THE TARN
by Simon Bestwick
A LATE Saturday afternoon, November ’83; the gray sky above was nearly black, rain streaming down as I walked a field of wilted yellow grass. To my right, the motorway, cars rushing by, their head lamps little yellow coals, lorries rumbling past in a mist of rainwater churned up by their wheels, their lights like blazing eyes.
Below, to my left, a housing estate; up ahead, an old mill—red bricks sooted black, windows boarded, outline ragged with neglect—and, just before that, the tarn.
Lots of old mills had them. Tall grass and rushes grew around it, but I could see the water, flat and gray like lead, still but for the rain. I looked at it for nearly half a minute, then took a deep breath and started walking again, praying I was wrong.
The sodium lights alon
