 Hull's Story Quest audiobooks presents Wintman by Alex Walters, narrated by Fraser Blacksland, February 1947. The sound of the rain woke him again. He lay for a long time, his eyes open, staring into the darkness, listening to the sounds, the rhythmic beating on the roof, the clattering of spray against the window, the roar of water along the gutters spewing into the downspouts, endless noise, and his body held as if in chains. He struggled towards full consciousness, a deep-water swimmer struggling towards the light. Then he twisted in the large double bed his mind suddenly free of constraint. His limbs tangled in the blankets and eyed down. He felt the chill of the bedroom on his exposed face and hands. There was silence. No sound of rain, no sound at all. He pulled himself to a sitting position, conscious of the emptiness of the bed. The room was cold and he shivered, even in his thick flannel pyjamas. He put his bare feet to the hard wooden floor and reached for the dressing-gown, which, as always, he had left draped across one of the bed-posts. He could hear nothing but his own breathing, and, as he rose, the soft pass of his footsteps on the polished floorboards. The room was pitch-black, and he realised how well he knew it. He could find his way blindly through the maze of heavy-wooden furniture. The bed itself, the wardrobe, the dressing-table, the chest by the window, his old room. He considered switching on the light, but fell more comfortable in the darkness. Walking blind he could pretend everything was the same, that nothing had changed. He made his way to the window, his bare feet, feeling the textures of the wood, the thick bedside rug, the inner matting by the bedroom wall—everything as he remembered. For a moment he was confused by the position of the wooden chest. He stumbled over its solid bulk, scraping his shin. Someone must have moved it, he thought. Then he recalled he had moved it himself, to prop open the door while airing the house. He pulled back the heavy-floor-length curtain, feeling a blast of icy air on his face. The window was clouded, and as he reached out to wipe the pain he saw it was coated inside with a thin film of ice. He rubbed at the glass and peered into the night, long past midnight. Outside the darkness was not quite complete. There was a sliver of moon riding above billowing dark clouds, a scattering of stars. Below him the landscape stretched away, flat fields and fennelins.