Walking home in the dark

It’s late at night. I’m walking home. Ahead, the twin clumps of gorse marking the track to our cottage. It will be black as pitch, but I have walked it times out of mind, in all weathers and at all hours. The door won’t be locked and the dogs won’t bark. They know my footstep. But wait – someone is walking ahead of me. What’s he doing here at this time of night? I don’t want to catch up with him. I slow down. He slows down. I feel my scalp tingle. I stop. He stops, swings round. ’Oh, Christ!’ he says, ‘Oh, it’s a woman!’ I see him clearly now. A soldier. ‘There’s no bloody street lights!’ he squeaks, ‘It’s so bloody dark! Is it far to the camp, do you know? ‘No,’ I say.’ Just keep straight on.’ ‘Ta,’ he says. He walks on, turns back. ‘You OK, Miss? Want me to walk with you?’ ‘I’m fine, thanks. I live here.’ ‘Bloody ‘ell,’ he mutters, before slouching off. I wait until he’s out of sight, slightly unnerved by this encounter with a stranger, although I’m pretty sure he won’t be following me down the track, into the darker dark of the overhanging trees.