Many of the guests hurry in that direction, eager for some light relief. The Irish band begin to play again in the dance tent – a rousing ditty to restore the spirit of celebration. A forlorn pair of silver sandals peeks from beneath a tablecloth. Bottles of champagne cluster on every surface, testament to an evening of toasts and celebrations. In the main dining section, clots of wine spatter the laminate floor, a crimson stain spreads across white linen. The scene illuminated in the marquee’s three adjoining tents should be one of celebration, but it looks more likeone of devastation. They almost manage to convince themselves that they weren’t frightened. They’re embarrassed now about how the lights find them: crouched as though ready to fend off an attack. As though anything could be happening beneath its cover.įinally, the bulbs flicker back on. This darkness feels somehow ominous, intent.
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