The Queen of sinister

The night never ended.

All thoughts and fears, grief and desperation were purged from Caitlin as she lost herself in the constant round of mundane tasks necessary during the last few days: the sheet-changing, the bed-washing, the administration of what sparse painkillers she had to hand, but most of all the talking. She would sit at their bedsides for hours at a time, letting the words come from the depths of her mind and heart, a trance state in which she had no idea what she was saying. Part of it was a simple attempt to impose order on a situation that had none, a discussion of the mundane chores as if Grant and Liam were both up and about, just out of sight, ready to respond once they had finished whatever they were doing.

And she talked and talked so they wouldn't have the opportunity to respond; if they couldn't get a word in, there was still the possibility that they might. And at other times, she spoke of her love for them both, that deep, deep well of emotion that she hadn't visited for a long time, and which surprised her with the volume it contained.

And there was the tragedy, for it shouldn't have surprised her at all. She didn't know if they could hear her, didn't really know if it was for their benefit or her own, but she hoped and prayed, and talked.

And on the fourth day, they died. The first hour was one of utmost peace, a chrysalis state of numbness and nothing. Caitlin was gone; her life was over. Afterwards, she sat by Grant and thought of what had been lost, never to be regained; and then she sat by Liam and considered what might have been and now never would.

Then she retired to the kitchen and brewed herself a pot of the infusion they laughingly used to call tea as the thin light of a cold, grey dawn gradually leaked through the windows. Hunched over her mug, she saw Grant and Liam's shoes next to the back door, muddy from their last walk together as a family. The image hit her with an inexplicable power, and then she was sucked away in an uncontrollable torrent of grief that dashed her on the rocks of her own bitter sorrow. Shortly after noon, in a light rain with the clouds shimmering like silver, Caitlin took a spade into the garden they had all tended in the days before the Fall. At the end, underneath the gnarled oak where Liam had climbed and Grant had built a tree-house, she dug. The topsoil went down for two feet and then she hit the thick, yellow-grey clay, water-sodden and dense. Her muscles burned and her joints cracked and complained, yet she forced herself on, relishing the pain. The rain plastered her hair against her head, soaked through her clothes so completely that she felt as if she were wearing water.

Grant, holding her hand when the tiny, warm bundle of life was placed on her sweat-streaked chest, saying, 'We're in this together. You never have to stand alone again.' Holding her on New Year's Eve, watching the fireworks light the sky.

And when she had finished one hole, she started on the next, a smaller one. Liam, three years old, at Christmas, putting out a mince pie for Santa. Waking her up on her birthday with a present he'd wrapped himself and a home-made card. Kissing her cheek when he caught her crying… Three hours later, the job was done. She returned to the house in a dream, where nothing could touch her, and was content with that state. But the moment she attempted to lift Grant from the bed, she realised it was only transitory. His skin was cold and he didn't respond when she said his name; he would never answer. It looked like Grant, but it didn't feel like him, not warm, not loving, not laughing any more; it made no sense, and that only made things worse.

The tears came again, this time squeezing out silently to run into the corners of her mouth, where the saltiness made her feel sick. He was too heavy for her to carry. She fell twice, smashing his head against the bedside cabinet. His arms and legs wouldn't go where she wanted. With a tremendous effort, she managed to get him half on to her back, and then she dragged him from the room, crying out every time some part of him cracked against a door jamb or piece of furniture, as if he could still feel.

Outside, she slipped and dropped him on the wet lawn. After all her struggling, it was the last straw. She knelt down and sobbed as if it were the end of the world. But once those tears had gone, she began again, struggling to get him up, slipping and sliding in the mud of the churned-up turf, falling again, twisting her ankle. At one point his cheek rested gently against hers, and the rain running down his face made it feel as if he was crying, too. Her mind began to fracture into unconnected fragments of thoughts, so that it seemed as if time was no longer running correctly. She was on the grass with him, staring up at the clouds. She was at the end of the lawn with Grant hanging from her back. She was standing at the edge of the grave. She was looking down at Grant's jumbled body at the bottom of the hole, thinking, 'Why doesn't he get up? I'll never get the clay out of that shirt.'

And then she went back for Liam, and he was easier to carry. But at the grave, she couldn't bear to drop him in. She hugged him to her breast, kissing him repeatedly, and she would have stayed there for ever if the universe hadn't told her what needed to be done.

The edge of the grave crumbled and they tumbled into the hole together, crashing into the pool of muddy water at the bottom with a great splash that filled her mouth and nostrils. The clay covered her from head to foot so that she resembled some wild prehistoric woman. And still she held Liam, his body so small, his clothes soaked, and she prayed that she would feel some warmth, that the world would turn back, that everything would fall apart and drift away.

She stayed there, while water puddled in the bottom and slowly worked its way up her legs, as the barely light day faded and darkness crept in from the east. Her thoughts continued to shred. Nothing was worse than what she had endured. The rest of the human race could all die, scythed down by the plague; she didn't care. Nothing was important any more. It should all come to a stop. Fragments… At some point, when the night was riven by lightning, she crawled out and found the spade. Every time she thought she'd endured the worst, something even more terrible would rise up. Seeing the first shovelful fall on them broke her into even smaller pieces. It was her husband and son and she was sealing them beneath the earth. The soil landed with a hollow thud on an unmoving chest. She waited for a complaint — 'Mummy, what are you doing?' — but none came. Lying on the wet, packed mud, the rain splattering over her, taking everything away. Another crack of lightning, dragging her from the nothing. A strange sensation: weight on her chest. Opening her eyes so that the rain sloughed off from where it had settled in the hollows. A large hooded crow, oddly familiar, sat on her breastbone, its beady black eyes glimmering only inches from her face. Talons dug into her skin. The blue- black beak was long and cruel. Did it think she was dead? Was it searching for carrion? It only had to lean forward to peck out her eyes.

But instead of attacking, it only watched. Was she dreaming?

It shuffled back and pecked her chest, not so hard that it hurt, or perhaps she was just too numb to feel. Only it didn't stop; the pecks continued rhythmically, as if it were trying to crack her open. It was so large, that the weight of it was making it difficult for her to breathe. She should wave it away, only there was no point.

She closed her eyes, drifting into the rainfall once again. Mary had a bad feeling. For three days, the cards had hinted at something dark: an ending, or a new beginning — both the same as far as the universe was concerned. She wished she could get whatever powers she was tapping into to see things from the low-down human perspective once or twice: they might look the same, but they certainly didn't feel the same.

She'd tried scrying, but had found it difficult to reach the trance state, and for some reason her thoughts kept coming back to Caitlin. On edge and unable to settle, Mary swigged back the whiskey with blatant disregard for its rarity in the new world, but she knew she wouldn't be able to rest until she'd been to see her friend. She threw another log on the fire to keep it going until she returned, and then put on her anorak. She was sick of the damp weather; it felt as if it had been raining for months.

The weather affected her mood badly. She had always been prone to depression, Churchill's black dog following her wherever she went, but in the dark, dismal days it was worse. She couldn't stop her mind turning to the past, what was and what might have been. Would things have been different if she'd settled down with someone? Or would she still have disliked herself so much, and in doing so made her partner's life a misery too? She'd always thought she was best on her own — save wrecking another life — but she missed a touch, a word on awakening, the warmth of another mind, little comforts as much as the big ones.

She still marvelled at how life can pivot on one simple event. How arrogance could turn to guilt, youthful optimism to self-loathing, all in the blink of an eye. Sometimes she liked to blame her childhood religion for programming her to carry her suffering with her, but her inability to get over who she had been didn't have one source; it was an accretion of tiny failures. A life, to all intents and purposes, wasted. Her first religion had told her everyone had a reason for being. She was the example that gave the lie to that little fantasy.

As she searched for the old miner's Davy lamp that had belonged to her father, she heard a noise outside. It could have been the wind gusting at the shed door or the broom falling over at the back of the house, but her spine tingled nonetheless. Any visitors — and she had many, wanting advice and help at all hours of the day — would come straight to the front door. The sound had come from the side of the house.

Her nerves went on edge. With the breakdown in law and order, there were plenty of threats that wouldn't think twice about attacking a woman on her own. The village had its own Neighbourhood Watch patrolling during the night, but it had been devastated by the plague, might even have gone completely.

From next to the door, she grabbed the brush handle with the carving knife strapped to the end. One she could probably see off; any more and she would have to run. Cautiously, she approached the side window.

The night was too dark, the storm bending the trees and hedges towards the cottage, the fields beyond impenetrable. She waited patiently for any hint of movement. Nothing came.

Just as she had convinced herself that she had been mistaken, a lightning flash exploded everything into white. A large figure was standing beneath the old hawthorn tree just outside. It had been watching her looking out.

She swore in shock, backed away, almost fell over the armchair. The darkness concealed the figure once again.

Mary moved to the centre of the room, turning back and forth in case the watcher came through the front or the back. A heavy knock sounded at the door.

Who's there?' she shouted defiantly.

'I was sent to see you.' The voice was loud, confident, educated with a hint of arrogance.

'Why are you skulking around outside?'

'I wanted to be sure I had the right place.' Exasperation, a hint of annoyance; Mary eased a little. He didn't sound like a threat, but then who did? 'Will you open this door?' he snapped. 'I've been walking for hours and I'm cold and I'm wet.'

Holding the home-made spear ahead of her, she leaned forward and turned the key. Standing on the step was a tall, big-boned man in a sodden overcoat and a wide- brimmed felt hat that had almost lost its shape in the rain; he was carrying a knapsack and a staff. He was in his late fifties, with long, wiry, once-black hair and beard, now turning grey and white. The skin of his cheeks had the leathery, broken-veined appearance of someone who enjoyed a drink, but his eyes were beady, black and unfriendly.

Mary prodded the spear towards his chest. He looked down at it contemptuously.

'Are you the witch?' he said curtly.

'What-?' Mary was taken aback.

He pushed the spear to one side and forced his way past her. 'A tree told me,' he added gruffly.

Mary readied herself to herd the visitor out, but he was already stripping off his overcoat and shaking the rain across her living room. He gave up, threw it to one side and marched to the fire to warm his hands. Mary advanced with the spear.

'You can put that pigsticker down for a start,' he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.

'If I put it anywhere, it'll be right up your arse.' She considered giving him a prod just to hear him squeal. 'Who are you?'

He drew himself upright, shaking his head wearily as he flung his hat on top of his coat. 'The name's Crowther. Frank, if you want to be chummy.' His eyes narrowed. 'Though you probably don't.'

'And-' she prompted, shaking the spear.

'And I am here to see you,' he interjected with exasperation. 'I presume.'

Mary chewed her lip for a second, then used the spear to motion him towards the chair. 'Just don't go making everything wet while you tell me about it.'

He flopped into the chair, weariness etching deep lines into his face as his head lolled on to the chair-back. With his eyes closed, he began, 'I would hope I don't have to begin from first principles. We can accept that there is an element of what used to be called the supernatural in the world, can we not?'

'Go on.'

'I have been known, from time to time, to communicate with those other powers. Recently, they've been getting in a bit of a state. Something's up, apparently. A rather big and extremely troubling something, though as usual, trying to get any useful detail from them is like trying to carry water in a sieve. It seems, however, that it's linked to this damned plague.' He flapped a hand. 'Anyway, that's by the by, for now. The important thing is that something can be done about it. Apparently. And it seems I have a part to play, and you, because I was guided here. Frankly, I can think of better things to do, but I presume the survival of the human race is a pressing matter.'

'Who told you this?'

'The Wood-born.' He watched her quizzically.

She nodded. 'The tree spirits.'

He tutted. 'Don't make them sound like fairy-tale stuff. You get on the wrong side of them and you won't live to regret it. I saw a man once with a hawthorn bush bursting out of his belly. He'd somehow swallowed a fragment of the wood and they'd made it sprout inside him.'

'He probably deserved it.'

'How very humane of you.'

Despite his appearance, Mary didn't feel a sense of threat from Crowther: she was usually good at judging people, but that didn't mean she liked him either. He carried his arrogance like a badge, reminding her of intellectuals she'd met who couldn't help but look down on the common herd.

'Why should I trust you?' Mary asked.

Crowther pondered this for a second or two and then a deep sigh shook his large frame. 'The simple answer is that you probably shouldn't.. God knows, if I were in your position, I wouldn't trust me.' The weariness permeating his features appeared to be born from days on the road.

'You've come a long way,' Mary stated.

He nodded. 'From the West Country. There's a college there, newly founded after the Fall. It aims to pass on long traditions of studying nature and the heavens and how it all interacts, the wisdom of an age-old group called the Culture, though everyone knows it by a different name. A mystical college. You've heard of it?'

Mary shook her head.

'I'd spent all my days in academia — avoiding having a life, I suppose — so it was only natural I ended up there. Couldn't do anything else productive. I'm a professor, which used to mean something, I suppose. Various disciplines came under my aegis — a little psychology here, some archaeology and anthropology there. I was at Oxford for a while-'

'Married?'

'Wife dead, I'm afraid.' His features remained impassive; Mary had no idea how much she could believe of what he was saying. 'Children, I don't know where. They're old enough to have minds of their own. No ties, you see. The college sounded enticing… and it was. Except it's run by one of the most miserable, bad- tempered old bastards you could ever imagine.' His eyes narrowed. 'And one of the Five.'

Mary's breath caught in her throat. 'They exist, then?'

He nodded. 'Not a myth, though they're rapidly turning into one. Five people who saved the world when things were going pear-shaped. A shaman, the one in Glastonbury. A warrior — who turned out to be a traitor, killed in the Battle of London. A human-nature-spirit hybrid… or something, I'm not quite sure. A leader, missing, presumed dead. And one of your own.'

Mary sat on the arm of the chair, staring into space. 'I'd heard the stories, like everyone, but I hardly dared believe. Are they going to come back?'

'To save us?' He laughed bitterly. 'They've done their bit. It's down to us now.'

'Then this college is somewhere quite special.'

His eyes took on a distant cast. 'The things I learned there… amazing things… worlds beyond our own… the existence of beings we'd always considered gods… magic… a new, deep philosophy about the way everything is tied together…' He brought himself down to earth sharply. 'But that's not important. This is.'

'You came all this way because the Wood-born told you to.' Mary felt secretly pleased when she saw Crowther flinch slightly beneath her unwavering gaze. 'Out of the goodness of your heart, to help humanity. You don't seem like a good Samaritan.'

'I never said I was. I'm a part of humanity too, whatever others might think, and I have a vested interest in its survival.'

'And the tree spirits told you about me?' Mary grew more suspicious the more she considered his words.

'Not just them. There were rituals, other communications, once I knew something was amiss. And, yes, I was pointed here because of one very special reason, something that shines out like a beacon to those kinds of beings who have a feeling for all this.'

'And that is?'

'I am quite prepared to sit down and tell you all about it. But first, is there any chance of a brew before we decide exactly what we're supposed to do?'

Without gratifying his request with a friendly reply, she turned to go to the kitchen. But as she did so, she noticed something very strange about him in the flicker of the firelight when he bent forward to warm his hands again: there appeared to be holes just beyond the line of his hair and beard, as if something had drilled into his skull. When Mary returned with two mugs of the herbal infusion, Crowther had his boots and socks off and was wiggling his toes in front of the fire.

'You really are a disgusting pig,' she said, handing him his drink.

'Thank you. I see an ability to offend as a mark of unique status.' He slurped on the brew before nodding appreciatively.

'So,' Mary asked after a few moments, 'did you have any more information or are we supposed to glean something from that load of old cobblers you just told me.'

'Yes, the key to it all is some girl…'

Mary stiffened.

Crowther saw her response. 'You know who I'm talking about?'

'Put that tea down,' Mary snapped. 'We have to go out.' When Mary's call echoed throughout Caitlin's house, she feared the worst. They'd already checked the village hall, but even if Caitlin had gone out on a call, Grant and Liam should still be around at that time of night.

Crowther stalked off to check the bedrooms, returning with a curt shake of his head. A jarring banging led them into the kitchen, where the back door swung back and forth in the wind. Outside, Mary saw movement at the end of the garden. Running down anxiously, she found a figure so slathered with clay and mud it was at first impossible to tell it was Caitlin. She was knee-deep in a hole, frantically shovelling earth out on to the lawn.

Caitlin looked up at Mary with big, staring eyes, made whiter by the filth caked around them, and shouted, 'I've got to get them out!' She didn't seem to recognise Mary at all.

Caitlin dug wildly, spraying mud all around, then threw the spade to one side and dropped to her knees so she could claw at the sodden earth. Mary glanced at the growing hole, and at the mound of earth nearby and knew what had happened.

'Oh, lovey.' Her voice trembled with pity.

'I've got to get them out!' Caitlin dug like a woodland animal, thrashing madly as Mary tried to ease her out of the grave.

In the end, Crowther and Mary between them managed to calm Caitlin enough to get her away from the hole, and once it was out of her sight it was almost as if it was forgotten. Her face grew blank, her eyes empty. She trudged in a dream state towards the kitchen, holding Mary's hand.

They sat her at the kitchen table, but Caitlin made no attempt to respond to any of Mary's questions, didn't even acknowledge anyone else was with her. Her chin lolled on to her chest as she stared hollowly at the table. She looked like some relict human hiding out in the depths of the jungle.

Crowther surveyed Caitlin dismissively. 'If this is who we came for, I wouldn't put money on us coming out on top.'

'Shut up,' Mary snapped. She moved in close to Caitlin and said gently, 'You don't need to worry about Grant and Liam any more, dear. They're in the Summerlands now, happy, content, waiting till they can see you again.'

The words hung in the stillness of the kitchen, and then a faint light came on in Caitlin's eyes before they flickered towards Mary. Curiously, Mary didn't recognise what she saw there.

'I know you.' Caitlin's voice was of a higher pitch than usual, almost childlike, with a faint singsong swing.

'Of course you do, lovey. It's Mary.' She put her hand comfortingly on the back of Caitlin's.

Caitlin's eyes continued to search Mary's face. 'I'm Amy.'

Mary flinched. 'No, you're Caitlin.'

'Caitlin's here, but I'm Amy.'

Crowther leaned forward and said a little gruffly, 'How old are you, Amy?'

'Six.'

'And how many of you are there?'

Caitlin sat back in her chair and mouthed the numbers as she counted off on her fingers. 'Five,' she concluded. 'Me, Amy. Caitlin. Brigid. Briony. And… and the one we don't talk about.' A shadow crossed her face.

In a somewhat unseemly manner, Crowther was enthused by what he'd heard. 'Multiple personality,' he mused, 'or dissociative identity disorder, to give it its proper name. Some debate in psychological circles about whether it actually exists.'

'The poor girl,' Mary said. 'Is there anything we can do?'

'A few decades of therapy and a strict drug regime.'

'I don't like it here. It's scary. There's something frightening in the garden,' Caitlin/Amy said, glancing in a scared, childlike manner towards the back door. 'I want to leave. I don't want to come here again.'

'Don't you worry.' Mary put on a brave face. She helped Caitlin to her feet and slipped an arm around her shoulders. 'We'll get you somewhere nice and warm and safe.'

Crowther grumbled as he followed. 'Well, that's torn it.' The journey down the rain-washed, wind-torn lane was like a funeral procession, with Caitlin trailing spectrally behind Mary and Crowther taking up the rear in his oversized coat and hat. Halfway along the lane, though, the wind blew the clouds away and the bright, white moon emerged like a spotlight, casting the scene in silhouette and shadow.

Mary felt instantly on edge. She knew that she had half- seen something from the corner of her eye, registered only by her subconscious. Turning slowly, she saw black shapes moving along the ridge a mile or so to her right, picked out by the moonlight as if nature was informing her of something important.

She came to a sharp stop, cold and disturbed. 'What's that?' she said. Caitlin didn't look, but Crowther came in close, pushing up the soggy brim of his hat so he could get a better look.

Two figures moved relentlessly along the back of the ridge. At first glance it looked as if they were riders on horseback, except in silhouette the horses were oddly misshapen, too large, too long and bulky, as if they had been crossed with some kind of giant lizard. The eerie sight brought a shimmer of fear to Mary, and she could tell from his rigid stance that Crowther was disturbed by it, too.

'Do you recognise them?' she asked. Crowther shook his head.

'The Whisperers,' Caitlin/Amy muttered, still without looking. Mary and Crowther stared at her for a long moment, then hurried her along the lane. In the cottage, Mary locked and barred the door before throwing another log on the fire. Crowther had become more stoic, which manifested itself in a degree of politeness he hadn't exhibited before. He carefully hung his coat and hat on the back of the door while Mary stripped off Caitlin's clothes in the kitchen, washing her face and hands and wrapping her in an old dressing gown. Once she was in the chair in front of the fire, Caitlin sagged back and instantly fell asleep, as if a switch had been thrown.

'I don't see that we can do anything with her,' Crowther said. Weariness emerged from behind his arrogance and brought lines to his face that added years to his age.

'Give her time,' Mary said. 'She's had a big blow, but she's a tough kid.' She went to the window and looked out; everywhere was still now that the storm had passed. 'Things are going from bad to worse, aren't they?' she said, almost talking to herself.

'This plague is a bit of trouble, certainly,' Crowther agreed. 'But if not for that, I don't really know how I feel about it. We seem to have lost a lot of things that were holding us back. We've reset the clock, I think. Time to get it right this time. Which is, I know, very Darwinian, but there you go.'

'So what do we do now?'

'I don't know. I was only guided to find you. Somehow the three of us have to find a cure for this plague. Somehow… I don't know… I'm sick of all this vagueness.' He sighed. 'I need to contact the other side.'

Mary knew why there was such an edge to his voice. Such contacts had a cost, sometimes in a transfer of energy, sometimes in something much, much higher. After the first time, she had decided to avoid them. One other question struck her, and it was such a conundrum that she couldn't begin to find an answer. 'Why us?'

Crowther gave a bad-tempered shrug. 'I suppose we won the lottery.' The hot coals in the brazier sent out a dull heat that only dispelled the cold in a tiny circle in its immediate vicinity. Beyond, the Ice-Field rolled out immeasurably, consumed by the infinite blackness of a night where no stars twinkled. They sheltered in the nook of a small rock formation, the only feature on that flat, endless plain. It was crescent-shaped, barely twelve feet high but enough to keep the chilling wind at bay. Snow was frozen hard against it so that it glistened in the ruddy firelight.

Perched on a boulder beside the brazier, Caitlin shivered, her arms wrapped around her, not thinking, not feeling.

Amy stood beside her, tugging at Caitlin's sleeve. The little girl had a powerful innocence about her that made her appear brittle. She peered into the night with wide, frightened eyes. 'Something's coming,' she whimpered. 'It'll be here soon. Then we'll all pay.'

'Shut up!' The shrill voice came from a neurotic-looking woman in her late thirties, too thin and angular, her face bearing the mean expression of someone who felt they had suffered too much unnecessarily. Briony lit a cigarette and sucked in the smoke, her eyes watering. 'It doesn't do any good whining, you little brat.'

'Leave her alone. You know she's right.' Brigid was so old she appeared like a gnarled, wind-blasted tree, her bones barely holding on to her flesh. Her hair was a wild mane of white, knotted and greasy. 'We have to get her moving.' She nodded contemptuously towards Caitlin. 'That's the only hope.'

'You could let me out.'

They all grew rigid at the rasping voice. Slowly they turned to the dense area of shadow at the back of the shelter. In the deepest part of it, two red eyes burned.

Across the Ice-Field, the wind howled mercilessly. The night grew a shade darker. Mary jumped at the cry reverberating throughout the cottage. It contained physical pain, but also a soul-pain that filled her with dread. Crowther had retired to her bedroom to carry out whatever ritual he used to access the powers that gave him information. He had insisted on secrecy, though she had offered to help him keep the threats at bay.

He emerged ten minutes later, shaking and drawn as though he were suffering from some debilitating illness. Mary offered him a glass of whiskey, which he knocked back without thanks.

'Did it work?' she asked.

'After a fashion. As usual.' He steadied himself against a wall. She could see from his face that whatever he had learned had disturbed him greatly. 'What is it?' 'There's no cure for the plague in this world.' Her heart fell. 'No cure?' 'In this world.' The stress he gave to those words made her skin prickle. 'What are you getting at?' 'There's a place that exists side by side with ours… the ancient Celts called it Tir n'a n'Og-' 'The Otherworld,' Mary breathed. 'The place where the dead go. The Celts' land of their gods. The source of all supernatural influence, of dreams and imagination…' He was flushed, his breath short. 'It exists. The cure is there.' 'You believe what you were told? You know they don't always say what we think they say.' 'I know,' he snapped irritably. 'But this time I think it's right.' Mary sat on the sofa and covered her face wearily. The blackness of the depression she'd fought all her life was snapping at her heels. 'What are we supposed to do, then?' 'There are places where one can cross over.' She looked at him slowly as the implications began to dawn on her. 'Historically, they've always been known as thin places, where, if you know the right way to go about it, you can open doorways. The ancients understood this clearly. It's knowledge that's been lost to us, like so much of importance.' Crowther hauled himself to his feet. 'We can't stay here. Those riders… they want to stop us.' 'Why? Who are they?' He shrugged, gave his overcoat a shake before sweeping it on. 'I was simply told they were pursuing us.' Mary had difficulty coming to terms with her life suddenly taking a right-angled turn. But she understood obligation, and however apprehensive she felt, there was a job to do. 'Let me get some things together.'

'Not you.' Mary stopped and stared at him, puzzled. 'Just the girl, and me.'

'I thought you said you were led to me because I had a part to play?'

'You have. You've got to get that girl compos mentis… at least enough for me to travel with her.' He shook his hat, then put the soggy mess on with a grimace.

Mary couldn't explain why she felt uneasy, but so much was happening that she didn't have time to think. She dropped to her knees in front of the fire and took Caitlin's hand. It was so cold that at first Mary thought she'd died. Slowly, Caitlin stirred from her deep sleep.

'Come on, lovey. Come to me.'

Caitlin's lips moved in her dream state. Mary couldn't make out the words, but she thought she could just hear the susurration of different voices, the timbre and intonation changing as if Caitlin were holding an internal dialogue. It was so unnatural that it brought a chill to her spine.

'Caitlin,' she stressed. 'We need you here.'

'She won't go.' The voice was sharp, not Caitlin's at all.

Mary rocked back on her heels, shocked, before composing herself. 'Caitlin,' she said firmly. 'It's Mary. You have to come now.'

There was a brief silence and then Caitlin's eyes flickered open. Mary saw in them the Caitlin she knew. The young doctor leaned forward and covered her face. 'What's happening?' she said weakly. Then, 'Grant… Liam…' She started to cry silently. 'I know, I know.' Mary felt like her own heart was breaking as she hugged Caitlin to her. In recent months, Caitlin's family had almost filled that awful gap in Mary's life, that loss from all those years ago, when Mary proved what an awful person she was. Mary had taken such joy in seeing Caitlin with so much, knowing her friend was, despite the stress and the strains that arose from it, so fundamentally happy. It wasn't fair that Caitlin should have to suffer such a loss, someone who had always tried to do her best for other people. Not like herself, Mary thought; she had turned selfishness into a fine art.

'It's my fault,' Caitlin croaked to herself. 'If I'd been there for them- This is my punishment-'

'Don't say that.' Mary choked back her emotion. 'Don't you go blaming yourself. You're a good person… these things happen-'

When Caitlin looked up at her it was with eyes that Mary didn't recognise. 'I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to help people. And I couldn't help the most important people in my life.' She bit her lip until blood started to flow. 'The last time I spoke to Grant we were arguing. That was the last thing he'll remember… the last thing-'

'Hush now.' Mary stroked Caitlin's hair. Everything she said sounded so useless. How could any words make the slightest difference in a situation of such tragedy?

'I didn't even say goodbye to them. Now they'll never know… they'll never know… how I felt…'

'They know, honey. I'm sure they do. Wherever they are, they'll know your heart.'

Crowther watched all this impassively. Mary wondered how he could be so cold. Yet for the little she knew about him, she felt the inherent truth in what he had told her, about the warnings from beyond and the hope that there might be a cure somewhere for this damnable plague. Perhaps she was expressing the naivety of a child, but if Caitlin could be instrumental in bringing back a cure, her young friend might find some kind of salvation from the terrible thing she had experienced. For the next hour, Mary sat with Caitlin in her arms while the younger woman grieved quietly. Caitlin wasn't herself — at times her voice would change inexplicably, or her words become incomprehensible — but the depth of her feeling was unmistakable.

Finally Caitlin subsided into an aching silence.

Mary waited for a moment, not sure if she'd done enough, and then left Caitlin to her grief. Crowther hovered near the door. 'You be careful with her,' Mary cautioned. 'Remember what she's been through. Don't you dare hurt her.'

'I have no intention of hurting her,' Crowther said with irritation. 'She's of vital importance to what has to be done. Without her, there's no hope.'

It wasn't quite the reassurance Mary had wanted, but it would have to do. She turned and helped Caitlin to her feet. 'Listen, lovey, you've got to go with Professor Crowther now. He's going to take you somewhere safe.' Mary winced at the lie. 'Don't ask questions. Just do what he says until you're away from here. Do you understand?'

Caitlin nodded, lost to her grief, but at least once more the Caitlin that Mary knew. Mary wrapped her in an old anorak and led her to the door. Once Caitlin had stepped out into the night, Mary caught Crowther's arm. 'I don't like you and I don't trust you,' she hissed, 'but I'm going on instinct here. You'd better do the right thing with this girl or I'll hunt you down, cut your bollocks off and make you eat them.'

'Oh, you are a charming lady,' Crowther replied. 'Don't worry. I'm putting myself at risk too, you know.'

Mary gave a snorting laugh to show how much she was concerned about that fact.

Crowther stepped out behind Caitlin, then half-turned. 'One other thing. If I were you, I wouldn't wait around here. Those hunters may decide you're too close to all this to live.'

'Where am I supposed to go?'

He made a couldn't-care-less gesture. 'Not my problem.' And then he put his hand on Caitlin's shoulder to guide her, and they went down the path, into the lane, and away.