PARTIAL TRUTHS

In the bleary half-second after Clem woke up, she thought she was in her bedroom at home. Muted orange walls, a woven rug to cover the worn old carpet, faded vintage postcards holding the landscapes and mountains of Capel Urig and Snowdon, Penmaenmawr, The Three Sisters of Glencoe, Loch Lomond, Lago di Cavloccio, the Gemmi Pass, and the Great Saint Bernard Hospice nestled in the Pennine Alps. The last had always been her favourite: a tiny cluster of white buildings at the edge of a lake with the mountain crags rising behind it like jagged, snowcapped grey scales piercing the sky. She had never been to these places, only bought postcards from bookshops and filled her walls with them.

Clem had woken up to see the roof of her car. She was cramped up across the backseat, still fully-clothed in jeans and a jumper. Her old field jacket was draped over her shoulders, smelling of bonfire smoke and dappled with splatters of earthy clay. The drive had taken her five hours the night before, and she’d had the heaters blasting the whole time, but the warmth collected in the car had dissipated by morning. Clem leant into the front and pulled her thermos from the passenger seat footwell. Its contents were cold and a little silty with the dregs of coffee grounds, but she managed to get a few mouthfuls down. Out of the windows, all she could see were the trees on every side of the car and a grey stone toilet block. As her thoughts began to stitch themselves into cohesive, wakeful sense the reason for the trip filled her mind again. She pulled on her