Star Shot by Mary-Ann Constantine

doesn’t worry her, and she is thinking quite phlegmatically that she could always retrace her steps and catch the next available train back when the path comes up against a stone wall. The light is very dim by now but she can see how massive the blocks are, and that they curve round; she can’t make out how high they might go. There is a single low arched opening, like the entrance to a tunnel, through which she can see only dark.
    She doesn’t need to stoop, but does anyway. Her hands guide her through the vaulted archway, down some stone steps, three, four, five, and then she is on a circular terrace looking down on an enclosure, a shallow pit. There is an odour of straw and animals but what catches her breath is fresh air: she looks up to see stars, a million bright stars opening out above her in the night sky. She smiles, and as her eyes adjust to the new light, looks down.
    On the floor of the pit a large figure is lying asleep. She can hear it breathing, and is curious enough to want to get closer. A zig-zag path leads her down into the enclosure. The figure is lying on a pile of straw and rags and as she moves quietly towards it she can see it is a man, or something like a man, naked and half-curled, his bull’s head resting on one big arm. She is standing very close now and looks down on him, fast asleep, profoundly peaceful, and sees with fascination how at the nape of his neck, where the heavy animal head joins the big man’s body, his dark hair is slightly tinged with grey. She stoops over and strokes him very gently. He moves, but doesn’t wake.
    Feeling suddenly exhausted by her long, long walk, and a little chilled in the starlight, she crouches down on the straw next to him and pushes herself into the space made by his curved warm body. Then she closes her eyes. The creature’s big arm moves instinctively across her waist, and pulls her in tighter towards him.

    39.
    I tried a couple of days ago, she says, but I couldn’t get through, I turned back. Stupid.
    What happened? he asks.
    Grief, she says. Loss. Hopeless. It didn’t seem to matter any more, and then I didn’t think about it at all until this morning. Then I saw you.
    It’s not just you, he says, don’t worry. I’ve watched dozens of people turn back like that. The woman I know in Natural History says visitor numbers have been dreadful, and Dan says the university has set up some kind of cctv to record what happens. They interview people. They’ll be after you, you watch.
    She smiles. It didn’t work, then, the Parade?
    Apparently not. Come on, I’m here now, and going in anyway. I’ll help you through.
    He gives her his arm, and they climb the steps quickly. As they get nearer the top he puts his arm right around her shoulder and hurries her through. He doesn’t let her go until they are in the main hall, under the echoing dome. He watches her look up, and around her, astonished.
    I haven’t been anywhere like this for a long time, she says. A long time. It’s incredible.
    Would you like some tea? he asks. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I’m expected. Or would you like me to show you the Blaschkas? Are you OK for time?
    She nods and smiles. Early shift, she says. I’m finished for the day now. Tea would be good. Then I will explore all this. She makes a big gesture.
    He laughs. Come on then.
    She doesn’t tell him that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast at the hostel, many hours ago now; that the money for her cheese roll went on the lemons, carefully chosen and amicably haggled for at the corner shop. But she lets him buy her a thick slice of lemon cake, with almonds, and as the girl at the counter puts it onto a white plate she thinks of the three bright lemons left in a white hospital bowl this morning next to the sleeping girl. She imagines her waking.
    They talk about their work, going almost straight into the finest details, discovering with