The chalet nestled beneath a high dune. Other chalets, dotted here and there, hugged the perimeter of the bay. A paint starved door swung in a light breeeze and, as a cloud passed across an April sun, a sudden strong gust blew it shut with a bang.

Sadie lifted her gaze up to a bleached asbestos roof where a small chimney jutted out like a comical hat. Staring at the jib blackened by many fires, she half-expected to see smoke rise up into the sky.

'Damn!' The harshness of het tone broke hours of silence. She turned, facing a frisky sea, running nicotine-stained fingers through, thick, prematurely greying hair wishing, as she raked through those curls, that she had'nt come back.

Stirring, she clambered up onto bare feet and looked down with sad resignation at the density of her thighs. The long, white shirt she wore over denims did nothing to hide her heavy breasts and rolls of fat.

Slender hands, the best part of her, patted a rotund stomach in a pernicious ritual of self-loathing; a loathing that kept emotional ties at bay.

Slowly, Sadie walked away from the chalet down towards the sea and, as she walked, she remembered him telling her, 'Salt is a good healer.' How he loved to spout words of wisdom as if they were his own thoughts and wisdom, but those words of his had always left her cold and empty.

Soon cool water lapped around her puffed ankles. Wispy clouds skittered across the sky and watching those clouds, Sadie's tension eased. Suddenly, a shout had her spinning around but, at the sight of a child flying a kite, her heart settled down to its natural beat.

Shivering as if a cold hand had touched her, she looked to the horizon where grey clouds tumbled after white. The sun, minutes before, a golden orb, now struggled to send its rays above the advancing turbulence and, with reluctance, she left the water's edge.

Arriving back at the chalet, she poised like an interloper in the doorway. Years ago, overstuffed chairs had been adorned with vibrant throws. Colourful rugs, bought in Turkey, were scattered over linoleum. Her father had called the look, Bohemian. Sadie had thought the effect tatty.

'You've no taste,' he used to say to her. 'Now my Bethan has taste, haven't you sweetie?'

And her younger sister, with blonde curls and freckled cheeks, would gaze up at their father as if he was God himself. Bethan, quiet and even-tempered, who loved painting and making models from sea shells, basked in his adoration.

But Sadie, remembering those times, didn't harbour any resentment towards her beautiful little sister but she remembered how she despised the flattery and pathetic fawning her sister engendered from the women in their father's life.

'Doesn't your Bethan look like a Pear's child?' some would say.

And, aware of his own good looks, he would respond, 'Bethan takes after her father, don't you sweetie?' Then the flatterers would fall silent while assessing Sadie and he would say, 'Sadie takes after my late wife.'

By his tone, he achieved sympathy. But none knew the truth. Pride stopped him from admitting that the woman he called, 'The Bitch,' to his children had fled from his bullying and constant womanising.

Stepping further into the chalet, Sadie's gaze drifted to an off-white, roughly rendered wall and the brown tiled fireplace draped in a tangle of cobwebs. Beside the fireplace stood a cupboard, its red paint flaking like obscene lumps of bloodied dandruff.

Moving over to it, she opened the door, peering into its cluttered, dusty depth. Reaching inside, she took out a multi-coloured ball, trying to recall when she and her small sister had last played with it.

Suddenly, she let out a yelp when a black spider scurried up her sleeve. Whimpering, she shook the creature off and, as she did so, the ball fell from her grasp, bouncing across the floor, stopping against a lobster pot.

Closing her eyes, Sadie allowed her panic to subside. Then a memeory nudged the edges of her mind. Claws waved at her in a silent appeal to be saved.

A large saucepan steamed on the stove. Even now, she could recall the lobster's sibilant hiss and her father's laughter following her out of the chalet, down onto the beach.

'Stupid child,' he'd said on her return, hours later, but she didn't respond to his condemnation. All she could see on her father's plate were the remains of Janus, her pet lobster.

'Stop it!' Sadie cried out, shivering at the memory but the answering silence brought only the sting of tears.

The chalet door banged shut, making her jump. Then it swung open again and she saw the gathering greyness, outside. Waves, which earlier had been playful, now glittered pewter. White foam spewed onto the shore.Sand swirled across her vision.

Slamming the door shut, Sadie leaned against it, felt wood buffet her body as if being pushed by an unseen hand. Bolting the door, her gaze went to the armchair where earlier in the day, she'd thrown her rucksack.

Stepping over, she unzipped the rucksack and took out a battered tobacco tin and matches. Sinking down onto the armchair, she rolled a cigarette. Lighting it, drawing in a lungful of smoke, plunging her free hand back into the rucksack, she took out a cheap bottle of red wine.

Unscrewing the cap, she took a swig of its vinegary taste, surveying the room and its two doors leading off to the only bedroom and tiny kitchenette.

'So!' She raised the bottle aloft. 'This bloody shack is all mine!' She laughed a harsh laugh at the thought.

Screwing up her eyes against the growing gloom, Sadie put the bottle down onto the floor and getting up, stepped over to the cupboard. Stooping, scanning shelves, she found three candles and carried them back to the chair.

Lighting each wick, letting hot wax dribble onto the Formica surface of the coffee table, pressing the candles into the wax, she watched the room lighten and flicker benevolent shadows across thin walls.

Outside the chalet, the wind had gathered speed. Inside, cobwebs danced. Sadie drank more wine, striving to ease knots of tension churning in her stomach.

'Did Mummy love us?' she remembers Bethan asking her on many occasions.

'Of course she did,' Sadie would reassure her.

'Will you find her for me?' she'd constantly ask. Sadie promised she would.

On the coffe table lay a photograph album she'd found earlier. Lifting it up, Sadie willed herself to open
it.

'Come on, make a bloody effort,' she could almost hear her father shout as they posed for photographs.
Sadie, tall and gangly,gazed back unsmiling but Bethan, always dressed in flowery frocks,usually beamed into the camera.

One by one, Sadie looked at pages of memories and on reaching the last page, she groaned. Bethan at the age of eighteen, stood beside their father, smiling. But that smile seemed distorted, as if her mind was elsewhere.

Days later, Bethan, always afraid of the dark, had walked, one cold winter's night, into a tunnel and into the path of an oncoming Inter City Train.

Standing by the graveside, Sadie had met her father's cold gaze. After the funeral, she returned to her one bed-room flat and her father went home to his spacious bungalow to live with his memories of Bethan.

Now, after his suicide, five years later, the chalet is hers, a legacy she did not want or need. The bungalow had been sold off, all proceeds bequeathed to numerous charities.

'Damn you, you bastard!' Sadie's howl of rage rose above the sound of the gale, outside.

The chalet door blasted open, as if in answer to her condemnation, wrenching the flimsy bolt from its hinges. Spinning around, half-expecting her father to stride into the room, Sadie staggered back against the coffee table. A candle wobbled and fell to the floor. A flame snaked out, licking at fringes of the armchair, sending darts of fire under and into the stuffed insides.

Fascinated, she watched the flames engulf faded draylon. The chalet shook, a gusty breath touching her cheeks like an invigorating caress, Stepping over to the door, Sadie lifted her face to the wind and sea spray.

'Fire is a cleanser,' she remembered him saying as they piled rotten wood onto a bonfire.

'Salt is a healer,' she recalled him telling her sister as he bathed a cut on her knee.

FIRE. SALT. The words, his words seemed to be imprinted in large letters in her mind where they dipped and dived in rainbow colours.

FIRE. SALT. They swerved and spun outwards as she walked down over pebbles towards the sea heaving like black treacle.

FIRE. SALT. His words plunged into icy water that buffetted her bare legs, leaping up to her thighs.

Raising her arms above her head, she watched the chalet burn to the ground and, only when flames had died did Sadie let her arms drop to her sides,her mind and body now cleansed and healed.