other.

But today, returning to the office, she was notso certain they weren't correct. She felt as thoughshe hadn't slept in weeks, though in fact she wassleeping long and deeply every night. Her eyesight wasblurred, and there was a curious remoteness about herexperiences that day that she associated with extremefatigue, as if she were drifting further and further fromthe work on her desk; from her sensations, from hervery thoughts. Twice that morning she caught herselfspeaking and then wondered who it was who wasconceiving of these words. It certainly wasn't her; shewas too busy listening.

And then, an hour after lunch, things had suddenlytaken a turn for the worse. She had been called into hersupervisor's office and asked to sit down.

'Are you all right, Elaine?' Mr Chimes had asked.

'Yes,' she'd told him. 'I'm fine.'

There's been some concern -'

'About what?'

Chimes looked slightly embarrassed. 'Your beha-viour,' he finally said. 'Please don't think I'm prying,Elaine. It's just that if you need some further time torecuperate -'

'There's nothing wrong with me.'

'But your weeping -'

'What?'

'The way you've been crying today. It concerns us.'

'Cry?' she'd said. 'I don't cry.'

The supervisor seemed baffled. 'But you've beencrying all day. You're crying now.'

Elaine put a tentative hand to her cheek. And yes;yes, she was crying. Her cheek was wet. She'd stoodup, shocked at her own conduct.

'I didn't ... I didn't know,' she said. Though thewords sounded preposterous, they were true. She hadn'tknown. Only now, with the fact pointed out, did shetaste tears in her throat and sinuses; and with that tastecame a memory of when this eccentricity had begun: infront of the television the night before.

'Why don't you take the rest of the day off?'

'Yes.'

'Take the rest of the week if you'd like,' Chimes said.'You're a valued member of staff, Elaine; I don't have totell you that. We don't want you coming to any harm.'