Catherine slipped almost invisibly into the sleepy northern village in which she’d been born and raised. The sun was already sinking and the midges feasted on anyone foolish enough to walk by the river at dusk. She’d left Weardale with her parents while in her final year at school, and after four years at university she’d taken a junior position with a respectable city law firm, never sparing a thought to the serene and tranquil life she’d left behind. She’d married shortly afterwards to a man 10 years her senior and after five years together they now rarely spoke, except kiss goodnight or to ask for the salt at dinner.
It came as a tremendous shock when, out of the blue, the purchase of Heights Quarry landed on Catherine’s desk and she was grateful that she’d return to Weardale anonymously as Catherine Montrose LLB rather than Cathy Sinclair, the kid from Eastgate.

She grinned as she headed north on the M1; how pissed they’d all be at the plans to turn the quarry into a land fill site. “Fuck-em!” She swore, “Village full of bumpkins and farm hands; they need to move with the times. Besides, we all need a hole in the ground in which we can burry our shit.”

Although she’d been driving most of the day and desperately needed a shot of something from the top shelf, she couldn’t wait to visit the quarry where, as a girl, she’d catch frogs and skinny dip in the dark pools. The quarry was almost invisible from the road, but she remembered the way well enough and drove slowly in case she caught the bottom of her car on the neglected road. The sky to the west was shifting from orange to deep crimson as the sun approached the horizon, but the residual glow was enough for Catherine to find her way. She locked the car and slipped the keys into her inside pocket, removing her jacket as she squeezed through a weathered fence. The ground fell away sharply and Catherine dug her 3 inch heels into the soft earth as a mountaineer would dig his crampons into ice.

Cautiously she edged towards the quarry, aware of the sheer drop onto jiggered rocks and Icy pools and she stood one cliff top for a moment peering into the lengthening shadows and imagining death waiting far below. In the distance she heard an engine, coarse and loud, a motorcycle or quad bike, both commonly used by farmers in these parts. The roar grew louder and Catherine imagined how embarrassing it would be if she was trespassing. She turned to climb the incline, but her designer city shoes gave poor grip when climbing and she slithered upwards using her hands to assist her laborious ascent. As she approached the summit and reached for the fence, she was dazzled by the Quad that raced recklessly towards her. She raised her arm to shield her eyes from the blazing lights and tripped on some tree root or some other hidden obstruction, tumbling backwards towards the edge of the cliff. She clawed at the earth, slowing her descent, but inexorably she slid towards the chasm.

Miraculously her hand found the root of a tree balanced precariously on the edge of the cliff, and Catherine clung to it for her life. Her legs swung outwards over the precipice, a shoe falling into the darkness, followed by the jacket she’d been holding. She cried for help and in the still night only the shrill cry of a curlew came in response.

Her grip was weakening and she could feel her fingers slipping on the damp, muddy root as she desperately searched for purchase with her free hand. With the abyss set to swallow her, a dark figure loomed above and a firm grip locked around her wrist, dragging Catherine back onto solid ground. The shadow held her firmly, pulling her bodily up the slope and through the fence into the spotlight projected by the silent quad bike.

Catherine wiped the terror from her eyes with her sleeve and her saviour became solid before her. Her rescuer was a woman, a girl perhaps a few years younger than she and dressed in rough camouflage gear. A farmer’s wife or daughter, Catherine thought – no one else would be stupid enough to come up here at night.

Catherine thanked her, though anger at her own stupidity disguised any sincerity in her voice and the woman watched in silence as Catherine hobbled back to her car on one shoe. “Fuck!” Catherine swore. “The car keys are in my coat.” She said half in explanation, half pleading, but the woman didn’t answer.