November

There's nothing worse than November. The romantics among us write
acres of bad poetry in praise of autumns' melancholy glory, but how
soon this loveliness gives way, retreats into bleak grey and endless
drizzle. Winter descends upon us with a frightening severity. Our
fragile dwellings are buffeted by demoniac winds straight out of the
arctic, huge, sleety clouds settle on the day like squadrons of black
crows. Afternoons become twilit. Night falls. In the towns and cities,
a thousand workers scurry home through the evening rain, faces haggard
in the headlights of on-coming cars. They bolt their doors, keep at bay
the damp chill. They huddle round their small fires and speak in quiet
voices. And outside, all the while, the deepening gloom.

I become anti-social at this time of year. My need for company, the
hollow comfort of human interaction, diminishes with the daylight. I
head for the enclosed solitude of my house. Once the key is turned in
the lock, I find I can breath again. All the fear subsides. I'm not
really sure when my problem first appeared. Could it really date back
to childhood experience in such an obviously Freudian way? If I examine
my early memories I find nothing strikingly unusual. A dislike of the
dark, of spiders and empty houses. A distrust of strangers especially
those with odd facial expressions or unpleasant odours. A mundane
fascination with death and bodily functions. There is nothing to
suggest that my adult life would be dominated by a very particular
phobia, that my development would be confined and shaped by a very
specific fear. With the onset of winter I am filled with an almost
paralysing dread.

As the nights draw in, my mind fills up and is confused by feelings of
intense forboding. At dusk, on any evening in October, as lights
flicker on in the empty
streets and parks, I can almost believe that I am being pursued, that
something
malign is walking soundlessly behind me, that the likelihood of my
survival is
virtually nil.

The darkness has density. It is, to my mind, not simply an absence of
light. It has its own cold momentum. How many times have I filled my
home with brightness, tensely moving from room to room, switching on
lamps and lighting candles, banishing shadow. Only to find myself
forlorn, like Canute, with darkness pressing ever more insistently at
the windows. I look out across the obscurity of my garden, my hands
trembling, thanking god for the few inches of brick that lie between
me
and whatever is tirelessly wandering through the chilly emptiness of
the Winter night.

My bed is my refuge. With the blankets pulled tightly around me, I am
lulled into
sleep by the amber glow of the little nightlights burning bravely on
my dressing table and the tiny, gentle sounds of the fire dying in the
hearth.
Years of experience have taught me how to cope. I am achingly familiar
with the anatomy of my emotional life and I have found ways of
minimising the effects of my seasonal insanity. My regime is strict. I
have always been a great exponent of discipline. I make absolutely sure
that I leave work in good time in order to avoid being out of doors
after sunset. I have fitted an array of highly technical security
devices in and around my home ensuring, at least, the illusion of
safety. I have the home telephone number of a very good psychiatrist
should things get out of hand. For example, the chilly desert of a of
January evening has been known to provoke intolerable anguish. And
there are always my pills.

Despite my best efforts, though, things can go wrong. Badly wrong. We
are all
subject to the vagaries of fate and it is not possible, however hard
we try, to predict random events. I was driving back from an out of
town engagement. Late November, Christmas looming. The bloodless light
of mid-afternoon was already diminishing, giving way to the subtle
insinuations of the approaching dark. The warm interior of my car was a
cocoon. Within the confines of its metal shell I felt completely
secure. I was perhaps even a little complacent. Thoughts of home
soothed me. I pictured the glass of brandy at the hearth, glowing
candlelit, its mellow fire burning in my mouth, as I prepared for bed.
My hands were relaxed on the steering-wheel and the road ahead was
clear. I switched on the radio and settled into some light Jazz.

To the left and right, trees. Pinewoods. Evergreen branches knarled and
mythical, a suggestion of childhood Decembers and half-forgotten
excitements. What little daylight remained struggled and was almost
defeated, diffused and scattered by
needle and branch. A counterfeit night. I quelled the almost
nauseating wave of fear that rose, suddenly, in me and turned on my
head lamps. The cool green of winter foliage, the halflit mystery of
deserted glade. The silvery lichens on ashy bark. The clean stillness
of the forest air. And ahead of me, walking briskly at the edge of the
road, a young man. Thin and not very tall, he seemed almost swamped by
the large, somewhat shabby overcoat he was
wearing. A proud boy in his father's clothes, vulnerable and without
defence.
Capering excitedly around his ankles was a little, white dog, a
terrier of some
description. The man threw a piece of stick and the dog vanished into
the trees. As I drove by, I glimpsed momentarily in my rear-view
mirror, a shock of sandy hair, a white, sun-starved face. It seemed
strange to me that one so young should feel confident enough to walk
through the woods at this time of day, so foolhardy. Then
with a wry half-grin, I remembered that not everyone experiences
Winter as I do. With this in mind, I pressed my foot down on the
accelerator and felt the car respond.

From all around, from obscure sylvan distance, came all the different
darknesses of the coming night. Spirits of the winter; the twilight,
the half-shadow, the dark shrouds of dusk, the inky blackness of
pre-dawn. My optimism and confidence were ragged now as I realised that
I was still a long way from home and at the mercy of my
old enemy. Then I noticed a horrifying change in the movement of the
car. It was slowing down, inexorably losing speed, second by second. I
pumped the pedals but it was futile. Gently, almost discreetly, the car
drifted to a halt. There followed one of those extended moments when
time distorts, allowing the mind to come to terms with a new situation,
just the pulsing of the heart, the drying of the throat, the moisture
on
the back of the neck and in the palms. Silence. Then a tiny electrical
crackle,
something minuscule but important failing within the damaged interior
spaces of the engine. The dashboard died. And I was marooned in a place
without light.

Crippling panic. My system was awash with adrenaline. I stumbled
crazily from the car, leaving the door gaping and made for cover
amongst thickets and tangled branches. But I could find no refuge. I
ran on over uneven ground, falling sometimes, grazing skin on deadwood,
shedding blood on bramble. Sick with fear, sweat running down my back.
Lost. Then a voice. Somewhere behind me. Close by.

I was being pursued. My lifelong nightmare coalesced into reality. The
thing in the dark, that beast concealed in winter, was finally coming
for me. I struggled on, exhaustion in my marrow, and still the voice
calling behind me, and footsteps and stealthily shifting movements. The
only source of heat was the blood beating in my body. Everything else
seemed a mere expression of agonising cold, the unforgiving stillness
of Icelandic glaciers, the heartstopping drowsiness of snowdrifts in
Russian starlight.

My strategy, my last,desperate push for survival, was to confront the
devil and
vanquish it. I searched for my weapon, scrabbling in the undergrowth,
earth lodging beneath my fingernails. My hands lighted upon a fallen
branch, quite heavy, but almost elegant. Made for the purpose. The
black shape appeared before me, and I, blind with rage and terror,
lashed out, swung at it, felt the soft impact, the strangled cry, the
dull thud as it fell to the ground. I was triumphant. For a moment the
world was mine. The minutes passed and my breathing stabilised. The
pace of my heart and the activity of glands and organs returned to
normal. At my feet, something cumpled and unmoving. My adversary. And
yet..........I crouched down for a closer look. And froze. Really
froze. That sandy hair. That pale face paralysed in amazement. That
undernourished body in its oversized coat. And somewhere quite near,
getting nearer all the time, a little dog barking. A terrier.

END.