Paula Hillman, author

About six months ago, I planned and started what I thought would become novel number seven. I wrote two chapters, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t say why. Instead, I planned and started on a different idea. That one has morphed into novel number seven, and is two-thirds written. The unwritten novel was titled Devil’s Crag, and once again, was going to be based on a local place (though the name was made up). Have a read of the prologue and see if you can work out where it is!

Devil’s Crag

Prologue

Out at the edge of town, a roll of low fells loom. They are emerald-green, their smooth lines interrupted here and there by craggy sandstone and claggy pink screes. Etched into one of these is the outline of a face. It must be viewed from the foot of the crags, where the road runs by. Only then is it possible to see the pointed frown and tiny black eyes, the gaping mouth and nipped-in chin. And the horns. Local people have named it as the devil. It leers down as they pass, framed by a vivid froth of gorse flowers. The screes can be dangerous, with their tumble of rocks and sliding mud. Barbed wire has been strung about to give a clear message: walking the crags is forbidden.

           It is high summer, and a lone cyclist speeds along the road. The morning is full of hazy quiet, softly scented and warm. Pollen drifts. The car is still there, abandoned in a narrow lay-by. The cyclist noticed it on yesterday’s homeward journey, and it hasn’t moved. Against the pastel green-and-cream of the hedgerow cow-parsley, the car’s red body-work jangles. The cyclist pulls up, leans her hand against the roof and wonders. On the back seat lays a box of tissues, half-used. The doors are locked. She peers up at the crags. There is nothing to be done, and she must hurry to work. Her doctor says she should avoid stress at all costs; no point cycling to keep her heart healthy then poking into someone else’s troubles.

           Thoughts of the car are likely to simmer in the back of her mind as she works, but the cyclist is resolute: if the car hasn’t moved by the end of the day, she will take note of its number plate and make a call to the police non-emergency line.