By Nick Holdstock

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

Something about dusk that night made me think of Christmas. Without light pollution our sky shifted smoothly from deep blue to black. The first stars emerged quickly. Walking between the huts, looking at the yellow and orange squares of windows, the cold pushing through my clothing, made me want to hang coloured lights from the eaves, dust everything with snow. It was the time of year when Tomasz would appear with a tree whose provenance we had given up questioning.

Although we could have found ways to celebrate the season, most of us didn’t bother. None of those rituals made sense any more. A few years ago Dr Nilsson got Bob to organise a carol concert, even found us a tree for the square, but as soon as the singing began the Gnostics started screaming and wouldn’t stop. Later they burnt the tree.

Since no one else had mentioned the anniversary I assumed that our weekly gathering at Rustam’s house was going to be the usual bacchanal. If your organs are likely to fail or become cancerous at short notice, there’s no reason not to overdo things. What made these parties possible was the very generous alcohol allowance we received from the authorities. The wide range of different conditions among us meant there were plenty of drugs to go round. Through trial and error we managed to create a lot of states that were more interesting than simple drunkenness, and so far no one had died.

But although many of us acted like we were having a second youth, it was technically my first time around. At university I’d been too busy drowning in German Romanticism – and too shy – to have any fun. In Rosa Khutor, my first camp, there had been a strict no alcohol policy, but since I’d come to Zaqatala I’d given my liver an education. I’d woken up naked in strange places: several times on the roof of my hut, and six months before that tied to a section of fence. Sexual life was much simpler. If you wanted someone, you just asked. And while people might still say no, that didn’t happen often. You didn’t have to like them. Even if you weren’t attracted to someone, it would be a new experience.

About the author

Nick Holdstock is the author of The Casualties (2015), a novel, and two books of non-fiction, The Tree That Bleeds (2011) and China's Forgotten People (2015).

He lives in Edinburgh. Quarantine is published by Swift Press, £14.99