Four
I woke up, lying flat on my back, with my hands clawing the sheets for holds on the slippery walls of the lighthouse. Grey light peered round the edges of the thick curtains. I knew where I was. The hotel. Safe. In bed.
For a moment I thought the lighthouse had been a dream.
I dreamed a lot in rehab. Everybody does. It’s a way of escaping. Some dreamed of their childhoods, most dreamed of their drugs, but I dreamed of climbing. So I thought it was another of those dreams until I got out of bed and winced as my grazed and bruised feet hit the floor. Until I went into the bathroom and saw the clothes and the tarpaulin lying in muddy dampness on the floor. Questions raged through my brain. What had I done? Why had I been at the lighthouse?
A knock on the door interrupted my whirling
