“Look what I found, Daddy!” The kitten’s fur feels soft, like down, under my fingers. Euphemia’s face is aglow with excitement. I don’t know what breaks my heart more: that one glance tells me the kitten is dying, or that I cannot keep this precious smile on our daughter’s lips. You always told me I couldn’t help but try to save the world. It hurts every time, realising I won’t be able to.

“Where did you find it?” I ask Euphemia. Wrong question. She hesitates, just for a second. Six years old and already contemplating the benefits of a lie—she got thatfrom you. I can see the precise moment she decides risking to tell me the truth.

“The docks,” she mumbles. My frown makes her hunch her shoulders and pout—she knows she’s done something wrong, but not quite wrong enough to be punished for it. I almost yell at her anyway. The docks are overflowing with contaminants and pollution and might worsen her cough; but then, everything might worsen her cough and she will only reply that you live there and that’s the end of the discussion. I can’t forbid Euphemia from visiting her mother. I wipe my eyes to stop myself from scowling. Euphemia watches me carefully, the kitten pressed against her chest. It’s a grey, scrawny thing, all paws and huge, mucus-encrusted eyes, trembling faintly in her hands. I cannot tell if it does so out of shock or cold or a pathetic attempt at purring.

“Sweetheart.” I sigh, making my voice as soft as it will go, then go down on one knee for good measure. “The kitten is very sick. You know it’s going to die.” My tone catches Euphemia by surprise. Her face waxes like the sky, clear one moment, then full of gathering clouds. The desperation in her eyes is like a knife slicing my heart into pieces. I wish I could take the kitten away quietly, make her forget she ever found it.

“No,” Euphemia says loudly, as if saying things loudly enough will make them come true. She resembles you so thoroughly it hurts to look at her. “It can’t. You can’t let it, Daddy! It’s so small and soft and…” She runs out of arguments and her eyes start filling with tears. It’s a horrible thing, to feel so helpless. I wish I could do something, anything. I wish I could bring the kitten to a vet and spend a stupid amount of money and resources to make it live, like my parents would have. I wish a lot of things. A knock at the door saves me from answering and I’m stupidly glad about it.

It’s Agnes, my colleague, face flushed with agitation and waving her phone. “Emergency call. We got a spill.”

I throw a glance at Euphemia, who has used my distraction to retreat into a corner, as if I might start taking the kitten from her any moment. I grab my coat. “You okay on your own, sweetheart?” It’s Sunday afternoon, no school, and she’s a big girl.

Euphemia nods and pets the kitten. I close my eyes for a second before I give in.

“If you really want to keep the kitten…” Euphemia’s eyes widen with hope. “But you have to promise to take care of it. Even if it’s sick. Even if it doesn’t want to be petted.” I know this is going to end horribly, in tears and despair, but I don’t know how to avert this disaster. “Just… I don’t… Just don’t expect it to live very long.”

Euphemia nods gravely as I hurry to join Agnes. Of course, she’ll utterly ignore my advice. By the time I return home the kitten will already be sleeping on her pillow, it will have food and a blanket and a name. A very fitting name at that, grey and insubstantial like the kitten itself. She’ll call it Fog.

---

Spill is a bit of an exaggeration. What we have are two unlucky fishermen, the beaten-up engine of their dingy leaking petrol. The younger of the two, broad-shouldered, sweating in the heat and with a brutish twist to his mouth, spits in the water as we draw near. We’re not popular, in general.

“Office for environmental protection,” Agnes barks, trying to glower them into submission. I still marvel at how righteous she manages to sound, as if there’s no place in her mind for doubt. Reminds me of you, when we were younger. For Agnes everything is black or white, right or wrong. We’re the good ones, they’re the bad ones. I don’t know where she managed to scavenge ideals in this world of ours.

The coast guard boat that gave us notice stays in the background. It’s one of these sleek new vessels with nothing but a sail to manoeuvre with. Our boat is smaller, lighter, with an electric engine and a coast-guard skipper to steer it, but she, too, tries to stay as inconspicuous as possible. All the coast-guards always do. I can’t quite tell if it’s a ploy to earn the fishermen’s trust, keeping their distance from us, or if they simply dislike the OEP as well.

“We didn’t do nothing.” Brutish spits again, resulting in a disgusting blob of phlegm floating on the water. I spot smears of blood and fish guts staining the inside of their dingy, belying his words, but of course they dumped their catch at first sight of the coast guard. They kept their rods, though. Good fishing rods are hard to come by.

“You are outside of sanctioned fishing grounds.” A part of me hates myself for sounding so damn posh. Another part of me hates the fishermen for being so damn stupid. It’s not that they’re not allowed to fish here because of protected species, we’re way past that. The fish are toxic. Micro-plastic pollution, mingled with heavy metals and pesticides and the fish gobble it all up as if it was plankton. By now, the toxicity levels are bad enough to triple your risk for cancer, and probably sterilize you for good.

“Didn’t do no fishing,” the other one, grizzly and weather-beaten, replies. Sweat pools in the creases around his eyes. Stubborn. Agnes scoffs, wrinkling her nose over the obvious stench of fish guts. “Nah, you just came out here for a stroll in the park.”

“We can go wherever we damn like,” Brutish says. I don’t much like the look of him, the way he eyes Agnes as if her giving orders is a personal affront to his manliness.

I’m almost glad for the heavy weight of the gun at my side; as if I hadn’t been the one protesting loudest when the office made them mandatory. I don’t like being armed. I’m clumsy and insecure even at the shooting range, never mind a real fight. But as I said: we’re not popular. It took our society until after the world was ruined to realise that ruining the world might have been a crime. Some people still can’t accept it.

I point at the fishermen’s wrecked engine. An iridescent carpet of petrol dances over the waves, slowly stretching its tendrils in all directions. The engine looks like a DIY project, rusty and about to fall apart. I’m surprised they made it this far out.

“Grade three fuel spill. And I doubt the manufacturer can be held liable. That’s a fine and a first warning.” My words drift over the water into sullen silence. For a second, I think Brutish will cause trouble, but he’s smarter than I gave him credit for because he glances at the waiting coast-guard boat and changes his mind. His buddy merely blanches and I try, without success, not to feel sorry for him. You used to tell me I’m shit at my job—too much compassion, too many scruples—because there’s never just black and white, only infinite shades of grey. If I’m honest with myself, I know the fishermen know their catch is toxic, how could they not? But they fish anyway, because there aren’t enough jobs and not enough food and not enough hope going around. Dying later and living today, your motto stuck in my head.

“IDs, please,” I remind them. Brutish reluctantly holds out his wrist to be scanned, but the old fisherman surprises us all by producing an old-fashioned paper passport, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. He actually looks guilty when I wave the coast-guard boat over and they start deploying the small boom and the skimmers to soak up the fuel. It’s always the old ones who feel guilty, the ones who still remember the world could have been different if enough of us had actually cared.

On our way back to harbour, we spot the first dead fish.

Bringing up the basket was arduous work, bringing calluses to the hands and aches to the back. The wheel was stiff, unyielding, and on her own Anne wouldn’t have been able to turn it–but she had her shadow to help her.

She held one handle, her shadow held the other, and together they turned, turned, turned. Slowly, slowly, out of the mist, its long thick chain creaking, came the basket.

Hopping down onto the outcropping, liking the way the mist swirled around her feet, Anne grasped the thick rim of the basket and hauled it onto land. There was raw wool in the basket for carding, and a clay pot of flour, and a still dancing fish, as well as the usuals. A good basket, Anne decided. Yesterday had been an acceptable basket. The day before had been good. Seven days ago the basket had been bad. Today it was good.

Together with her shadow she unpacked the basket before kicking and pushing it back over the edge. They turned the crank and the chain went chung chung chung chung and away it went, plunging down into the mist, out of sight. The chain wobbled, snapped, and was still.

The fish had stopped dancing. That was good. She hadn’t relished the thought of killing it.

Anne put aside the flour and the wood in the old lean to they called the old fisherman’s hut and carried the fish and other perishables down the slope to the village. Their valley was shaped like a shallow bowl; all paths led up to the cliffside, to the baskets, or down to the village, which was a light and easy walk.

She ran the last leg, bare feet slapping on the ground, ready to the show the others the fish. They all agreed it was an excellent fish, with enough meat on it to feed half the village for a night, and all agreed that Anne had the best basket of the day.

The next day, which was Tuesday, she had an ordinary basket; the day after that, which was Tuesday also, her basket contained nothing but raw wool and an empty pot; the day after that she found lots of vegetables, some of which were purple; and the day after that, she found a girl.

Well, not really a girl. She was Anne’s age. But looking at her Anne thought girl, not woman. Perhaps it was her slight figure, like Maeve and Judith, not like Anne with her big breasts and thick arms. Perhaps it was the way she was dressed, the lacy shawl draped around her. Perhaps it was the way she was curled up in the basket like a baby.

“Well,” said Anne, hands on her formidable hips. “This is a pickle.”

Her shadow nodded its dark head.

“What am I to do with her?”

They brought up odd things in their baskets sometimes, still alive things and things no one had ever seen before but agreed were very interesting and useful. No one, to Anne’s knowledge, had ever brought up a girl. But there she was, curled up quite happily on a bed of wool, oblivious to the creaking of the chain and the drop down into the mist below.

“I can’t leave her here.”

Her shadow shook its head.

Together, they lifted the girl out of the basket and set her gently upon the springy grass. Her head lolled back. Her shadow was asleep too, tucked up beneath her like something had given it a fright.

Now what? She gave the girl a shake. She could pour water on her, she supposed, but that seemed unkind. Maybe it was best to let the girl sleep.

She could go down to the village and announce to all the women there ‘I found a girl in my basket this morning,’ and see what they said, but the thought made her uneasy. She supposed she’d always known – all of them had always known – that they couldn’t be the only people in the world, but it was one thing to know something was true and another thing to be confronted with such tangible and compelling proof.

Well, she certainly couldn’t leave the girl lying by the edge, where she might roll over in her sleep and fall. Together they carried the girl to the lean-to and there laid her down.

Anne took the wool, all wadded up, down to the village, where all agreed that she’d had a very bad basket that morning. Not to worry; she’d have a better basket tomorrow. Maude, on the other hand, had had a stupendous basket and they all sat down for a happy breakfast of bread and fruit.

Still wiping her hands on her apron she went back to the fisherman’s hut and found the girl still asleep. And so she sat beside her, and waited.

It was almost the middle of the day when at last the girl’s eyes opened. She looked around herself, gazing hazily at the ramshackle hut. She looked at Anne. She looked, and she looked, looking Anne up and down in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

The question took Anne wholly off guard. She’d never in her life met anyone who didn’t know who she was, just as she’d never met another she didn’t know. “I’m Anne, of course!” she said. “Who are you?”

“What is this place?” The girl squinted up at the rough ceiling, slitted here and there with sunlight.

“This is the old fisherman’s hut,” said Anne. “Do you have an old fisherman’s hut, where you’re from?”

“Do I – what?”

“I said, do you –”

“I heard what you said. I – I don’t understand.” Shakily, the girl began to stand and as she stood Anne was sure there was something strange about her – something she couldn’t put her finger on. “Who are you? How did I get here?”

“I’m Anne,” said Anne. “You came in the basket.”

“In the – basket?”

Perhaps, Anne thought, the girl was just very stupid. “Yes. I found you in my basket.” She took a step towards the girl, meaning to say something comforting, and her shadow stepped with her, stepping into a shaft of sunlight. There it stood, clear as day, hand outstretched as Anne’s was outstretched.

The girl looked at Anne’s shadow. Her eyes went wide, like a fish. She screamed.

And she bolted.

Anne had half a mind to let her run, for where could she run to? There was only the village. But then she remembered that the girl might be stupid, perhaps stupid enough to run clean over the cliff. “Wait!” she cried, and ran after her.

The girl hadn’t gone far. She was standing on the path, looking this way and that, at the way to the village, the way to the clifftop, each way screened by low trees.

“Mind the cliffs!” cried Anne.

“What?” said the girl.

And it was then that Anne realised what was so strange about her. The girl’s shadow was lying flat on the ground, as if she was asleep even though she was wide awake. It was flat – limp – dead. The sight of it appalled her. She clapped both hands to her mouth and stared, though she knew it was rude to stare.

“What is this place?” said the girl. “What is that?” She pointed a shaking finger at Anne’s shadow.

Anne’s shadow shrank back, stepping behind her, half out of sight. “That’s my shadow.”

The girl was shaking her head. “That isn’t right,” she said. “That – that’s horrid.”

Anne was beginning to understand, and behind her her shadow was quaking. The girl wasn’t stupid – not at all. It was just that, wherever she had come from in the basket, things were profoundly different and profoundly strange. Wherever she came from, everyone’s shadow was limp and flat and lay on the ground like it was dead.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, half to the girl, half to her poor shadow.

“Where does that go?” said the girl, pointing down the hill.

“To the village?”

“Are all the people there – like you?”

“They all have shadows,” Anne said.

“What’s that way?” The girl pointed up the rise.

“The clifftop,” said Anne. “There’s no one up there.”

“Right,” said the girl, and ran up the hill.

Anne lifted her skirt and jogged up after her, just in case she did fall. She found the girl standing near the cliff edge, staring down, down at the mist. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?”

“Oh, no!” said Anne. She thought about it. “Unless you usually dream when you’re awake.”

“Of course I don’t!” snapped the girl.

“That’s where I found you.” Anne pointed at the shifting chain.

“All the way down there?” said the girl. “Underneath the clouds?”

“Clouds?”

“The fog,” said the girl.

“Well, me and my shadow hauled the basket up first,” said Ane. Her shadow nodded, proud of its contribution.

The girl was staring down at the fog-sea. It was curious; Anne had seen people gaze out like that, out at the distance peaks of other hills, but never down. Why look down, unless you were bringing up a basket? There was nothing to see.

“But where is this? How did I get here?”

“You don’t have baskets where you come from,” said Anne, tentatively certain.

“Well, of course we have baskets!” snapped the girl. “But we don’t carry people in them.”

“Oh, neither do we!” said Anne. “This has never happened before.”

“But where am I?”

“This is our mountain,” said Anne.

“And you brought me here,” said the girl, “you brought me here – in the basket.” She was gibbering like someone waking up from a nightmare.

“Well, I didn’t bring you here,” said Anne. “I just hauled you up. Don’t know how.”

“Well, you can bloody well haul me back down!”

When Anne said nothing, she went to the crank and began to push and pull on it.

“You won’t shift it on your own.” Anne bit her lip. If only the girl had a shadow that could help her – though perhaps it was just as well she didn’t.

“I – can – try,” said the girl through gritted teeth. “If this is how – I came here – then I can – go back.”

Anne looked up at the clear blue sky, wondering what to do. Things didn’t get put in baskets, only taken out again; but then, girls didn’t usually come in baskets. Maybe this was all some mistake. Maybe she should send the girl back.

Resigned, she put her hands on the other side of the crank, and heaved.

With a long, sad rattle of chain, the basket rose, clunk, clunk, clunk, into view. It was odd, seeing it come up empty, empty, empty.

The girl wiped her brow and gave Anne a curious look. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Reaching out together with her shadow, Anne pulled the basket onto the grass. “I suppose you’d better hop in.”

The girl hung back, hugging herself. “And then what happens?”

“I’ve no idea!” said Anne, astonished that the girl thought she’d know. “This has never happened before.” She looked at the wicker bottom of the basket. “I suppose you get in – and I lower you down – and then you disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Well, back to where you came from,” said Anne.

“Alright,” said the girl. “Alright.” Resting her hands on the edge of the basket, she clambered in, tumbling with an oof and a fumble onto the hard wicker weave.

“Comfy?” said Anne.

The girl put her back to the wall of the basket. “As comfy as I’m getting. Lower me.”

“Are you sure?” said Anne. What if the basket tipped – what if she fell?

“I’ll take my chances,” said the girl. “Lower me!”

Anne gave the basket an almighty shove – and went to the crank – and turned. It was hard work and all the while she thought, wistfully, of that funny girl with her dead shadow, descending steadily away from the mountaintop, out of her life.