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The terms could not have been clearer. She signed them when she paid for her booking. No pets. The last thing I need is slobbering great mutts chasing the squirrels and shitting on the footpaths.

When she and her tattooed husband pulled up outside my house to check in I was annoyed, though not entirely surprised, to see a great big golden retriever panting nauseously in the back seat.

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay with the dog,” I told her, hurrying over.

“Oh, Maxxie is as good as gold, isn’t he darling?” The husband grunted but didn’t look up from his phone.

“I’m sure he is, but the rules do say…”

She leaned out the window, snatched the keys from my hands and smiled smugly, closing her electric window. She drove her oversized car down the dirt track to the cabin in my woods, spattering mud as she went.

I trekked furiously after her. She’d already parked up and was happily unpacking a ring light and some camera gear when I arrived. The husband stared at his phone from the passenger seat.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. My rules clearly say…”

“Oh no, that’s not going to work,” she pouted. “It’s taken us so long to get here. There’s no need for us to leave just because of a silly old rule. Maxxie won’t be any trouble.”

She grabbed the dog and snapped a round of rapid-fire selfies.

“If you won’t leave, I’ll have to call the police,” I told her.

She just mugged for the camera.

The police did come, eventually. It was Sandra’s boy, Ralph, but when I took him to the cabin there was no sign of dog or husband.

“A dog? Oh no. It’s just little old me,” she told him, smiling sweetly. “I’m here on my own. There must have been some mix up.”

She leaned over to Ralph and stage whispered:

“I hear that can happen out here, when you live alone. It must be very hard sometimes. Very sad.”

Out in the woods a dog barked.

Ralph shrugged apologetically and made his way back to his bike. I loaded him up with some onions from the garden and a few bits of firewood for his mum and he was away.

So, in the end there really wasn’t much else I could do.

The banging on the door woke me. I go to bed early, so it couldn’t have been much past ten, but it was already very dark. We don’t have streetlights in these parts – a blessing and a curse.

“What do you want?”

“It’s John and Maxxie – they haven’t come home. You have to help me.”

“Who?”

“My husband John and our dog, you were the one kicking up all that fuss about Maxxie before – don’t be ridiculous.”

I saw her eye catch the bloody smear on the floor of my porch and the little hammer tucked away in a corner.

I smiled sweetly at her and picked it up.

“Oh no,” I told her. You’re here on your own. You must have had a little mix up. Your mind can play tricks when you’re out in the woods all by yourself. Very sad…”

‘It’s just the onion,’ Jude sobbed, knowing frustration was as much to blame.

Ash didn’t seem to be listening anyway.

The weekend was turning out far less dirty than Jude had hoped. Ash’s appetite had never exactly been voracious, but when a ‘special’ anniversary trip to a cabin in the middle of nowhere was suggested, it felt like an open goal… or hole. There wasn’t even a TV. But Ash had somehow managed to show even less interest in getting down to it than usual.

Jude tried everything.

Running fingers up Ash’s thigh on the drive over elicited only an uncomfortable cough and hand-hold that ended abruptly at the next gear change.

Lying invitingly on the bed when they arrived had prompted an impatient, ‘Why don’t you make coffee while I put things away?’ The following squabble was about the hassle of boiling water without electricity. The tepid mugs of mud eventually served said something else.

After a platonic first night, which Ash had irritatingly called romantic several times, Jude was determined to make the most of trekking in the woods. While Ash’s outfit suggested they might somehow stumble across a cute little café, Jude opted for nothing but a jumpsuit. At the hilltop lookout, while Ash rummaged clumsily in the bag, Jude deftly released buttons until the one-piece fell to the floor.

There’d been a moment of optimism when the nakedness prompted an intake of breath, but it dissolved as the air was released in nothing more than a nervous giggle. Re-dressing in the wild is rarely dignified, but while two people doing it hurriedly can be a thrill, one party dragging clothing over themselves while the other checks a map is humbling at best.

Jude hadn’t expected the suggestion of skinny-dipping on the way back to be met with enthusiasm. But the furtive ‘you go, I’ll watch the bags’ response was the opposite of sexy.

‘I’m going for a bath while this cooks,’ Jude announced, throwing carrots into the stew.

Ash stayed focused on stacking firewood over the kindling.

‘Join me if you want,’ Jude mumbled, barely audible over the simmering pot.

The free-standing tub shared the same space as the fireplace and the hob. While it filled, Jude stripped in a style as spiteful as it was seductive. The splash on entry was intended to attract Ash’s attention, even if it came as a scolding for the mess. It didn’t work.

Light flickered across the book in Ash’s lap. By the time it reached Jude, it was shadow.

Flushed by the heat, Jude brushed fingers across flesh, letting a resigned thought bubble up.

If you want something doing… do it yourself.

A shallow groan formed one final invitation. Ash remained unmoved.

Jude stood, stepped from the bath, and moved wordlessly to the bedroom.

When the door clicked shut, Ash sighed and removed the ring from the place it lingered, beside the words ‘because my equal is here’ in a first edition of Jude’s favourite book.

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

The whirr of the engine increasing in speed. The strange mechanical clicks, whines and creaks. Welcome on board. If I die there will be an extensive investigation. What will that mean for my family. Will they look for blame or put it down to fate. Does that mean the mortgage will be paid off. But life insurance probably won’t cover that. There’ll be an issue with the paperwork. Or a flight exclusion. Imagine being mortgage free. Imagine losing your partner. It’s a close trade off. My daughter wouldn’t know any better. It might hit her when she’s older. Comments in school maybe? Or maybe a new dad - she’d have something to say about that, no doubt. Good luck to him. When does the cabin get pressurised, or depressurised is that a thing? Would he teach her how to tell jokes, how to cook; peel and chop the veg. Maybe she’d cry in that moment thinking about me, and pretend it’s the onions. It must be hard to care about any one individual if you spend all your time looking down from the heavens. Everything is so small. Beautiful but distant. A perfect idea just out of reach. But you can’t see anyone, you can’t understand their lives, the world is too big. No wonder god can be such a prick. If I crash in the sea I’m convinced I’ll survive. You just jump out last minute. Or use the inflatable lifeboat as padding. Or just land like a seaplane. If it’s on land could I time my jump so I hit some bushes or the branches of a tree? Maybe someone trekking will find me half broken but alive and it’ll be this incredible story I tell. Maybe I’ll finally write that book. Or use my jumper as a parachute? Wool and full of holes though. I’ve skydived, it feel like being in a comic book. The land didn’t look real. It didn’t feel real, it felt windy. The falling bit anyway. Once the parachute was open it was great. Very chill. Except the man strapped between my legs. I don’t think my son would take it well. That’s some therapy. It happens all the time. Dead parent. And 5 year olds are apparently very resilient. He wouldn’t seem resilient though. He’d be broken. My Pokemon account will still be active. But it is linked to my hotmail. How long would that stay open till? My wife would know my passwords anyway so that’s fine. She would, well. She, would have to be fine. Limited choice at that point. On the outside, eventually. I should try harder though. You can’t make every day special. I could make more. You can’t be on, all the time. I don’t compliment her enough. I should. I by can’t I be nicer. More considerate. More loving. She is worth complimenting. She is the firewood, and I am the match. No that’s not quite right. She is the match, the spark. I am? I don’t know what I am. The socks drying by the fire? That’s what it feels like sometimes. If I die. I’ll be able to sleep. That’s the one bit I’m looking forward to. Not the terrifying plunge and the burning panic of all the things I’ve never done. The mind numbing terror of being forgotten - just another dot fading from the surface of a revolving rock, slowly being consumed by a burning sun. The knowledge you probably made no positive impact on humanity. Probably. I mean people generally like me. I try to help. And sometimes genuinely am. I did volunteer in Ghana don’t you know. But at least I’ll get some rest. The cabin light for turbulence is pinging again. Does that hostess look worried?

Claire

I once spent a night in a cabin. In the pine woods of the Rocky Mountains near Fort Collins in Colorado USA.

I was staying with a woman called Betty Shoemaker, who didn’t make shoes. She worked for Colorado State University and offered a rent-free room for itinerants like me, nothing dodgy, she was just nice. It was part of a late winter 6-week trip in 1985 to the USA, during what I could euphemistically call a gap year, where the gap was between the A Level results my university place required and my underwhelming grades. Can I help it if the pulsations of a water flea’s stomach look very similar to its heartbeat under a microscope? Anyone could take an hour counting and plotting completely the wrong numbers in their A Level Biology practical exam (don’t get me started on the earthworm dissection).

So, I tagged along with my friend Simon Pope and his Dad, Roger, who worked for Chevron Oil. We got a Greyhound from New Jersey and counted the cars on the turnpike – via Pittsburg (fries), Philadelphia (burgers), St Louis Missouri (grits and biscuits), somewhere unknowable in Kansas (coyotes, pickled peaches and shoofly pie) and finally to Fort Collins, near Denver.

Simon stayed with a family friend, and I was at Betty’s house. Roger went home.

I mostly spent the time eating Jellybeans and watching MAS*H on account of not having a fistful of dollars and also of being puffed out by the altitude.

I did some voluntary work for Simon’s family friend who was organizing the World Wilderness Congress. David Bellamy was somehow involved in this (let’s just leave that there).

I was befriended at a bus stop by a very old* woman who took me on trips in her ancient giant American car, including one to church where the preacher asked me if I knew the lord was my savior – I replied that I hadn’t been aware of that.

We hired a car for a day (Simon had more money) and visited Red Rocks because of U2 and Bolder because of Mork & Mindy.

And for one night, Betty took Simon and I to a cabin in the woods (she was just nice remember). We parked about a mile away and trekked through snow to get to it. We collected some small twigs and sticks for the stove and fried sausage, onion and potatoes in a blackened pan for supper. We watched the chipmunks scuttling about in the branches and worried about the warning signs for Moose.

The best bit of all though, of that night and of the whole trip, the part that is vividly wrought in my memory, is the nighttime visit to the loo.

It was situated in a small pine outhouse, a short distance from the cabin. I sat there on the toilet with the door wide open, looking out across a moonlit landscape of snow and pine and mountains, with the legion stars crystalline in their heavens. I thought then that if ever the lord was going to reveal itself to me, it would be here and not some gaudy evangelist church.

The Lord declined, but if he is ever to visit I should like it to be on the loo.

*I was 18 at the time, she was probably about the age I am now.

When Michael first mentioned a trip to ‘The Cabin’, Carol unavoidably has a vision of the little corner shop, owned for many years by Rita Fairclough, and one of the key locations in Coronation Street. Carol had been momentarily bowled over by a wave of nostalgia which, fortunately, she had managed to keep to herself. It wouldn’t have set the right tone in the context of a return to dating in her late fifties.

Her kids, though generally supportive, had warned her and backed it up with toe-curling examples both from their own adventures.

Alan, the actuary, had unfortunately been all too keen to explain in some detail what an actuary ‘actually’ did. Hilarious. Will, more promising on the face of it, described himself as working in film and television, which sadly turned out to mean that he conducted the studio tours for the Welsh soap opera, Pobol Y Cwm. He was well versed on every plot nuance for the last forty years.

Now Michael. Quite a hearty outdoors type, but she enjoyed the walks that they had done together and now he seemed to want to take it to another level. Why not she thought? Perhaps there would be a chance to see what lay beneath the impressive collection of gilets?

The Cabin was nothing fancy warned Michael, but it was very peaceful. It had been in his family for a long time and they had gradually equipped it for off-grid living. Getting there involved parking in a forestry commission car park and trekking just over a mile. They could collect firewood on the way. All in all, it had a certain appeal and they settled on a weekend in early October when the leaves would be turning nicely.

The ‘trek’ wasn’t a great start. Not Michael’s fault but the undergrowth through which the path had to pass had been allowed to grow very dense by the uncooperative landowners. When they arrived at the cabin it was getting dark and the view wasn’t readily apparent. Inside it smelt of, well, onion.

Courteously Michael suggested she went and ‘freshened up’ which he got a few things ready. Carol wondered whether she’d find the path in the dark but decided to go along with it for now. She lay on the bed for a bit and fell asleep.

When she woke up she could hear music. Brahms? She got up quickly, realizing that she had been quite rude and when she entered the main room of the cabin she nearly burst into tears. Not only was the soothing music playing on some portable device that Michael had rigged up, but the small table had lit candles flickering in the pitch black and the smell on onion had been replaced by something so delicious that Carol’s stomach rumbled. A fire in the wood burner gave off a lovely glow. The gilet had been replaced by a really quite nice cashmere sweater.

‘You must have been tired,’ said Michael. ‘I hope you’re hungry, I think I may have made too much.’

When Jeff had died, she hadn’t really thought she could have those kinds of feelings anymore. Michael passed her a glass of wine and she sat back with a small sigh. Early days…

Samuel reloaded his magazine-fed box cutter, the razor sharp blade locking into place with a satisfying ‘thunk’. Confident the 'magazine' feature would give him an edge in a survival situation, he holstered his box cutter, and prodded his paunch absentmindedly.

His dress was nondescript, practical, a gray man walking amongst sheep, ready to take action. Dull khakis, slate hoodie, and gray cap, his look modeled on characters like Reacher, strong, masculine men with morals, will and courage, none of which he had ever needed to show from his cubicle back in Milton Keynes.

He stretched and sipped his mug of coffee, surveying the camp ground. It was… adequate.

His wife Beatrice did not share his ‘predilection’, "Why did you even bring that thing?"

Slicing open a packet of jerky, Samuel reloaded the box cutter again, replacing the 'spent' magazine back into its dedicated pouch. He only had two, and he wasn’t wasting a perfectly good blade. "You wouldn't understand, Bunny." His voice denoted a past shrouded in darkness, and not one spent in Buckinghamshire, adding "It's a survival thing."

Beatrice groaned, but refrained from commenting, instead placing another blooming onion into the sizzling pan, batter and water spitting.

Samuel did not possess a serious voice. His was slightly squeaky, borderline meek, the voice of a methodical, boring man. It was strangely melodic, fitting for the accountant Beatrice married.

They had been trekking for the better part of a day, erecting camp in a small clearing in the safest parts of the Cotswolds, on a managed camping site. Around them similar men in dissimilar outfits, shorts and shirts mostly, milled about playing with their offspring. Beatrice had paid extra to have access to warm showers and a morning buffet, both of which bothered Samuel. It didn't feel right spending time in a managed forest, gathering pre-chopped firewood, and sitting at the dedicated fire-pit.

He briefly wondered what Bunny would think of hiking the Appalachian Trail, living off the land and, of course, evading professional killers. Then he reloaded his box cutter again.

This was their life, they had chosen it. Predictable and boring and that was fine, even if Samuel was a bit of a bore, and Beatrice wasn't a fan of adventure.

She smiled at him, she knew every part of him.

He smiled back, glad she didn't know everything.

Without warning, a sleep craft descended from the clouds, all high tech lines and bristling with pointy bits. Beatrice shrieked, but Samuel barely took notice. Stenciled along the cockpit edge in neat geometric letters was ‘The Cabin’ .

Samuel stood and muttered, “No more secrets, Bunny.”

“SECRETS?” Beatrice didn't know any secrets.

A panel slid back, and a man in a nondescript suit sporting a paunch, stepped out. He looked like an accountant. Bored eyes stared over the rims of thin metal spectacles, “Samuel, there is a situation brewing in the South China Sea. Have you decided?”

Samuel calmly reloaded his box cutter, stood, and kissed his bewildered wife like he had never kissed her before, “Stay safe, Bunny. The world needs me.”

The Cabin sat nestled in Comfort Close, a cul-de-sac of insignificance, municipally sanctioned and privately developed, ubiquitous at the time that was 1950s Britain. Smartly dressed dormer bungalows with generous frontage and lovely rears, decorated porches, and beaming driveway smiles, paving the bright future ahead.

Trekking around Comfort Close, each tightly packed home was well tendered and manicured, individual but the same as the next. If you stopped for a moment, you could just make out the bickering of tired children and the pondering of elderly folk asking whatever happened to May. As the evening light dimmed there was just enough time for tea and toast and puckered lips for kiss goodnights.

‘Watch that hot milk doesn’t boil over,’ said a maternal voice.

‘Did you get firewood at the petrol station?’ said another.

‘Oh onion! I darn forgot…’

The contrast to this normal routine of activity was by way of The Cabin. It stood unmoored in the dip of the estate, with a weakened pulse and barely visible in the half-light, self-consciously wrapped in a shawl of night.

At the bedroom window, Raymond stood and glanced out towards the treetops through the single glazing. He thought those trees were trying to tell him something. He also felt a slight unnerving presence in the house. The background rustling and scurrying did not faze him as he knew this was from his furry friends, which provided him with some company at least. The other presence was more like a portent.

He shuffled tentatively to the top of his stairs, swaying like a second-hand wardrobe and with a face like a ripped bus seat. He felty dizzy, thirsty and if he was being honest, frightened.

As he fumbled to reach the landing light switch, he immediately lost his balance and down he tumbled, spinning through a thicket of clutter and finally coming to rest at the foot of the stairs. This was evident from the cracked newel post and the throbbing in his head.

‘We need to get him outside,’ said the trees.

‘My name is Raymond, have you come to rescue me?’ said Raymond feebly.

‘Not much longer’ they confirmed, ‘we will soon have you out of there’.

The trees started talking amongst themselves and then swayed, stretched, and bowed as if in some kind of reverence, to shield him from the rain.

‘How long had you been at the foot of the stairs?’ asked the trees, sounding concerned.

It was not an easy question for Raymond to answer so he remained silent. Once he was a bridge builder but now nature was straddling his home. It had led over time and without realisation to him creating a cocoon of usable space in his bedroom.

A sense of relief washed over him, and the chronic shame seemed to ebb away as the ambulance door clunked weightily shut behind him.

‘We did all we could’ said the trees convincingly to themselves.

‘Put the kettle on Ma, I’m parched’ said Raymond bluntly.