The Secret of Crickley Hall

There is an old, empty house in Devil's Cleave, a deep gorge that leads from the high moors down to the harbour village of Hollow Bay.

The house is Crickley Hall and it's large and grim, somehow foreboding. It's rumoured to be haunted. It's thought to hold a secret.

Despite some reservations, the Caleighs move in, searching for respite in this beautiful part of North Devon, seeking peace and perhaps to come to terms with what's happened to them as a family. But all is not well with the house. They hear unaccountable noises. A cellar door they shut every night is always open again in the morning. They see things that cannot be real.

The house is the last place the Caleighs should have come to, for the terror that unfolds is beyond belief. Soon they will discover the secret horror of Crickley Hall…

'From the darkness let the innocent speak so that the guilty may know their shame.' —ANON

'The evil that men do lives after them…' —SHAKESPEARE

'Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.' —PROVERBS 22:6

THEN

They scattered into a darkness scarcely tempered by oil lamps, the soft glow easily repressed by the deep shadows of the house.

The shrieks and cries of the fleeing children rose above the noise of the storm outside. The sound of their stockinged feet was soft on the hard stone floor of the cavernous hall.

Some of them took to the stairs, scurrying past the tall, almost ceiling-high window at the turn, rain beating at its glass, the fierce wind rattling the frames, lightning flickering outside and casting darker shadows across the stone floor.

The children found refuge wherever they could—behind furniture, beneath tables, inside cupboards, anywhere they might sink into the umbra and be hidden while they prayed they would not be found. There in their hopeless sanctuaries they held their whimpers but were unable to control the chattering of their teeth and the nervous fidget of their limbs, for they knew that eventually he would find them, that he would seek them out one by one.

Silent tears drenched their cheeks and glacial fingers seemed to squeeze their small hearts.

He would snatch them from their hideaways and punish them. And this time, a cruel knowing voice whispered in their minds, this time it would be the worst punishment of all…

They heard his approach even though he wore no shoes, for he swished something through the cold damp air, each swish ending in a sudden violent thwack, the beating of cane against bare flesh. Swish, then thwack, cane on flesh, swish, then thwack, two individual sounds that could be clearly heard over the raging storm outside. Swish-thwack! Louder, swish-thwack! Louder, coming closer. Swish-thwack! Almost becoming one sound.

They tried to be very, very quiet…

NOW

1: ARRIVAL

Although the rain had ceased for the moment, single thick globules, as if too heavy to be held by the blanket cloud overhead, splattered against the windscreen like miniature water bombs, and were quickly reduced to smears by the intermittent sweep of the wipers. Eve's spirits had felt as low as the weather during the earlier part of the five-hour journey (including the break for lunch) from London, and now they dropped to an even lower level.

The big grey-stone house on the other side of the narrow rushing river looked grim, more like an ancient sanatorium or resthome for the indigent elderly than a family home.

Gabe had parked the Range Rover in a small clear area beside the lane that led a mile or so downhill to the harbour village of Hollow Bay. Despite the miserable weather, Eve had felt her heart lift a little (as much as it was capable of lifting these days) once they'd left the motorway—interstate, Gabe, her American husband, kept calling it—and reached the West Country; she had almost enjoyed travelling through sheltered lanes with close beech hedges that frequently gave way to wide sweeping moorlands of fine heather and bracken, distant woodland-clad hills their pastel backcloth, not even the dark louring skies spoiling the splendour. Rather than announce nature's retreat towards winter, the autumn colours—the reds, greens, browns, golds and yellows—of woodlands and fauna boasted their glory as the Range Rover sped through deep valleys and crossed rough-stone bridges over tumbling streams.

Gabe had promised them healthy long walks (much to the exaggerated groans of their daughters, Loren and Cally), especially along the beautiful deep-sided and tree-lined gorge—he called it a ravine and the map called it Devil's Cleave—in which their new temporary home was situated; they would either follow the river down to the sea or climb towards its source on the high moors. It would be fun. On weekends they could explore the craggy coastline, the rugged clifftops and the small sheltered bays and sandy coves. Weather permitting, they could even take out a sailing boat and ride the waves. Or maybe do some horse riding (because his homeland was the States, Gabe had convinced their youngest daughter, Cally, that he had once been a cowboy, a fib for which he would have to answer when she discovered he'd never been on a horse in his life, Eve had thought wryly). If the weather was bad, they could just explore the countryside by car.

There'd be plenty to keep them occupied on weekends, he had assured them. And it might help the healing, he told Eve when they were alone.

Now they were here and this was her first sight of Crickley Hall, which was not quite large enough to be called a manor, but was much too big for a normal home. Gabe had visited twice before, the first time in summer when he'd scouted the locale for a property close to the job to which his engineering company had been sub-contracted, and a second time a week ago when he'd hired a van and, with Vern Brennan, a fellow-American buddy of his, had delivered most of the bulky items the family would need for their stay (the house itself was already furnished with old-fashioned stuff, according to Gabe, which was good enough to get by with).

Through the Range Rover's windscreen, Eve saw that a sturdy wooden bridge traversed the swift-moving, boulder-strewn Bay River, which Gabe had described as no more than a wide, gentle stream when he had returned from viewing the property a couple of months ago. But then, it had been late August; now the boisterous waters threatened to overspill the raised banks. The bridge itself was made of rough timber, the sides crosshatched with thin lengths of rustic logs beneath thick rails; while it appeared strong, the structure was not wide enough to accept the Range Rover—nor any other largish vehicle—hence the parking bay on this side of the river.

On the opposite bank, the house—or Hall, as it was called—occupied a level expanse of cut grass and shrubbery with the odd tree here and there (one tree near the front had a child's swing dangling from a stout branch). The far thickly foliaged side of the gorge loomed impressively steep, high over the stark building.

'It looks a bit grim,' she found herself saying, immediately regretting the criticism; Gabe had tried so hard.

Her husband looked across at her from the driver's seat, his wide tight-lipped smile concealing any disappointment.

'Guess it looked a little different in summer,' he said.

'No, the weather doesn't help.' She touched his hand on the steering wheel and made herself return the smile. His wonderfully blue eyes, darkened by the gloom of the car's interior, examined her own for reassurance.

'It's just a change, hon,' he almost apologized. 'We all need it.'

'Can we get out now, Daddy?' came Cally's impatient voice from the back seat. 'I'm tired of sitting.'

Switching off the engine and thumbing open his seatbelt, Gabe turned and gave his younger daughter a grin. 'Sure. It's been a long haul and you've been pretty good all the way.'

'Chester's bin a good boy too.' The five-year-old squirmed in her seat, searching for the seatbelt button.

The black, lean, coarse-haired dog, who slumped on the back seat between the two sisters, sparked to attention at the sound of his name. When Gabe and Eve had picked him out at the south London dogs' home six years before, they had been told that the year-old puppy was a crossbreed, something of a Patterdale in there somewhere, but Gabe reckoned the scruffy orphan was all mongrel, without an ounce of breeding in his runty little body.

Chester (Gabe had chosen the name) had grown to almost fifteen inches high: he was cow-hocked with turned-out feet, back and front, and there was too little angulation to his hind legs for dog show events; there were now grey and brown hairs among his short black fur, especially under his muzzle, chest and the untidy tufts around his neck. Seven years old, those dark-brown eyes still held their puppy appeal and, even though he was generally a happy-natured dog, his turned-down mouth gave him a perpetual cast of sadness. When they lost Cam almost a year ago, Chester had howled for three nights running as if he knew more than they did, as if he were aware their son was gone for ever.

Gabe acknowledged the now-alert dog with a slight upward tilt of his chin, the opposite to a nod. 'Yep. Chester's been pretty tight. Not even a small leak all this way.'

'Only because I told you every time he looked uncomfortable,' reminded Loren, who had that pretty but gangly appearance of many twelve-year-old girls, pre-teenage and just beginning to take a greater interest in what was worthy of 'cool', be it in music, clothes, or Mother's make-up. Sometimes she assumed a maturity that should not yet have been learned, while at other times she was still his 'princess' who loved her dolls and frequent hugs (the latter more occasional than frequent these days).

Loren had been adamant that no way was she leaving her friends and school in London to live in a place thousands of miles from anywhere, a place where she didn't know anybody, a place she'd never even heard of. It took some persuasion, plus a promise of having her very own cell phone so that she could keep in constant touch with all her girlfriends, to convince her things would be okay down in Devon. That and the quiet one-to-one chat Gabe had with her where he'd explained that the deal was to get Mummy away from their regular home and its constant reminders of Cameron for a while, just long enough maybe to allow Eve some closure to a year that had been horrendous for them all. Loren had understood immediately and had put aside her reluctance to leave—until the last few days, that is, when imminent departure had drawn out long goodbyes and floods of tears between her and her closest friends.

'Good thing you decided to come along then,' Gabe responded with only mild teasing.

Thank you,' he added seriously, looking directly into his eldest daughter's eyes, and she knew he was thanking her for more than just watching over Chester.

'Okay, Dad.'

He realized at that moment that he missed the extra 'd' and the 'y' at the end of 'Dad' and wondered when it had started happening. Was Loren, his princess, growing up so fast that he hadn't noticed? With a jab of melancholy that perhaps only fathers of growing daughters can know (sons were way different, except to doting mothers), he swung back in his seat, glancing at Eve as he did so. There was a moistness to her gaze as she studied the big house on the other side of the bridge.

'You'll like it more when the sun comes out,' he promised her softly.

'Daddy, can we get out?' came Cally's pleading voice again. Cally was seven years junior to Loren and now the same age as Cameron when he'd disappeared almost a year ago. Five. They'd lost their son when he was only five years old.

'Put your hats on first. It might pour again.' Eve was instructing them all, Gabe included. He reached into the glove compartment for his woollen beanie, pulling it down half over his ears against the chill he knew waited beyond the cosy warmth of the Range Rover. Eve checked their daughters were following suit before pulling the hood of her rainproof jacket over her own dark hair.

Beneath her untidy fringe lay deep-brown eyes that until a year ago had reflected warmth and a sly humour; but now grief had shadowed them and dulled their vibrancy so that feelings were no longer exposed, were curtained by perdurable sorrow. As the girls obeyed hat orders and reached for door latches, Chester standing on the seat and pawing at Cally's shoulder to get past her, Eve stepped out of the SUV and surveyed Crickley Hall once more.

She heard Chester's yelp and Cally's whoop as they tumbled out of the other side of the vehicle and something bit into her heart as child and pet headed straight for the wet bridge.

'Gabe,' she said apprehensively, drawing in a sharp breath.

'S'okay.' Louder, at Cally: 'Hey, rein in, Scout. Wait for us.'

Cally skidded to a halt on the wet planks of the short bridge, but Chester continued, yapping with pleasure at the sudden release, only pausing when he was halfway across the lawn. The child's swing close by stirred in the slight breeze. The dog looked back over his shoulder uncertainly.

Eve eyed the rough latticework of the bridge, then the beleaguered riverbanks. They would all have to keep a watch on Cally: the diamond-shaped openings between the diagonal struts were wide enough for a child to slip through on the deck made greasy by rain and spray, and the riverbanks were not fenced, their edges unstable. Cally would have to be warned never to use the bridge or go near the water on her own. They could not lose another child. Dear God, they mustn't lose another child. Eve raised a hand to her mouth as a latent sob caught in her throat.

Gabe hunkered down in his black reefer jacket, collar turned up round his ears, which were mostly covered by the beanie, and hurried towards their youngest daughter, while Loren followed just behind. Cally waited midway across the bridge, unsure whether she'd been silly or naughty. She looked questioningly at her approaching father and smiled when she saw him grinning. He scooped her up in his arms and together, Loren pausing to wait for Eve, they left the bridge and walked towards the tall grey house.

The building was constructed of simple dull-grey granite blocks, even the quoins at each corner and the windowsills of the same drab shade. Most of the other old and largish residences they passed in the last half hour or so of their journey had been built with limestone or sandstone, even flint: none had been as plain, nor as dour, as this place. The only embellishment, such as it was, seemed to be the shallow pilasters on either side of the huge nail-studded door, these bridged by an equally plain stone lintel which offered precious little cover for any visitor waiting in the rain on the two meagre cracked steps that led up to the entrance.

There were four sizeable windows to the ground floor, with six smaller windows along the upper storey, and four more even smaller dormer windows jutting from the slope of the slate roof, the slope itself quickly squaring off to accommodate four brick chimney stacks.

Eve frowned. Crickley Hall's architect either had a limited imagination or was hindered by budgetary constraints.

A rough-edged, sparsely gravelled pathway angled from the end of the bridge towards the house's main entrance, joining with a perimeter walkway which was also a mixture of mud and thinly layered stones. The sheer gorge wall of lush vegetation that towered over the grey building somehow should have cowed it, yet failed to do so: Crickley Hall's brooding presence was unequivocal.

Eve kept the thought to herself: this place was not just grim—it was ugly.

A little way off to the right, with bushes and tree branches on the gorge wall louring over its flat roof, stood a small garden shed whose weather-worn planking was turned dark by the rain.

'Come on, Mummy!' Cally and Gabe were almost at the front door to the house and Cally had called over her shoulder. The two of them waited for Eve and Loren to catch up.

Chester, who was still poised by the gently swaying swing, lingered until they drew level, then trotted alongside.

'Have you got the key ready?' Eve called out to Gabe, a drop of rain spatting against her cheek.

'The key will be in the door. The estate manager had cleaners in this morning to make sure the place is bright and sparkling.'

As they stood together on the two long but low steps, Eve realized that the broad, nail-studded, worn oak door seemed to be from a different era than that of the plain building and she wondered if the wider than usual portal had been designed to accommodate it; the door might well have been reclaimed from some ancient demolished manor house or monastery, with its almost gothic leopard-head iron door knocker. She watched as Gabe made great ceremony of pressing the big china-white doorbell that was surrounded by a ring of discoloured brass between the wall and right-hand pilaster. They all heard a rusty electric brurrr from inside.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

'Just letting the ghosts know we're here, hon.'

'Dad, there's no such thing,' chided Loren, indignant again.

'Sure of that?'

Eve was impatient. 'Come on, Gabe, open up.' She wondered if the inside was as austere as the exterior.

Gabe pushed at the huge central doorknob with his right hand and, without a single creak, the heavy door swung open.

2: CRICKLEY HALL

'Cooool.'

It was a drawn-out sound of awe from Loren.

Gabe smiled at Eve. 'Not too shabby, huh?' he asked, giving her a moment or so to be impressed.

'I never expected…' she began. 'It's…' She faltered again.

'Something, right?' Gabe said.

'From the outside I thought it'd be a mean interior. Roomy, but, you know… kind of skimpy.'

'Yeah, doesn't figure at all, does it?'

No, it didn't figure at all, thought Eve. The entrance had opened onto a vast galleried hall that rose beyond the first floor, which itself was marked by a balustraded landing running round two sides of the room.

'It must take up half the house,' she said, eyes raised to the beamed ceiling high above and the cast-iron chandelier that hung from its centre. The chandelier resembled a black upturned claw.

'The rest of the place isn't as fancy,' Gabe told her. 'To your left there's the kitchen and sitting room; those double doors directly ahead lead to a long drawing room.' He gestured upwards with his chin. 'Bedrooms are off the balcony, left and centre. There's plenty to choose from.'

She pointed to a ground-floor door he had missed. It stood near the kitchen door, an old-fashioned chiffonier between them, and it was slightly ajar. She could see only a thick blackness beyond. 'You didn't say what's through there.'

For some reason—for safety probably, because there was a steep descending staircase just inside—this door opened into the hall, unlike the other doors, and Gabe strode over to it and firmly pushed it shut. 'Leads to the cellar,' he said over his shoulder. 'Cally, you keep away from this door, okay?'

Their daughter stopped swirling round for a moment, her eyes fixed on the chandelier. 'Okay, Daddy,' she said distractedly.

'I mean it. You don't go down there without one of us with you, y'hear?'

'Yes, Daddy.' She swirled on, trying to make herself dizzy, and Eve wondered why Gabe's instruction was so stern.

She ventured further into the hall, Loren following, leaving Cally behind by the open entrance door, now swaying unsteadily. To the right a broad wooden staircase led up to the gallery landing, its lower section turning at right angles towards the hall's centre. From the turn that formed a small square lower landing, there towered an almost ceiling-high drapeless window through which poor daylight entered. Dull though the light was, it nevertheless brightened much of the hall's oak-panelled walls and flagstone floor. Eve allowed her gaze to wander.

A few uninteresting and time-grimed landscape paintings were hung round the room and two carved oak chairs with burgundy upholstery stood on either side of the double doors to the drawing room. Apart from these, though, there was precious little other furniture in evidence—a narrow console table against the wall between the doors to the cellar and the sitting room, a dark-wood sideboard beneath the stairs, a circular torchère with an empty vase on top in the corner of the carpetless lower landing, and that appeared to be it. Oh, and an umbrella stand by the front door.

There was, however, a wide and deep open fireplace, its iron grate filled with dry logs, set into the wall beside the staircase and Eve hoped it would bring some much needed cheer—not to mention warmth—to the huge room when lit. She gave an involuntary shiver and folded her arms across her midriff, hands hugging in her elbows.

Because of the building's unambiguously plain exterior, the hall seemed almost incongruous. It was as if Crickley Hall had had two architects, one for exterior, the other for interior: the architectural dichotomy was puzzling.

Gabe joined her at the centre of the hall. 'I don't want to disappoint you, but it's like I said: the rest isn't so fancy. The drawing room's pretty bleak—it takes up the whole rear part of the ground floor—and it's empty, no furniture at all. The kitchen's no more'n functional, and everything else is just okay. Oh, the sitting room's not too bad.'

'Good. I was worried I'd be overwhelmed by it all. So long as the other rooms are comfortable.' She peered up at the galleried landing. 'You mentioned the bedrooms…'

'We can take our pick. I figure the one directly opposite the stairway will suit us—it's a fair size and there's a big four-poster bed that goes with it. No canopy, but it's kinda quaint—you'll love it. The room next door'll be fine for the girls. Close to us and with their own beds from home. But there's other rooms to choose from.' He indicated more doors that were visible through the balustrade on the left-hand side of the landing. 'We can jostle beds around, see what suits.' He raised his eyebrows at her. 'So what d'you think? It'll do?'

She settled his apprehension with a smile; Gabe was trying too hard these days. 'I'm sure it's going to be okay for a short while, Gabe. Thank you for finding the place.'

He took her in his arms and brushed her cheek with his lips. 'It'll give us a chance, Eve. Y'know?'

A chance to forget? No, nothing will ever do that. She remained silent and held on to him. Then she shivered again and pulled away.

He looked at her questioningly. 'You all right?'

It wasn't the chill in the air, she told herself. It was the pressure of all these past months. Too much trying to live a normal life, not for her own sake, but for the girls, for Gabe. Relentless grief and… and guilt. It was those spiteful shards that caused her to shiver, spiking her whenever she forgot for a moment.

'I just felt a draught,' she lied.

Unconvinced—it was plain in his expression—Gabe left her to go to the open front door.

'Hey,' she heard him say behind her. 'What's up, fella?' Eve turned to see him squatting down in front of a shivering Chester. The dog stood in the open doorway, his rear legs still on the outside step.

'Come on, Chester, get in here,' Gabe coaxed easily. 'Your butt is gonna get soaked.' It had begun to rain in earnest again.

Cally trotted over to the dog and patted his head. 'You'll catch a cold,' she told Chester, who shuffled his front paws and gave a little whine.

Gabe lifted him gently and stroked the back of his neck. The puling began again but Gabe carried Chester across the threshold and used a foot to nudge the door shut behind them. The trembling dog began to struggle.

'Easy, Chester,' Gabe soothed. 'You gotta get used to the place.'

Chester disagreed. He tried to get free, squirming his wiry body in Gabe's arms, so that Gabe was forced to put him back on the floor. The dog scuttled back to the front door and began to scrabble at it with his paws.

'Hey, quit it.' Gabe pulled him away from the door but did not attempt to pick him up again. Cally and Loren looked on with concern.

'Chester doesn't like it here,' Loren said anxiously.

Eve slipped an arm round her daughter's shoulder. 'It's just a bit strange to him, that's all,' she said. 'You wait, by tonight he'll be treating Crickley Hall like he's lived here all his life.'

Loren looked up at her mother. 'He's afraid of this place,' she announced gravely.

'Oh, Loren, that's nonsense. Chester's always been skittish about new things. He'll soon get used to it.' Eve smiled, but it was forced. Maybe Chester sensed something that she, herself, had sensed the moment she'd set foot inside. The something that had made her shiver a few moments ago.

There was something not quite right about Crickley Hall.

•

The rest of the house was a disappointment. The girls explored with enthusiasm, but Eve followed distractedly when Gabe gave them the full tour. It was as he had said—the other rooms, apart from the drawing room, which was impressive only because of its length (it was once used as a schoolroom according to the estate manager who had first shown Gabe around)—were functional. Certainly the large kitchen fitted that description, with its old-fashioned electric cooker, deep porcelain sinks next to a scarred wooden worktop, plain but deep cupboards, walk-in larder, linoleum floor covering, and the black iron range (a fire had already been laid and Gabe wasted no time in putting a match to it). Gabe had already bought and installed a cheap washing machine and tumble-dryer on his last visit to Hollow Bay, so that was one less problem for them to contend with.

On the first floor there was, as promised, a choice of bedrooms, and she and the girls went along with Gabe's original thought (oddly, Loren did not complain about having to share with Cally and Eve guessed that she, too, was a little intimidated by the very size of Crickley Hall). Although they had not climbed further on this first exploration, their tour guide informed them that the top floor obviously had once been a dormitory: there were still skeletal frames of cotbeds up there, but from the dust that had gathered and the weather-grime on the row of dormer windows along the sloping section of ceiling, the room had not been used for many, many years.

Most of Crickley Hall's furniture was old but not antique and Eve was quietly relieved: children and pet dogs did not go very well with valuable antiquities, so it was another thing less to worry about

Another area that went unexplored for now was the cellar which, according to Gabe, housed the boiler and generator (apparently the region suffered from frequent power cuts and the generator had been brought in to allow certain circuits, such as those running heating and lighting, to operate independently). Oh, and there was one other thing down there that would surprise them, Gabe had hinted, but that could wait until after they'd settled in.

•

They had quickly unloaded from the Range Rover the items they'd brought down with them that day, dashing to and fro in the rain, which had developed into a steady drizzle, careful not to slip on the treacherously wet boards of the bridge, the girls laughing with excitement and shrieking when they splashed through puddles, nobody stopping until every last article had been brought into the house. Then Loren had made her way upstairs loaded down with pillows and bed-sheets (it took three trips) to make up her own and Cally's beds, while Gabe had first attended to the fire in the big hall before checking out the boiler in the cellar.

Chester slept fitfully on his favourite blanket in a corner of the kitchen, lured there and finally quietened with a bribe of chicken nuggets, while Cally painted watery pictures at the worn and scored table set against a wall opposite the working surfaces and two large windows.

Eve took wrapped crockery and kitchen utensils from cardboard boxes, soaking all in one of the two deep sinks filled with hot (so the boiler seems to be working okay) soapy water. The windows over the sinks and worktops overlooked the front lawn and river. She could see the swing from there, the wooden seat shiny with rain hanging from rusty link chains, the bridge across the busy river just beyond, and as she worked, scrubbing at the plates that were already clean, careless about not wearing the as yet unpacked Marigold gloves (a year ago it would have been impossible even to contemplate dipping her bare hands into hot soapy water), thoughts—the bad thoughts—came tumbling in.

It was the image of the swing gently stirring under the weary, almost leafless, oak that pierced the fragile membranes of her emotions. Cameron, just five years old, like Cally now, had loved the brightly coloured swings of their local park.

Her shoulders hunched over the sink, her hands locked beneath the water. Her head was bowed. A single teardrop fell and caused a tiny ripple on the water's surface. Cam, her beautiful little boy with bright straw-coloured hair several shades lighter than his father's but with the same stunningly blue eyes. She stiffened. She must stop. She couldn't let the grief overwhelm her yet again. She hadn't wept in front of her family for two months now and today, on this new beginning, she must not weaken. Only strong sedatives and responsibility towards the rest of her family—she could not let them down too—had forestalled a complete collapse, although breakdown had threatened repeatedly. Unconditional love from Gabe, Loren and Cally had pulled her through the worst of her misery—at least outwardly it had. How she wished she could be self-contained like Gabe, could keep the grief deep within. Not once throughout their ordeal had she witnessed him shed a tear, although there were times she knew he was close to it; but then, she also knew that his strength was for her and their daughters, that he had withdrawn into himself so that he could help his family bear the pain. Yes, he was strong; but then, unlike her, he was blameless…

A shadow fell across the light. Something moved in the water's reflection.

Startled, she looked up, mouth open in surprise.

Something dark in the rain outside. A hooded shape. Eyes hidden in shadow, but watching her through the window.

With a small frightened cry, Eve took a step backwards.

3: GABE CALEIGH

Gabe shone the flashlight at the generator, checking the fuel dial. Quarter-full, it told him. He pressed the autostart switch but only received a wheezy retch from the engine.

The damp smell of dust and must almost clogged his nostrils as he studied the machine before him, which was lit by the dim lightbulb overhead and the beam of his own flashlight. He was only giving the generator a preliminary once-over to ascertain what work would be necessary to have it running smoothly. The battery was a little flat, but Gabe didn't think that was the main problem. Maybe the juice had gone stale if the gen had been standing idle over a long period of time; the agent had told him that Gabe and his family would be the first tenants of Crickley Hall for ten years or so. Power cuts were frequent in these parts, the estate manager had informed him, and the generator was supposed to kick in when the main electricity failed. Probably the spark plugs need cleaning also, Gabe mused as he squatted there in the darkness of the basement room, which was next door to much larger main cellar. Have to check the fuel filter too—probably full of gunge if it hadn't been cleaned for a while. The machine had a thick layer of dust all over, unlike the boiler that fired up happily beside it, which meant the gen had been neglected for some time.

By profession, Gabriel Virgil Caleigh—Gabe to his wife, colleagues and friends—was a mechanical engineer who had been shipped over to England sixteen years ago, when he was twenty-one, by the American company that employed him, APCU Engineering Corp, because it had a policy of staff exchange with its British subsidiary company. The corporation felt a change of environment and learning experience would be good for him. His reckless insubordination had played a tall part in the decision for, although merely a junior engineer, Gabe could be full of his own ideas and often difficult to handle; he seemed to have an aggressive resentment towards authority. However, he possessed a superb and natural talent for most areas of engineering (although chemical engineering was a discipline that didn't suit him at all) and his potential was clearly recognized. APCU was loath to lose someone of his ability.

In truth, the idea of sending Gabe abroad to a place where civility and mannerly traditions might temper the young employee's fiery disposition came from the corporation's CEO, who not only saw the British through rose-tinted spectacles, but also saw something of his younger self in Gabe and was aware of his background (it was fortunate for Gabe that he had one of those chief executives who took a genuine interest in all the people under him, especially the younger members who showed flair; any other kind of boss might well have fired such a peppery junior after their third warning). And he had been right. It worked.

Initially, Gabe had been almost overwhelmed by his new surroundings and the friendly welcome of his colleagues: he soon warmed to them both and began to lose much of his abrasiveness.

He attended college one day a week and quickly achieved higher-level exams in engineering, after which he applied for and gained membership of the Institute of Structural Engineering. Through this he attained more qualifications, eventually becoming a chartered member, attending interviews and writing papers on various aspects of his profession, such as the latest technology, improved processes and new materials. And as he climbed the ladder of success he met and quickly married Eve Lockley. Their family started with Loren only six months into the marriage.

Gabe glanced around the rough-bricked chamber as he straightened up, taking in the long black cobwebs that hung between the wooden beams, the coal heaped in one corner and a log pile close by. The boiler abruptly stopped its surge and the distant sound of running water came to his ears.

It came from the cavernous cellar next door at whose centre was a circular well, around ten feet in diameter, the shaft driven down to the subterranean river that coursed beneath the house itself. The lip of the old stone wall round it stood no more than a foot and a half high. When, earlier, he had brought his family down to see the well for themselves—his promised 'surprise'—he had repeated to Cally that she was not to come down here alone. Continuing to look around, he flexed his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, twisting his head as he did so, loosening muscles made stiff by the long drive from the city. Old lumps of metal, broken chairs and discarded machinery parts lay about in the gloom as if the basement room was the repository for anything busted or no longer useable. In a far corner he could just make out an old blade-sharpener with a stone wheel and foot pedal. The air was not only dank, but it was chilled too, much of the coldness creeping in from the well cellar. When showing Gabe over the property months before, Grainger, the estate manager, had said that the underground river—imaginatively called the Low River—ran from the nearby moors down to the sea at Hollow Bay, paralleling and eventually joining with the upper Bay River near the estuary. No wonder the whole house felt so chilled, he thought.

He double-tapped the side of the dormant gen with the flat of his hand.

'Later,' he promised, wiping dust from his fingers on his jeans as he made his way through the sundry litter to the doorless opening that led into the main cellar.

Gabe loved machinery of any kind. He loved tinkering with anything from car engines to broken clocks. Years before, until Eve had made him give it up for his family's sake, he had enjoyed stripping down the old motorbike he had owned, putting it back together perfectly each time. It was something he did for fun rather than repair. Back at their London home, in the spare room he used as a office, there were shelves full of venerable mechanical tin toys—marching soldiers, brightly coloured train engines, tiny vintage motorcars and trucks—and clocks bought mainly from junk shops as well as car boot sales, all of which he'd taken apart, then reassembled. Most of them, broken before, were now in working order. He even enjoyed the smell of heavy machinery—the grease, the oil, the aroma of metal itself. He enjoyed the sound of engines at high and low throttle, the purr of a machine idling, the clunk of turning cogs or clicks of ratchets. In the past he had liked nothing better than on a Saturday morning dragging his children, as young as they were, along to South Kensington's Science Museum to see the giant steam-train engines housed there, climbing up into the cabs with them to explain every wheel and lever it took to get the great machines moving. To his credit, because of his enthusiasm, only Loren had been bored by the fourth visit. Cally, held in her father's arms, was much too young to be impressed, but Cam went rigid with excitement and awe every time he saw the great iron mammoths.

Gabe quickly sidelined the memory: today had to be an 'up' day, a keep-busy day, for Eve's sake as well as his own. It was the first time they'd left their real home, with all its associations since—

He cursed himself, forcing the lachrymose thoughts away. Eve needed his full support, particularly now that the anniversary of Cam's disappearance was so close. She was afraid the police would be unable to contact them with any news of their missing son, any clues to his whereabouts—and, hopefully, word that he was still alive, that his abductors were merciful and merely keeping their little boy for themselves—but Gabe had assured her that the police had their new temporary address and phone and cell numbers. He and Eve could be back in the city within a few hours if necessary. But when she had argued that Cam might just turn up on the doorstep on his own to find the house empty, Gabe had been at a loss for comforting words because a small part of him—a small hopelessly desperate part of him—held out for the same thing.

Before passing through the opening into the main basement area, he paused to examine an unusual contraption standing in the shadows left of the doorway, his thoughts at least distracted for a moment. He peered closer, squinting in the shadowy gloom.

The object had two solid-looking wooden rollers, one on top of the other, the smallest of gaps between, and on one side there was an iron wheel with a handle, presumably for turning them. Gabe smiled in quiet awe as he recognized the device for what it was: it was an old-fashioned mangle, used for wringing out water from freshly laundered clothes, the wet material passed through the tight rollers so that the water was squeezed from them. He'd seen one in a book once, but never in the flesh as it were. In the olden days it seemed every home had to have one standing out in the yard or garden. The modern tumble-dryer had taken its place.

Delighted, he touched the rusty cog wheel, then gripped the iron handle, but when he tried to turn it the wooden wheels refused to budge. He shone his light closer, examining the rusted parts, and for a while he was lost to all else. Scrape away the surface rust, clean up the metal, a liberal oiling of the cogs, followed by a smearing of industrial grease, and the mangle would be fine again. Useless, of course, in this day and age—he couldn't see Eve coming down to wring out their clothes with it—but an interesting part of household history.

He stood away from the old mangle, shaking his head in amused wonder, then turned to leave the boiler room. As he did so, the tip of his boot hit something hard and sent it scudding a couple of feet across the dusty floor with a sharp grating noise. He stooped to pick it up and discovered it was a two-foot length of hard metal, two inches or so wide with a round hole at its centre and bevelled edges. It looked like some integral part of a machine, but Gabe had no idea what. He hefted it in his free hand, feeling its weight. Maybe it came from some old gardening machinery, he considered, or maybe—

The small cry came from somewhere next door, barely audible over the noise of the rushing underground river at the bottom of the well. Quickly he stepped through the doorway into the main cellar and heard the faint voice again. Most parents are attuned to the sound of their own child's cry and Gabe was no exception. Cally was calling to him and there was something urgent in her voice.

'Daddy! Daddy! Mummy says come—' there was a short break while she remembered the last words—'right away!'

Gabe tossed the metal bar aside and hurried towards the narrow staircase that led from the cellar.

4: PERCY JUDD

She was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, a hand holding open the cellar door, her small tousled head poking through, obviously heeding his warning never to go down on her own. Gabe climbed the stairs rapidly, poor light overhead and his flashlight lighting the way, and Cally took a step backwards, frightened by the grimness of his expression.

'What's wrong, Cally?' he asked even before he reached the top step.

'Man,' she told him, pointing towards the kitchen.

Gabe strode past her, touching her head lightly as he went. 'It's okay, Skip,' he reassured her gently and she trotted after him, unable to keep up with his determined stride.

The old man stood on the threshold of the kitchen's outer door to the small piece of garden at the side of the house, rainwater dripping off his hooded stormcoat and muddy Wellington boots onto the rough-bristled welcome mat. Gabe came to a halt just inside the hall doorway, surprised and wondering what the fuss had been about, why he had been called so urgently.

Eve, whose back was to Gabe, quickly half-turned at his approach and said, 'Oh, Gabe, this is Mr… Mr Judd, isn't it?' She returned her attention to the stranger for affirmation.

'Judd, missus,' said the man, 'but call me Percy. First name's Percy.'

He spoke with a soft West Country burr that Gabe warmed to immediately.

''Fraid I couldn't stop it, mister, doggie ran right past me.' It came out as roit pas' me.

Gabe appraised the visitor as he walked towards him. He was short and thin, his face weather-ruddied, cheeks and nose flushed with broken capillaries. The hood of his three-quarter coat was pushed back, but he wore a tweed flat cap, silver hair springing from the rim to brush the tops of his large and long-lobed ears.

'Hey,' Gabe said in greeting, stretching out a hand, and the other man looked momentarily puzzled. Gabe corrected himself. 'Hello.'

The old boy had a good firm grip, Gabe noted, and his proffered hand was hard with calluses, the knuckles gnarled and bony, evidence of long-time manual labour.

'What's this about Chester?' Gabe asked, looking round at Eve.

'He scooted out as soon as I opened the door,' she told him.

'Won't've gone fer in this rain, missus.' It was gorn instead of 'gone'. 'Sorry, but I gave the missus bit of a shock when I looked through the window. Frightened the doggie, too. Shot past me when the door was opened.'

'Percy was telling me he's Crickley Hall's gardener,' Eve said, eyebrows raised at Gabe.

'Gardener and handyman, mister. I looks after Crickley Hall, even when nobody's livin' in the place. 'Specially then. I comes in coupla' times a week this time of year. Jus' enough to keep the house and garden in good order.'

To Gabe, Percy appeared too ancient to be of much use either in the garden or in the house. But then he shouldn't underestimate country folk; this old-timer was probably as hardy as they come, despite his years. He felt himself being surveyed by blue eyes that were faded like washed denim and hoped that in his old jeans, leather boots and sweater, his hands and forearms grimy with dirt from the cellar (he wasn't aware of the smudge across his nose and cheek), he didn't disappoint as the new tenant of Crickley Hall.

'You take care of the gen?' he asked and, on seeing the puzzlement return to Percy's face again, added: 'The generator, I mean.'

'No, mister, but I looks after the boiler. Used to run the old furnace on coal an' wood, but now it's on the oil and 'lectric, so it's easy. Tanker comes out whenever it's runnin' low and stretches its feeder pipe over the bridge to the tank behind the house. Don't know 'bout the gen'rator though. Don't rightly unnerstand the blessed thing.'

'Guess I can fix it myself,' Gabe said. The agent told me you get a lot of power cuts in these parts.'

'Always somethin' interferin' with the lines, fallin' trees, lighnin' strikes. The gen'rator was installed 'bout fifteen years ago. Crickley Hall's owner got fed up with using candles an' oil lamps all the time, as well as eatin' cold dinners.' Percy gave a dry chuckle at the thought. 'Yer'll be needin' the gen'rator in good workin' order all right.'

'Who is the owner of this place? The agent never said.'

Eve was interested in the answer to Gabe's question too, wondering who would choose to live permanently in such a bleak mausoleum. Even though the big hall beyond the kitchen was imposing, there was still a cheerlessness about it.

'Fellah by the name of Templeton. Bought Crickley Hall some twenny years ago. Never stayed long though, weren't happy here.'

That came as no surprise to Eve.

'Would you like some tea or coffee, Percy?' she asked.

'Cuppa tea'll do me.' His smile revealed teeth that resembled a row of old crooked and weathered headstones.

Gabe pulled out a chair from the kitchen table for the old gardener and invited him to sit down. Percy removed his cap as he ambled forward and took his seat. Although his silver hair was full over his ears and round the back of his neck, it was sparse over the top of his head.

'Coffee for you, Gabe?' Eve had moved to the sink and was filling the plastic kettle they'd brought with them.

'Yeah, please.' Gabe pulled out a chair for himself and carefully moved Cally's painting aside. He noticed his daughter had remained in the doorway.

'She's a bonny miss,' observed Percy, giving a small wave of his fingers. She responded by smiling and coyly sidling up to the back of Gabe's chair and hanging on to it.

It was Eve who introduced her. 'This is Cally, our youngest. Her real name is Catherine after my mother, but ever since she understood our surname is Caleigh she's insisted on being called her version of it. Our older daughter, Loren, is busy upstairs at the moment.'

'Hello, missy.' Percy stuck out a gnarled old hand to be shaken and Cally shyly touched it with her fingers, withdrawing them swiftly once she'd done so. Percy chuckled again.

'So tell me, Percy,' said Gabe, leaning his forearms on the table, 'who built the house?'

'Crickley Hall was built at the beginnin' of the last century by a wealthy local man by the name of Charles Crickley. He owned most of the harbour's fishing fleet and all the limekilns hereabouts. Great benefactor to the village, he were, but ended up an unhappy man by all accounts. Wanted to make more of Hollow Bay, make it a tourist attraction, but the locals went agin' him, didn't want no changes, wanted the place peaceful like, holidaymakers be damned. All but broke him in the end. Fishin' stocks dropped, South Wales stopped sendin' limestone 'cross the channel to his kilns, and money he invested smartenin' up Hollow Bay for the tourists came to nothin'. Locals even voted agin' him building a pier for pleasure boats an' such in the bay itself.'

'But Charles Crickley built this place,' Gabe prompted.

'Drew the plans for it hisself, he did. Weren't one for fancy ideas.'

'That explains a lot,' said Eve as she poured boiling water over a tea bag in a cup.

'No one likes the look of Crickley Hall,' commented Percy with a sigh. 'Don't like it much meself, never have done.'

'You've worked here a long time?' Eve was now pouring water over the coffee granules.

'All me life. Here and the parish church, I've looked after 'em both. They gives me help with the churchyard nowadays, but I takes care of Crickley Hall on my own. Like I says, jus' a coupla days a week, I come in. Tend the garden mainly.'

He must be seventy-something if he's a day, thought Gabe, glancing at Eve.

'Only time I didn't,' Percy went on, 'were towards the end of the last world war. Sent abroad then, to fight for me country.'

Yup, Gabe confirmed to himself, definitely in his late seventies or early eighties even, if he'd been old enough to fight the Germans back then. He studied the short, wiry man with interest.

'Ol' Crickley blasted a shelf out of Devil's Cleave with dynamite,' Percy continued, 'then built his home on it. Then he dug down to the ol' river that runs underground down the Cleave, made hisself a well in Crickley Hall's cellar. Even though the Bay River was only yards from his front door, he must've reckoned he'd have his own fresh water supply inside the house. Maybe he thought it were purer that way. An' he liked things simple, did Crickley, plain like. Only fancy part were the big hall itself.'

'Yeah, we noticed,' agreed Gabe.

'If he liked things simple,' put in Eve, 'and presumably functional, that must be why the kitchen is at the front.'

'The las' of the Crickleys lef' here in '39,' Percy went on unbidden, 'jus' afore the shebang in Europe started. They wanted to avoid the trouble, thought England were doomed. Scarpered off to Canada, while I stayed on to work 'til I got my call-up papers. Be then, gov'mint had requisitioned the place 'cause it were empty an' they thought it'd do for evacuees. Sold coupla times since—Crickleys didn't want it no more—then the Templetons come along an' bought it. Retired early, Mr Templeton sold his business—somethin' to do with packagin' he told me—an lef' the city fer the countryside. Thought him an' his missis would be content, like, down here.'

She handed Percy his tea and he took it with a nod of gratitude. He blew into the cup to cool it as Eve came back to the table with Gabe's steaming coffee.

'I've just spotted Chester out there sitting under the tree with the swing,' she said anxiously. 'He's looking very sorry for himself.'

'Let him sulk for a while,' said Gabe. 'I'll get him in a minute. He's gotta get used to this place.'

Percy carefully put his cup back onto the saucer. He said gravely: 'Pets don't shine to Crickley Hall.'

Eve returned her gaze to the mongrel, feeling sorry for Chester sitting out there all alone, evidently confused by their long journey away from the home he had always known. Even from the kitchen window she could see that Chester was shivering.

She tapped on the glass to get his attention while the two men behind her continued talking. But the dog wouldn't look her way. He seemed rapt on something quite close to him.

The swing. The swing was swaying gently, but more so than before, when they had first arrived: back and forth it went, almost as if someone—a child—were sitting on it. But of course it was empty.

Must be the wind, Eve thought. But then, although it was raining, the leaves and the tree branches were perfectly still, as were the shrubbery and the longer tufts of grass. There was no wind.

5: LOREN CALEIGH

Wearing a yellow Fat Face long-sleeved T-shirt and beige fatigues more suited to summer than autumn, Loren pulled up her younger sister's baby-blue bedsheet and plumped up the Shrek and Princess Fiona pillow. She reached for the colourful Shrek, Fiona and Donkey duvet at her feet and dragged it up onto the narrow bed, which was twin to her own bed a few feet away. Dad and 'Uncle' Vern had brought them from their real home and put them together a week ago (she and Cally had slept in the spare room until the move). Her long brown hair hung over her face as she tucked the duvet's end and sides under the mattress and when she stood upright there was a frown marring her features.

Loren was at that sensitive, awkward stage of being neither a teenager nor a child, a time when hormones were kicking in and sudden outbreaks of tears were not uncommon. Her thin arms and legs were beginning to develop beyond cuteness. Although she didn't feel it, she was just a normal pre-teenager.

She didn't like Crickley Hall, she didn't like it at all. Away from her friends, having to start a new school on Monday where she would stand out like a freak, a city girl among country bumpkins. It wasn't fair. It was too harsh.

Then she remembered the main reason for the temporary move. It wasn't just because of Dad's job—he often spent weeks away from home on various engineering assignments. No, this time it was because they had to get Mummy away from their proper house. Loren's eyes glistened as she thought of Cameron; what a lovely little brother he was. Now he was gone and Mummy still hadn't got over it. It hadn't been her fault. Mummy was tired and couldn't help falling asleep on the park bench. Cam had just wandered off and someone bad had taken him. Loren tried to imagine who could be that bad, what wicked person would snatch a small boy away and keep him all this time. Why didn't they bring him back, or let him go so that the police or someone kind could find him and bring him home to his family? Who could be that dreadful?

She brushed at her damp eyes with the back of one hand. Dad said they had to be strong for Mummy's sake and she, Loren, had done her best. She rarely cried over Cam any more even though she missed him terribly; she almost had right then because she was in a strange place and was already feeling homesick.

She leaned forward to straighten the duvet and as she did so she caught something moving out of the corner of her eye. Something small had walked past the doorway—no, had run past the bedroom door. She hadn't heard footsteps, but she had definitely seen a blur go past.

It must be Cally. It seemed to be her size even if it was rushed.

'Cally?' Loren called out. 'Is that you out there?'

No reply.

She walked to the open door and looked along the balustraded landing that ran round two sides of the big hall.

Nothing. No one there.

Except… Loren wasn't sure she'd really heard it. But it came again. It sounded like a whimper.

Loren stepped out onto the landing and looked to her right, towards where she thought the sound had come from. Holding her breath, she listened.

It came again. A quiet little sob. And then again. A small child crying.

'Cally?' she called again. 'What's wrong? What's the matter?'

Loren could hear the low buzz of conversation coming from the kitchen doorway below, but the sound she strained to hear again wasn't from there. She took a few paces along the landing, then stopped when she heard another whimper. It came from a cupboard set in the wall.

'Cally,' she called again, this time somewhat irritated. Why wouldn't her sister answer her?

She went to the closed cupboard. Was Cally playing a game, hiding from her? Now she'd shut herself in the cupboard and had become afraid of the dark. But then why didn't she just come out? Had she locked herself in? But she couldn't have: the key was in the lock.

Another tiny sound of a sob. Definitely from inside the cupboard.

Loren reached out a hand for the key. Her fingers closed around it.

And suddenly she was afraid.

The whimpers, the sobs, hadn't sounded like Cally at all. And Cally wasn't a cry-baby anyway. She was mostly a happy girl. The quiet whimper came again and it seemed much further off than from inside the cupboard. Somehow it was distant now.

With sudden resolve, Loren gripped the key hard, turned it and pulled.

The cupboard door swung open and inside there was only—Loren shivered—inside there was only blackness. A blackness so deep it seemed solid.

6: WHITE SHADOW

'Mum! Dad! I heard someone—' Loren all but skidded into the kitchen, her words broken off when she saw the stranger sitting at the kitchen table. All eyes turned to her.

'What is it, Loren?' Eve asked calmly as she leaned back against the sink. There always seemed to be a crisis in her eldest daughter's life these days.

Loren didn't reply immediately, her attention taken up with the visitor, a funny old man with stick-out ears and a red face.

'I heard something… someone upstairs!' She burst out the news, despite the presence of the stranger.

'This is Mr Judd,' Eve told her, ignoring Loren's agitation for the moment. 'He's Crickley Hall's gardener and handyman. He'll be helping us with the place.'

Percy gave her a quick smile but, sitting close to him, Gabe noticed the curiosity in his stare. Was there something else, too? Something that was close to alarm?

'Now, what are you going on about?' Eve's voice was patient.

'I was in our new bedroom,' Loren said in a rush, 'and I saw something go past the door. I thought it was Cally.'

Her little sister was hanging onto the back of her father's chair and she looked confused. 'Not me,' she said as if anxious that she was being accused of doing something naughty.

'I know it wasn't you, silly.' Loren shook her head at Cally.

'Not silly,' Cally insisted.

Gabe stepped in. 'Who did you see, Loren?'

'I… I don't know, Dad. It was like… it was like a white shadow.'

Gabe raised his eyebrows and glanced at Eve, who went to her daughter and put an arm round her shoulder.

'It's true, Mummy,' Loren insisted. 'It was gone before I could look properly. And then I heard someone crying. It wasn't very loud, but I could still hear it I thought it was Cally at first, but she's down here with you and it didn't really sound like her when I got closer.'

'Closer to what?' asked Gabe, still at the table with Percy Judd.

'To the cupboard upstairs,' Loren replied. 'I thought someone had shut themselves inside the cupboard.'

By chance, Gabe had looked towards the gardener again and now he saw there was alarm in those old faded eyes. Yet Percy said nothing. Gabe swung back to Loren and began to rise. 'Let me take a look. Maybe you heard a mouse or something.'

'It wasn't a mouse. It was a voice, Mummy. It was someone small crying.' She looked up at Eve for support.

'It must have been something else, darling,' said Eve gently. 'Perhaps the wind, a draught whistling through.'

'No, it was a voice. Please believe me, Mummy.'

'I do. It's just that you may have been mistaken.'

'C'mon, Loren, we'll take a look together.' Gabe came towards her, reaching out a hand as he approached.

'I already looked, Dad. There was nothing in the cupboard. It was just… dark.'

'Well, we'll take a proper look. I'll bring the flashlight. You okay for a minute, Percy?'

The gardener had already risen to his feet and was adjusting the cap on his head. 'That's all right, mister. You best be goin' with your daughter.'

'Gabe. Call me Gabe. My wife is Eve, and now you've met Cally and Loren.'

Loren pulled at her father's hand, impatient to take him upstairs.

'I'll be on my way.' Percy headed for the kitchen's outer door as if keen to be gone. 'I'll see yer Tuesday afternoon 'less yer wants me sooner. Phone number's on this.' He placed a small crinkled piece of brown paper on a worktop as he passed. 'Anythin' at all, just give me a holler.'

With that he was through the door, pulling the hood over his cap as he went. Rain dampened the welcome mat before he closed the door behind him.

'Okay, Slim,' Gabe said to Loren, 'let's see what all the fuss is about.'

•

'Not much to see,' Gabe announced, shining the light into the deep cupboard. 'Just some cardboard boxes, a mop and a broom, and what looks like a rolled-up rug at the back, nothing much else.'

He had snatched up the flashlight from the narrow chiffonier against the wall in the hall where he'd left it after leaving the cellar earlier, and all four of them, Gabe, Eve and the two girls, had climbed the broad wooden staircase to the first-floor landing.

'It was just dark before,' Loren insisted, looking over his shoulder. 'There was nothing there.' Gabe was crouched so that he could look through the cupboard doorway; the opening itself was about five feet high and three feet wide.

'Sure, but now we got the flashlight. And hey, look back there. The board at the end of the closet is painted black. No wonder it looked so dark in here when you looked before.' The smell of dust wafted from the opening.

'But I heard someone, Dad. I definitely heard someone crying. I thought it was Cally.'

Eve, also crouched, turned to Loren. 'Cally has been with us all the time,' she said softly so that Loren would not feel she was being disbelieved, only mistaken. 'You couldn't have heard her.'

'I know. I mean it sounded like her. A child was crying.'

Gabe moved into the cupboard, going down on one knee. He shifted boxes aside, raising dust. 'Might've been a small animal. Probably a mouse.'

'It wasn't a mouse! Why don't you believe me?'

Eve touched her daughter's shoulder: Loren became distressed all too easily these days. 'We're only saying you might have been mistaken,' she said soothingly.

'But I saw something too. Something went past the door.'

Gabe had moved further into the shadowy space and was pushing more cardboard boxes aside. 'Well, there's nobody in here now,' he said over his shoulder as he began to pull back. 'Coulda been a breeze blowing through the house, as Mummy said. Wind through a crack in the wall can make all kinds of spooky noises.'

'It wasn't the wind,' Loren told him firmly.

Eve could feel no draught or breeze coming from the cupboard. She looked around the landing, then over the balustrade at the hall below.

Gabe backed out and straightened. 'Nothing there, Loren. Guess you imagined it. No big deal.'

Loren turned on her heels and stomped away, disappearing into her new bedroom and closing the door after her.

Gabe and Eve looked at each other and Gabe raised his eyebrows. 'Hormones,' he said.

Eve remained silent.

7: FIRST NIGHT

'Gabe.'

'Uh?'

'Gabe, wake up.'

Eve shook his shoulder. Gabe was a heavy sleeper.

'What…?' He stirred, opened his eyes, eyelids sluggish with sleep.

Eve pushed herself into a sitting position and leaned back against the curved wooden headboard. Rain outside pattered against the room's windows.

She shook Gabe's shoulder again, this time more fiercely. 'Gabe, can't you hear him?'

Reluctantly, he dragged himself from sleep and raised his head. 'Hear who?' he said.

'Listen.'

Now he heard it. Chester's howl drifted across the hall and up the stairs from the kitchen.

'He's frightened,' said Eve.

Gabe rested on one elbow and briskly wiped weariness from his face with the flat of his hand. It had been a long, hard day and this he could do without.

'He'll be okay,' he assured Eve. 'Just needs to get used to the place.'

Eve was staring at the dark opening of the doorway, the door left ajar so that they could hear either of the girls should they wake up in their strange room and be frightened. Their bedroom door had been left open too.

'Gabe!' she said sharply. Something pale had moved into the opening, but it was too dark to see what: so cloudy was the night that the window offered little light. 'There's someone out there.'

Gabe felt the back of his neck go cold, short hairs there stiffening. He sat up in the bed and stared at the doorway and drew in an involuntary breath.

'Mummy? Daddy?'

Both Eve and Gabe felt their bodies relax when they realized Loren had come to their room. The door swung even wider open and the howling below grew more mournful.

'Chester's upset,' Loren said from the doorway.

'It's all right,' Eve soothed. 'He just doesn't like being alone in a new place.'

'He'll settle down soon,' Gabe added.

'But he's crying, Daddy.' In the cold darkness of night he had become 'Daddy' once more.

He pushed the bed's heavy duvet aside, giving in only a tad reluctantly. He was concerned for the mutt too. That afternoon he'd had to venture out in the rain to Chester, who had refused to leave his spot by the oak tree, heedless of their calls and coaxing. He had picked the mongrel up bodily and carried him back into the house; once inside, Chester had shivered in the corner of the kitchen next to the door while Loren wiped him down with an old towel, his eyes bulging so hard that the whites at the sides were visible. Eventually, and with Loren stroking his wiry fur, Chester had fallen into a troubled sleep.

'You go back to bed, Loren, and I'll go down and see to Chester,' Gabe said as he padded over to the door.

'Can't he sleep on my bed?' Loren implored.

'Uh-huh, kid. He's gotta get through the night on his own. We can't have him sleeping upstairs.'

'Just this once, Daddy. He won't disturb me if he's on the end of my bed. I promise he'll be good.'

'Let me see how he is first.'

'Thank you, Daddy.'

'I didn't say I'd bring him up, I said I'll see how he is. And if he does come up, he'll be in this room, not with you. Now get yourself back to bed before you catch cold.'

She disappeared into her own room, but before he could go to the stairs, her head popped out again.

'You won't be cross with him, will you?' she said plaintively.

'Bed.' He used his no-nonsense tone and she disappeared.

He remembered there was a light switch somewhere on the landing and his hand scrabbled against the wall beside the bedroom door. There, found it. He clicked on the landing light, which was dim, hardly strong enough to spill into the hall below. The switch to the iron chandelier was inconveniently somewhere by the front door.

Gabe usually slept in T-shirt and boxers, but because the house was cold, tonight he wore dark pyjama leggings below the T-shirt. The landing's bare floorboards, which had been varnished some time ago, were cool under his bare feet and for once he wished he was the kind of guy who wore slippers. Hand using the wide rail for guidance, he went down the stairs into the hall's shadowy darkness, old boards creaking beneath his tread. Pausing on the small square landing at the turn of the stairs, even the tall window behind him affording scant light, rain pitter-pattering against the glass, he looked across the grand hall towards the closed kitchen door. But it was another door that caught his attention, a deeper blackness among the shadows. The cellar door was open and he swore he'd closed and locked it earlier in the evening, ever fearful of Cally wandering down to look at the well and its dangerously low wall. Now it was open, unlocked. Had Eve gone down there to see the well for herself—they had been too busy for the full tour earlier—and forgotten to close and lock the door after her? Yet he was sure, being the last one to turn in that night, that the cellar door was at least closed if not locked. He mentally shrugged. Okay, if that was the case, maybe a draught from the well below had forced it open. Had to be, there was no other explanation. A river running beneath the house could cause all sorts of air disturbances, a breeze—a wind even—travelling up the shaft, then funnelled up the cellar stairs.

He descended the rest of the stairway and crossed the umbrageous hall, its flagstones even colder than the wood under his feet. He was an idiot not to have taken the flashlight up to the bedroom with him: he could just make out its black barrel standing erect on the chiffonier where he'd left it next to the old-style phone earlier. Padding over to the narrow sideboard, he picked up the heavy flashlight and switched it on. No need to turn on the hall's light when he had his own source.

Just for the sake of it, he swept the beam around the room, chasing shadows away, lighting up the deeper corners. Everything seemed in order apart from the open cellar door, which he swiftly moved towards. He shut it and heard the lock click as he turned the key. Foolishly, Gabe had to admit to himself he somehow felt more at ease with the door locked.

From the kitchen came Chester's desperate howl and Gabe realized the dog must have quietened when he heard the creaking of the stairs, although for some reason Gabe hadn't noticed. Now the cry was more urgent than before.

The flashlight's beam providing a path for him, Gabe went to the kitchen door and opened it. The howl broke off midway and Chester's short tail began to thump the floor in nervous agitation. Lit by the strong beam, Gabe saw that Chester's neck was stretched to its limit as he perked up.

'Okay, fellah,' Gabe said soothingly as he approached the tough-haired mongrel. 'No one's gonna harm you. Just tell me what all the fuss is about.'

Without switching on the overhead light, Gabe knelt down in front of the quivering dog and began to stroke his head, then pat his side. In return, Chester endeavoured to lick Gabe's face and, when Gabe pulled back, was content to lick his master's outstretched hand.

'There you go.' Gabe kept his voice soft. 'No spooks around to scare you. Only me. Now settle down so we can all get some sleep.'

But Chester would not lie down. He stood on all fours, his favourite blanket rumpled beneath him, and tried to nuzzle his master's face again. Gabe pulled the dog to him and cradled the trembling body in his arms.

'Hush now, you crazy mutt,' he whispered. 'Nothing to bother you in this place. Momma and the girls are in bed where I oughta be, so just you snuggle down and go to sleep.'

Chester only pushed against him all the more.

A flurry of rain suddenly lashed at the kitchen windows causing Gabe to swing round and almost overbalance.

'Wild out tonight, Chester,' he said to the pet. 'You don't wanna be out there in this weather, do you? Is that what all the fuss is about? You busting to go AWOL again, or maybe you just wanna get busy?' 'Busy' was their code for Chester relieving himself. 'You need go find a nice tree?'

Gabe stood and reached for the key in the kitchen's outer door, twisted it, then pulled back the top and bottom bolts. He swung the door open just enough for Chester to slip through the gap, but the dog merely shrunk away from the opening as rain gusted through.

'No? Don't want out? Don't blame you, Chester, don't blame you at all. But come on, you gotta stop this wailing. You're keeping us all awake.' Gabe closed the door and locked it again, then squatted down beside the trembling dog.

'What is it? You wanna come upstairs with me, is that it?'

The dog pressed against his knees.

'Can't do it, boy. You gotta get a handle on the place. Toughen up, okay?'

Gabe stood and went to the inner door. 'Now not another peep outa you. Be a pal and go to sleep.'

As soon as Gabe shut the door behind him, the wailing began again, only this time it was even more agitated. He heard Chester scratching at the kitchen's inner door. Gabe went back, threw open the door and scooped the dog up in his arms.

'Just for tonight, Chester,' he told the dog as he headed for the stairs, flashlight shining ahead. 'Tomorrow you're on your own, understand? No more howling, no more looking moon-eyed at me. Tomorrow night you stay down here no matter what ruckus you kick up. I'm serious, mutt, you can caterwaul as much as you like, but you're staying in the kitchen. If I leave you in the hall you'll be up the stairs, so that's just not gonna happen. You hear me, Chester?' He lifted one of the dog's ears when he made the last remark, but Chester only snuggled further against him.

Gabe had kept his voice low as he chastised the mongrel, but firm enough to let him know he meant business. Halfway across the flagstone floor with Chester's head nestling in the crook of one arm, the other supporting the dog's hindquarters as well as directing the flashlight, Gabe suddenly hopped onto one foot.

'What the hell…?'

His foot had splashed into a puddle on the floor. He manoeuvred the flashlight so that he could look down at his feet and, sure enough, there was a small puddle of water there. He must have missed it earlier on his way to the kitchen because he'd been diverted towards the cellar. He also became aware of that now-familiar musty, damp odour that was so prevalent in the cellar: it had invaded the hall itself.

Swinging the light beam up towards the high ceiling, he searched for any damp patches, reasoning that the fierce rain outside had found a way into the attic area (which had not yet been inspected) and was dripping through the floor. The great iron chandelier threw eerie shadows onto the ceiling, like a giant spider's legs; but there were no wet patches or stains up there.

Still wondering at its cause, Gabe skirted the small pool of water on the floor and made for the stairs, Chester still shivering in his arms. And when he reached the stairs, he came to a halt again.

There was another tiny puddle in the middle of the third step. Another on the small square landing turn.

Avoiding the first stair puddle, he made his way up, stopping once more at the turn. He shone the flashlight up the second, longer flight of stairs.

There seemed to be small puddles on every second or third step. He wondered how he'd missed them on his way down.

8: HOLLOW BAY

They left the dog behind in Crickley Hall because they intended to have lunch in Hollow Bay's pub/restaurant (the previous week, when Gabe and Vern had taken a break from moving furniture and other essential items into Crickley Hall, they had sampled Barnaby Inn's fare and Gabe highly recommended it; he also favoured the local brew) and they didn't know the management's policy regarding customers bringing pets into the establishment.

The inn was certainly quaint, with its white walls, thatched roof, leaded windows and outside hanging lamps that were lit due to the day's dusk-like gloom. It would certainly have been a tourist magnet had the indigenous population not been so stranger-shy; the locals seemed to set more store in privacy than financial gain for, although it was late in the season and the weather was foul, there should have been more people on the two streets of the village than there were today—those few they did meet along the 'promenade' were certainly not holidaymakers, to judge by their sensible if dour attire.

Although the few shops and many of the houses looked pleasant enough in their pastel pinks and blues, the majority of them white-fronted, on closer inspection it could be noticed that the paintwork was flaky and cracked in places, the decoration tired and weather-worn, the woodwork chipped. Most windows were dark and uninviting, as if concealing their tenants, only one or two orange with the glows of autumn hearth fires. Rainwater gushed along gutters and pooled round overworked drains, sodden October leaves piling into heaps that blocked the gratings. The single teashop—perhaps the village's only deference to the sightseer—that Gabe and his family passed on their journey to the inn seemed dingy and unappealing, its fluorescent lighting too harsh, and drab lace half-curtains hung from a tarnished brass rail across the long window-front as if privacy was more important than invitation.

Fortunately, the Barnaby Inn, with its smoky-yellow walls and broad, sturdy posts rising to a low, beamed ceiling, a roaring log fire in the large inglenook fireplace at one end of the room, had proved a welcome retreat from the dismal mood of the harbour village itself (possibly the downpour negatively influenced their judgement).

Eve had at least tried to convince herself that overcast skies and constant fall of chilled rain, together with the great steel-grey expanse of the Bristol Channel whose waters lapped at the harbour wall, all conspired to render the village joyless and somehow, if it could be said of a place, sullen. Or was her own morbid depression tainting everything she saw and felt?

The only thing that slightly spoilt the pub's welcoming atmosphere was the hard stares they received from the customers inside when the family bustled in, dripping water onto the rubber entrance mat and voicing their relief to be out of the rain. They were boldly watched as Gabe guided Eve and the girls to a cushioned benchseat against a wall, a long wooden table between it and two hard-backed chairs.

'We don't loik strangers 'roind ere,' Gabe whispered to Eve in an awful version of the West Country accent as he pulled out one of the chairs for her. At least she smiled when she shushed him.

The other customers returned to their conversations and brews, little warmth or further interest coming from them.

However, the barmaid, who had short chestnut-coloured hair and a dazzling smile, was courteous and friendly as she reeled off the two specials of the day to them from her position behind the bar, and the food, when it arrived, was both tasty and abundant. Even Loren, who was a picky eater at the best of times and who had groaned when the huge plate of sea bass with chips and peas was placed in front of her, finished nearly every last morsel. The sea air and the long walk down to the village were obviously doing wonders for her appetite, Eve thought to herself, pleased by the transition. Gabe relished the local brew again (he and Vern had sunk several pints of Tawny Bitter between them on their earlier visit, the hard graft of lifting and unloading stuff back at Crickley Hall engendering a special kind of thirst), while Eve stuck to tonic water (she used to enjoy good wines, but hadn't touched alcohol in almost a year), the girls orange and lemonade mixed (Loren's idea of a sophisticated drink, Cally copying her big sister).

When Gabe returned to the bar for a refill and another tonic for Eve, a thickset man with a florid face and greying hair appeared from a doorway behind the counter. He had the air of a landlord or manager and it was he who served Gabe.

'Passin' through, is it?' the man asked conversationally as he drew the pint.

'Uh-uh, I'm working in these parts for a short while, coupla months mebbe,' Gabe replied. 'Staying up at Crickley Hall.'

The beer flowed over the lip of the glass into a hidden sink below the bar as the man stared at him.

Wait a bit, Gabe thought. I've seen this movie. Isn't this where the ruddy-faced local warns him to keep clear of the old house up there on the hill? 'Strange things 'appen up there at the 'all.'

But the barman merely pushed back the pump and righted the glass. He smiled pleasantly as he placed the ale on the bar mat in front of Gabe and said, 'Dreadful weather we're havin' lately. Must have rained for three weeks solid now. Hope it don't spoil yer stay.'

'We'll be keeping ourselves pretty busy,' Gabe told him as he waited for the tonic. 'My daughter starts at the local school Monday.' The 'local' school was several miles away in the nearest town of Merrybridge.

Pouring half the tonic water into a fresh glass and leaving the rest in the bottle, which he stood beside it, the barman nodded. 'That'll be Merrybridge Middle School, will it? She'll be all right there. Most of the village kids go to the Merry Middle. Picked up by bus from the main street. S'pect the driver will make a stop at Crickley Hall for yer daughter, no problem for him. Frank's one of my regulars so I'll mention it when he comes in tonight. The school will have to make the formal arrangement regarding payment and insurance, but that's easily done.'

'Thanks, I'd be grateful. I'm taking her in myself the first morning but I'll fix it with the school. I need to go into Ilfracombe anyway.'

'And what about the little 'un?'

'She's only five. My wife'll take care of her while we're down here.' Gabe knew Eve would teach Cally the basics of reading and writing far more strictly than any nursery school.

As the other man took the money for the drinks and food from Gabe, he remarked, 'Big place, that Crickley Hall. Yer'll be rattlin' around in it.'

'I bet it'll be cold, too, in this weather.' This came from the attractive chestnut-haired barmaid, who had come back from serving a customer at the far end of the bar. Her Devonian burr was barely noticeable; if anything, her accent was more south London than West Country. 'It'll be damp. All those old places are.'

'Yeah, I found puddles on the stairs last night and I'm not sure how they got there,' Gabe replied. 'Maybe from a loose window frame. There's a big window over the stairs. All gone this morning, though, not even damp patches left behind.'

'You wait 'til there's a proper storm. Then you'll know about it. You've probably got a leaky roof too.' The girl gave a brief mock shiver.

The barman shrugged. 'Owner's not lived there fer years and them that rented it never stayed long.'

Oh-oh, Gabe said to himself wryly, here it comes. Fifty years ago a mad axeman chopped up his family and hid the body parts all over the house, or at the turn of the last century the wealthy owner of Crickley Hall, old Charlie Crickley himself, forbade his daughter to marry the local ratcatcher and she hanged herself in the cellar.

But the bartender went on: 'That's why the place has been so neglected and why yer gettin' yer leaks.'

'I thought the old guy, Percy—Percy Judd?—took care of the house.'

The other man gave him a rueful grin. 'Percy's a bit ancient to do much upkeep. That's why the estate manager pays two ladies from the village to go in and give it a good dusting once a month. No, Percy can't do a lot on his own nowadays. To be honest wiv yer, he's only kept on out of kindness. Has he been knocking on yer door yet?'

'Yesterday, soon after we arrived. Just how old is he?'

The barman's forehead creased as he took a moment to think. He scratched his chin. 'Oh, he must be… well, I don't know for sure, but he's got to be nearly eighty by now. Served overseas wiv the army at the end of the last world war, so he must be getting' on a bit.'

Gabe whistled softly through his teeth. 'And he's still working?'

'Like I say, as a kindness. No one likes to sack him, y'see. He helps out at the church en' all, but nothing too heavy, just tending the churchyard, collectin' hymn books after Mass, that sort of thing. He's a dear old chap, set in his ways, though, determined like. Won't retire no matter how many times it's been suggested. He's harmless—won't give yer no bother.'

'He's sweet,' chimed in the barmaid.

'Customer wants serving, Frannie.' The barman gave a nod towards a customer waiting further down, two empty glasses before him on the counter. Giving Gabe one final smile, Frannie went off to take the customer's order.

The barman leaned one elbow on the bar. 'I'm the landlord of the Barnaby,' he told Gabe, 'and anything yer want to know about the area, just drop by and I'll try to oblige. If I'm not around, my wife, Vera, or our Frannie will be.'

Warmed by the man's friendliness, Gabe smiled. 'That's kind of you. I guess we'll be okay.'

'Well, don't hesitate. We could do with some new faces around 'ere. Good luck to you and yer family, Mr…?'

'Gabe Caleigh.' Gabe extended a hand across the beer mat and the landlord shook it.

'Sam Pennelly's me name. Enjoy yer stay, Mr Caleigh. Yer in a beautiful spot up there in the gorge.'

Gabe poured the rest of the tonic into its glass and was about to turn away, both glasses in his hands, when a thought struck him. 'Out of interest, how did Devil's Cleave get its name? It's kinda dark for such a wonderful place.'

Now the landlord had both elbows on the bartop as he leaned forward as if to speak confidentially. 'Centuries ago,' he said, his broad face serious, his voice husky, 'the Devil, hisself, tried to cut his way inland from the sea to flood all the villages hereabouts. First he took a bite out of the cliffs and that's how Hollow Bay came to be. Years of land erosion have widened the bay, of course. Anyway, they say after he took his first bite he attempted to gnaw his way up to the moors, but his teeth eventually got worn down to the gums and he couldn't get no further so, frustrated like, he sloped off back to sea swearing to have his revenge one day. And he did, but I'll leave that for another day, Mr Caleigh.'

The landlord straightened up and Gabe grinned at him, then froze the grin as he realized Pennelly's expression remained serious. For a beat or two there was a silence between the two men and Gabe was bemused.

Then the other man chuckled, his face breaking into a broad, yellow-toothed smile.

'Sorry, didn't mean to get a rise from yer,' the landlord apologized, continuing to smile, 'but that's how the tale goes. There's a lot of nonsense legends in these parts and they make good conversations round a roaring fire on winter nights.' He had one last chuckle before saying, 'Nice to meet you and your family, Mr Caleigh. You're always welcome at the Barnaby, so don't you stay away. You take good care of those girls of yours, now—all three of 'em I mean.'

Pennelly strolled off to talk to some customers at the other end of the bar and Gabe brought the drinks back to the table.

Eve looked up at him as he placed the glass before her. 'You seemed to be having a nice chat,' she said, and it was really a question: what were they talking about?

Gabe took his seat. 'Yeah, nice people. But I think the guy was twisting my head at the end.' He supped his beer.

'How did the guy twist your head, Daddy?' asked Cally, taking her lips from the straw she was using.

'Oh, he was just telling me how Hollow Bay and the ravine were made.'

'Gorge,' corrected Loren, who liked her father to speak proper English on occasion (she did this not out of embarrassment but because she genuinely thought she was being helpful, even though all her friends thought his American accent was cool).

'Tell us how, please,' Cally demanded noisily draining the last of her drink.

Gabe lowered his own voice as he told them the tale of how Hollow Bay and Devil's Cleave got their names.

9: THE PROJECT

'See it out there?'

Hunched in his coat against the steady drizzle, Gabe pointed over the stone harbour wall and Eve and the girls followed his direction. Loren and Cally wore yellow, hooded plastic macs while Eve had on her parka, deep blue in colour and drawn in at the waist to give it shape. While she and the girls had the hoods of their coats up, Gabe had stuffed his woollen beanie hat into one of his reefer jacket's pockets, because sometimes he enjoyed the feel of rain or wind on his face and head. His hair was already darkened by the hard rain, but his only concession to the weather was to pull his coat collar up round his neck.

He was pointing at a metal column topped by a square-shaped box that rose from the sea like a sentinel just over two miles from the harbour boundary. A scarcely visible ladder ran down its length into the choppy waters.

'How can you fit in there, Daddy?' asked Cally peering up from beneath her hood. 'It's very tiny.'

Gabe grinned. 'It's bigger than it looks. That's where I'll probably be next week, checking it out.'

'It's too far to swim,' she said, frowning.

What they couldn't see was the important submerged part of the structure, two giant twin rotors resembling aircraft propeller blades attached to either side of a steel monopile which was set into a deep hole drilled into the seabed. Essentially it was a brilliantly conceived device for harnessing power from the sea itself, using tidal flows to turn the rotors.

It was situated where full advantage could be taken of the Bristol Channel's high tidal current velocities; because sea water was eight hundred times more dense than air, quite slow velocities of water could generate significantly more energy than whole crops of surface windmills, and with considerably more regularity and predictability. Gabe's company APCU Engineering (UK) was but one of a consortium of varied companies involved in the production and financing of the prototype, with the UK's DTI and European Commission also partly funding and supporting the enterprise. The parent company, whose invention this was, was aptly named Seapower. The end view was to create whole lines of such marine turbines just off the coast of countries and continents around the world, most of them linked to national grids.

However, as cost efficient and energy productive as these marine current turbines would be, there was a downside, and this was one of the reasons APCU's engineering skills had been sought for the prototype. Maintenance and repairs were, to say the least, challenging, and APCU's engineers had suggested that if the structure's rotors and drive chain could be raised above the waterline when necessary, then maintenance and repair could far more easily be carried out working from a surface vessel. Gabe, who many times in the past had helped design and worked on offshore oil rigs, had been sent to Devon to replace a colleague who had had to resign from the project for health reasons. The temporary assignment was to assist in solving the various but crucial technical problems involved in such an operation.

Loren tugged at his elbow. 'Dad, won't it be awful working out there all day? What if there's a storm?'

'Uh-uh. I only have to visit the actual site now and again. Most of the problems are gonna be worked out on paper. S'why I brought my laptop and printer with me.' The AutoCAD computer program was a boon to the engineering industry, solving problems that used to take hours, if not weeks, in seconds. 'Most of my work time's gonna be spent at the company's local office in Ilfracombe.' Ilfracombe, some ten or twelve miles away, was the nearest big town to Hollow Bay. 'And then a lot of work I can do back at the house, so you'll probably be seeing much more of me than usual.'

'But you brought your laptop too, Mum,' Loren said, turning to Eve. 'Why do you need yours?'

'Oh, just to keep hooked up to a few magazines back in London. You know I still do occasional freelance work.'

'But you haven't for a long, long time.'

'No, and it's time I got back to doing something useful.' God, Eve thought to herself, as if writing trivia for women's magazines was anything useful. At least if some assignments did come up they would keep her mind occupied for a while. She desperately needed distraction and she intended to call some of the mags she'd written for in the past. Perhaps an article on moving to the countryside, or making friends in a completely new environment. Perhaps something on how it feels to lose a beloved child. No, not that—she could never do that.

Cally, who was barely tall enough to see over the harbour wall, tugged at Gabe's hand, impatient to move on. 'Can we go now?' she pleaded. 'Chester will be lonely on his own.'

Feeling wicked, they had locked the whimpering dog in Crickley Hall's kitchen: it would have been even more heartless to leave Chester tied up by his lead in the rain while they had lunch. Besides, they had spoiled him last night when Gabe had brought him up to their bedroom and allowed him to lie at the end of the bed (Gabe had felt Chester continue to shiver in his sleep before he, himself, had dropped off). Leaving the dog alone today might just cure his nervousness. Of course, equally, it might just make him worse. With an inward sigh, Gabe turned away from the sea and led his family back up Hollow Bay's main but narrow thoroughfare.

Towards the end of the street and almost opposite an iron and concrete bridge that crossed the swift-flowing river, they came upon a shop whose broad sign above two large plate-glass windows proclaimed it T. Longmarsh, General Store/Newsagent, and Eve, her arm linked through Gabe's, brought them to a halt.

'I need to get something for tonight's dinner,' she told Gabe. 'And for tomorrow's lunch.'

Gabe peered through the window. 'Okay, let's see what they got. S'all freezer-packs by the look of it.'

Cally had taken time to stand in the kerbside gutter and stamp her Wellington boots into the stream of water that rushed towards a storm drain further along. Loren jumped away to avoid being splashed.

'Hey, Cally, quit it,' Gabe warned. 'You can look at the books in the store while we shop.'

'Bummer,' Cally complained as she stepped back onto the kerb and Gabe had to hide his grin as Eve frowned at her.

Loren giggled, but knew better than to encourage her sister's take on Bart Simpson, so turned away as if honestly interested in the window display. Eve mounted the step into the store's porched entrance and the wood-framed glass display cabinet next to the door caught her eye. Inside it were cards of various sizes and colours, each bearing handwritten or typed messages advertising second-hand goods or services for purchase or hire. She glanced over them with casual interest. There were plumbers, gardeners and garden tools for hire, a pram, used cars and kittens for sale. There were ads for a veterinary service, estate agents and local dentist on view, and more items for sale such as an 'almost new' Apple computer and a Singer sewing machine, cottages to rent, and a church jumble sale announced for a date long since passed. There were faded cards for a psychic reading, an undertaker, speckled pullets, a lime distributor and a reconditioned tractor.

'We going in, hon?' Gabe prompted from the rain-soaked pavement.

Eve had been lost for a moment—such moments were becoming more and more frequent lately—taking in the cards without registering any in particular. A bell tinkled above the door when she pushed through.

The shop was crowded with small freezer units and shelves loaded with confectionery and tinned food, alongside stationery, the smaller kind of DIY products—glues, picture hooks, nails, saws and hammers—with stand-alone magazine and book racks taking up much of the floor space. Jars of sweets, miniature displays of mints and chewing gums, and local and national newspapers shared space with a cash machine on the counter, behind which a plump woman of middle years and severe countenance had become alert to her new customers.

Eve, Gabe, Loren and Cally piled in, dripping wet, a fresh breeze blowing in with them, carrying rain through the porch and over the threshold. Gabe hastily closed the door behind them to preserve the warmth inside.

'Pretty nasty out there,' he said half apologetically to the woman behind the counter, who merely stared back at them through horn-rimmed glasses. 'Yep,' he answered himself under his breath, 'it's pretty wild.'

Eve nudged him with an elbow and he feigned interest in a bookrack close by. Eve immediately went to one of the two freezer units, smiling hello to the shopkeeper as she passed by her. Shrugging off her hood, Cally trotted over to the shelves of sweets and chocolate bars, while Loren went to the magazine carousel.

Gabe, standing by his own book carousel, glanced around the store and wondered at the cornucopia of goods on offer. Bags of dog food leaned against one wall, the shelves above filled with lemonade, Coke and Fanta bottles; affixed to card displays on the walls were combs, hairgrips, packs of women's tights, hairbrushes and cheap digital watches. More shelves were stacked with soap powders and detergents, dusters and mops, firelighters and sunglasses, loaves and bread rolls. The place seemed to cater for all needs and, judging by the abundance of stock, did a brisk trade, although at that particular moment there were only three other customers: a stockily built old lady wearing a pink see-through ankle-length mac, who was ambling over to the counter clutching a ready-sliced loaf in one arm and a pack of PG Tips in the other, while behind the magazine carousel where Loren was studying teen magazine titles there lurked a girl of about Loren's age and height but stocky, and a taller, older boy. They were taking peeks round the carousel at Loren, ducking back whenever she looked their way.

Shy kids, Gabe thought, browsing himself. One of the titles before him caught his eye. The Great Hollow Bay Flood the title said and, curious, he picked out the front copy. It was a slim, soft-covered edition and he flicked through the first few pages. It seemed the harbour village had suffered a devastating flood during the Second World War, when buildings had been destroyed and many lives lost. He became more interested and thumbed through to the pages of black-and-white photographs that showed the village in the flood's aftermath. The images were grim: houses totally demolished, vehicles turned over onto their backs in the main street, workmen clearing rubble, giant boulders in the streets, broken walls, debris of wrecked homes and buildings littering the mud of the foreshore along with overturned fishing boats. Later photographs depicted excavators and cranes clearing the wreckage, military vehicles bringing in troops (as there was a war on at the time, Gabe assumed that these were drawn from the reserves), diggers bearing loads of rubble and wood, and fresh scaffolding being erected. It must have been one hell of a night, he thought.

Loren was aware of the two customers on the other side of the carousel—she'd glimpsed a hefty-looking girl, probably around her own age, but who dressed a lot older, and a taller boy with stick-up hair and a harsh case of acne—and tried to ignore them, even when she felt the magazine rack held firmly from the other side as she tried to turn it. Forced to move round the rack instead of spinning it, she soon came within proper sight of the two and she gave them a hesitant smile of greeting. She had half pulled a Shout from its rack between Cosmogirl and Pop Star when the big-built girl spun the carousel and the bottom corner of the magazine was caught and pulled from Loren's grasp. It fell to the floor, its contents of special offers and other junk literature spilling out.

Loren flushed and immediately went down on her haunches to retrieve the magazine and its colourful detritus, growing even redder when she heard the other girl say, 'Geek.' Sniggers followed.

Feeling embarrassed, humiliated even, such was her sensitivity, Loren gathered up the gaudy adverts for teenage skincare cream, panty liners and hair gel, and stuffed them back inside the magazine.

Just then, Cally came trotting round a floor shelf clutching a tube of Smarties in one hand (she guessed her mother would refuse to let her have them so, even at that tender age aware that daddies were much easier to manipulate, she was bringing them to Gabe). She came to a stop when she saw the big girl and boy glaring at Loren and heard them call her a silly name. Cally poked her tongue out at them.

'Spazzie,' the big girl called her.

'Bite my shorts,' Cally replied.

Loren put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. She took her sister's hand and led her away. 'It's not bite my shorts, Cally,' she whispered, leaning close to Cally's ear. 'Bart always says eat my shorts.'

Gabe had witnessed the minor encounter from behind the bookrack, reluctant to interfere: Loren had to learn to stand up for herself. Sure, if the situation had got serious, if the girl and boy had tried physically to bully his daughter, then he would have stepped in, but instead Cally's response had made him wince, then grin. They really had to wean their youngest daughter off The Simpsons.

'What are you two up to back there?' came a stern voice from the other side of the shop. It was the shopkeeper, whose broad upper body was angled over the counter as she stood on tiptoe to see round the magazine racks. 'Is that you acting the maggot, Seraphina Blaney? Come on out and bring yer daft brother Quentin with yer. Yer've spent too long already moochin' around. Are yer buyin' or not?'

Reluctantly, the girl sidled out from behind the magazines, the boy, who must have been about fourteen, slouching after her, and Loren got a good look at them both as they deliberately brushed by her.

'Saddo,' the girl slyly said to Loren as she passed; the acne-cursed youth sneered a grin.

'Come on now, what yer got there to buy?' It sounded like to boiy. The shopkeeper had evidently lost patience with them, for she added: 'It's taken yer half the day to choose.'

The sturdy-looking girl offered up a can of Diet Coke while the spotty boy grasped a Twix in his fist. Seraphina wore her hair scraped back over her scalp in sink-estate style, a rubber band holding it together at the back of her neck so that it hung down in a lank ponytail. There was a hardness to her features despite the pudginess of her flesh: her eyes were mean and narrow anyway, but were made even meaner and narrower by the surrounding plumpness, and even the shortness of her nose failed to soften her looks, for the lips below were thin, almost a gash in her face.

It would have been hard to tell they were brother and sister, for the boy had large doleful eyes and, although stocky, he was tall as well, with slouched shoulders and a concave chest that made him appear slightly paunchy. His tufty hair was slick with gel and his mouth hung gormlessly half open. His face and neck were tortured by angry-looking pimples and pustules, but such was his bearing—he somehow walked with an arrogant but hunched swagger—it was almost impossible to feel any sympathy.

Both had on brightly coloured anoraks—hers blue, his red—and both wore heavy boots. The girl looked back at Loren, spite in those narrow eyes, as she collected her change.

'Found a mag you want, honey?' Gabe said to distract his daughter, who had brought Cally over to him.

'Oh, it doesn't matter, Dad. I was only looking.'

Although Cally had saved the day and made her giggle, Loren was still skittish, still intimidated, and he wanted to enfold her in his arms. He realized they all—all except Cally, who was a tough little tiger and too young to mourn the loss of her brother after all this time—had the tendency to over-emote given the slightest provocation these days, although they had different ways of expressing it. Loren would verge on the hysterical at times (or was over-reaction the norm for a girl of her age?), whereas Eve gave in to things too easily, almost as if detached from them. And Gabe, himself? Well, he was aware his old aloofness had returned, that he kept his emotions on a tight rein, allowing no one in, afraid of letting go. He was conscious of his own lack of overt emotion, didn't like it in himself, but he was afraid of lowering his defences once more. He tried, oh how he tried, but instead feigned a superficial cheerfulness. Not just for the sake of his family and friends, but for himself also. Inside, he was hurting badly.

'Choose a couple anyway,' he said to Loren, indicating the magazine rack.

'Thanks, Dad.' She picked out the magazine she had dropped only a few moments ago.

The bell over the door tinkled as the hefty girl and her brother left the shop.

'These'll do for tonight and tomorrow's lunch, Gabe.' Eve was holding several packs in her arms: tagliatelles, shepherd's pies, steak and mushroom pies and a vegetable mix.

'They'll do for about a week,' he commented, taking some of the packs from her.

'Hardly. Not with you three gannets. I'll do a proper shop on Monday. There's bound to be a Tesco or, with luck, a Waitrose in one of the local towns.' She had lowered her voice, presumably so as not to offend the shopkeeper who was watching them attentively.

'Bring your magazines, Loren,' Gabe said over his shoulder as he followed Eve over to the cash till. 'Sparky, where you got to?'

Cally's squeaky voice came from behind a display of kitchen utensils. 'Coming, Daddy.' She appeared clutching a jumbo bag of Maltesers in her hands as well as the original Smarties.

Grinning, Gabe shook his head. 'That's too much. Ask your mother.'

'No, Cally, just one thing, just the Smarties, okay?' Eve told her.

'But, Mummy

'No buts,' Gabe said firmly. 'Put the big pack back.'

Having extorted at least one prize, Cally scooted back to the confectionery shelves.

While the shopkeeper was totting up the bill on the cash register, Gabe returned to the rack and picked out the book he had glanced through before. He also took an Ordnance Survey map of the Hollow Bay area.

'Some flood,' he said as he laid the book on the counter and pointed at the black-and-white photograph of the devastated village on the cover.

The shopkeeper's severe expression had considerably softened now that the evidently troublesome brother and sister had departed and her new customers had made a decent purchase. 'It happened in the night,' she responded as she put the packs in plastic bags marked with the store's name. 'Sixty-eight people crushed or drowned. Don't think Hollow Bay's ever got over it even after all these years.'

You got that right, Gabe thought to himself. There was definitely something brooding about the harbour village, a kind of heaviness in the very air. Then again, maybe it was only due to the constant rain: it'd make anywhere seem miserable. He nodded his head sympathetically at the woman. She took them all in, studying each member of his family individually through horn-rimmed glasses as she continued to pack by instinct alone.

'Yer stayin' local like, are you?' she asked Eve after payment had been made.

'Crickley Hall,' Eve said back and Gabe noticed the shopkeeper's eyes harden for a fraction of a second. 'My husband has business in these parts for a month or two,' Eve continued by way of explanation.

'Yes, I heard it were bein' rented out again. S'been a long time since.' The woman folded her arms and suddenly looked formidable. But once again, she softened when she looked over the counter at Cally and Loren. 'Just you look after the little ones,' she said to Eve and Gabe both.

Eve glanced round at Gabe and he raised and dropped his eyebrows at her.

10: THE GRAVES

The rain had thinned and turned into a steady drizzle as they made their way up the hill towards Crickley Hall. There were only a few houses on either side of the great gorge, and all looked solid, thick-walled, but none as austere, nor as big, as Crickley Hall. Gabe carried two plastic bags of groceries, while Eve and Loren held one bag each.

'I'm beginning to have doubts about this place,' Eve said to Gabe, a little out of breath with the climb.

'You mean the village or the Hall?'

'Both.' She looked at him from beneath her hood. 'Hollow Bay is, I don't know—depressing somehow. And it shouldn't be. It's a picturesque village even if jaded by time and wear, but there's something…' She was lost for the correct word. Then: 'I don't know… mournful about it.'

Keeping his voice low so that the girls, who were several yards ahead, wouldn't hear, Gabe said, 'I felt it too. Nothing you can hit on, but the place is kinda depressing.' He gave a short, forced laugh. 'Maybe it's just the weather getting us down. And well, you know…'

He didn't have to say the words for her to understand. Perhaps it was because they were still grieving that everything seemed so joyless to them. It was a new place, yet it had none of the excitement of a new place, nor of a new beginning. Perhaps if they knew for certain that Cam truly was dead, and not just missing, things would at least have some kind of closure.

Eve pushed the worst of those thoughts away and faced her husband. 'I don't think I can stay here too long, Gabe.' Her voice was cold rather than plaintive.

He came to a halt too and leaned into her, finding her eyes beneath the hood. He spoke softly.

'Hey, it's only for a coupla months, probably a lot less if things run smoothly. It'll pass in no time.'

Even in the shadow of the hood he could see the misery in those deep brown eyes of hers.

'Oh Gabe, why did we have to come here?'

He gently shushed her, his face only inches from hers. The cops know where to find us. DI Michael said if he found anything new he'd contact us immediately. They're not gonna stop looking 'til they get a result.'

Cam… missing… no sign of him for nearly a year. Was that good? Or was it bad? Surely if Cameron were dead they'd have found his body by now.

The detective inspector had let them both know he wasn't hopeful, but Eve clung to the belief that if their son had been murdered then they'd have some evidence of it by now—like his body. She could not let go of that thought. And in a way, neither could he, Gabe. There had to be some hope, otherwise… otherwise there was nothing.

They began walking again, the girls well ahead of them by now. On their left, the gorge's swollen river hurtled down to the bay, its level not far below the grassy, shrub-filled bank; the waters were brown and angry with spume. The thick naked limb of a tree swept by. The sky was leaden, dark cloud masses promising more rain to come. The girls had realized they were walking alone, their parents some way behind. They both turned and waited for Eve and Gabe to catch up.

'Come on, slowcoaches,' Loren complained. Cally was studying the wet shine on her colourful rubber boots, her shoulders drooping; she was growing tired of the hike. As they approached she pointed over her shoulder.

Raising her voice over the rushing noise of the river, she called out, 'Look, Mummy, that old church again.'

They had passed the ancient Norman church on their way down to the harbour earlier and Eve had suggested they visit inside for a few minutes, but the girls were hungry and totally uninterested. Gabe had half promised they'd go in on the way back, but he knew his wife would hold him to it. Since the loss of their son, Eve had attended Mass regularly every Sunday (she had mostly been a Christmas and Easter worshipper before) and often during the week when their local church was usually empty. He was aware of what she prayed for; she still believed.

The church was built with grey, probably local, stone, as was the irregular wall around its boundary. It was a small but solid structure, with a square tower surmounted by a short steeple, a weathervane at the steeple's apex. The escarpment, lush with the deep greenery of trees and thick scrub despite the late season, rose up majestically behind the building and Gabe thought, not for the first time, that Devil's Cleave was more like a deep-sided valley than a gorge. A gravel path from the wall's lychgate led to the porch through a grassy graveyard; headstones dark with age leaned as if wearied, an occasional elm tree breaking up the quiet grimness of the landscape.

Close to the gateway was a mounted wooden board with faded gold lettering announcing that this was the church of ST MARK and the vicar was one REVEREND ANDREW TREVELLICK and his curate was ERIC RISSEY, all of this in neat capital letters. Underneath, also in faded gold, were times of services, and below this, in caps again but the largest message of all, it said: 'IN GOD WE TRUST'.

Yeah, right, Gabe said to himself as he read the comfort legend.

'I want to go inside,' insisted Eve, stepping towards the closed gate, her tone allowing no dissent this time.

Loren pulled a face, while Cally wasn't bothered either way.

'Sure,' agreed Gabe, his spirits sinking.

The gate opened with a squeal and they all passed through. As they trudged along the path, Gabe saw that the gravestones, some larger and more ornate than others, continued round to the side and possibly the back of the church. They crunched their way to the porch, glad of its cover even though the rain was now no more than a light drizzle.

Eve tested the black metal handle and one side of the big door opened easily. She stepped inside and the others followed, Gabe reluctantly. Although it was gloomy in there, stained-glass windows glowed brightly above them despite the poor light of the day. There was only one centre aisle, with pews on either side, that led to the high pulpit and altar. Some of the pews near the front had little doors on them so that the seats were segregated from the rest, and Eve assumed that these were once for the more important families of the community—probably still were. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she went to an open pew halfway down the aisle. She knelt on the padded knee-rest and bowed her head into her hands.

Loren looked round at Gabe and he gave a short nod of his head. She went to a pew just behind Eve's and Cally followed. Cally sat on the wooden bench while Loren joined her mother in prayer.

At the back of the church, Gabe wished that he could have their faith. All he felt was anger, though, anger at a God who could put them through such agony. If there was a God, of course. If He did exist, then He seemed to care little for the part of His creation called mankind.

Gabe's fists clenched and his teeth bit into his lower lip. He wanted to pound the stone pillar beside him with his fist. But instead, he turned away and let his anger subside into bitterness. Let Eve and Loren pray for their miracle. As for him, he knew miracles never happened. Not in this life, they didn't. And this was the only life anyone ever had.

Gabe turned away and paced the uneven stone floor, straining to drive these useless thoughts from his mind as he went to the other side of the church. It was then he saw all the names on a polished board mounted on the rear wall of the church. In fact there were two boards, side by side, but it was the first one that made him pause.

The lettering was inscribed in white yellowed by age and it was the heading that had caught his attention:

IN MEMORY OF THE POOR ORPHANS WHO PERISHED IN THE GREAT STORM OF 1943

Below this there followed a list of all the children who had died in that storm:

ARNOLD BROWN—7 yrs MAVIS BORRINGTON—7 yrs PATIENCE FROST—6 yrs BRENDA PROSSER—10 yrs GERALD PROSSER—8 yrs STEFAN ROSENBAUM—5 yrs EUGENE SMITH—9 yrs MAURICE STAFFORD—12 yrs SUSAN TRAINER—11 yrs MARIGOLD WELCH—7 yrs WILFRED WILTON—6 yrs

Reading the names of all these dead children—orphans every one of them—almost broke Gabe right there and then. He had contained his anguish, his debilitating grief, for nearly a year now so that he could be resolute for Eve and their daughters, refusing to break, to weep, to expose the weakness he felt in such adversity, because his family needed his strength, especially Eve, who blamed herself. Now today, inside this small ancient church, absorbing the poignant death list on this board before him, Gabe's self-control wavered. Sixty-eight, the shopkeeper in the village had told them, sixty-eight victims either drowned or crushed. How many other kids had been among that number?

He lowered his gaze, stared sightlessly at the stone floor beneath him, his shoulders slumped.

He was aware enough to realize his sorrow was looking for expression, a release, so that once unmasked the healing might begin. And this plain but emotive memorial to all those lost children was almost the catalyst that bent him, for it confirmed his own despair at the perpetuity of life's unfailing cruelty—happiness was only in the pauses between suffering.

He regretted having entered the church. For two months after Cam had disappeared, Gabe had accompanied Eve and their daughters to Sunday Mass—and only because he wanted to support Eve, not because he had suddenly seen the light and thought miracles might just happen if you prayed hard enough—but when nothing had changed, when there was still no trace of Cam after all that time, he had desisted. And Eve had not urged him to go with her any more, because she understood the bitter anger that was beginning to rage inside him, was aware that, for him, attending Mass was doing more harm that good. When he was a juvenile, Gabe had spent time in the Illinois Institute for Delinquent Boys, where he had been obliged to attend chapel twice a week, but in those days he had been cool about it; it beat working in the sweltering laundry room or raking dirt on the drill yard. Chapel service meant little to him, but at least it gave him the chance to think for an hour—thinking time was at a premium on a campus full of wayward, excitable youths. Sure, in those days he was resentful—he figured he had a right to be—but he never blamed God for his circumstances then. Didn't blame Him because he didn't believe in Him, despite the sermons and the priest's entreaties.

But Eve had mellowed Gabe and, even though she hadn't necessarily been deeply religious herself when they were first married, she had gradually coaxed him to see the goodness around him, and that this spirit of goodness had to come from somewhere. She hadn't made him believe in a Supreme Being, but he no longer dismissed the idea out of hand. And the blessings that were their children opened up his heart even more. There was a period of time when he had wanted to believe.

Gabe deliberately trod lightly as he made his way out of St Mark's and it took some effort. It was not that he felt contempt for Eve's so-called 'Supreme Being'—whatever that meant—it was just that he had no respect for Him. If He existed.

Gabe left the church, closing the door quietly behind him, not wanting to disturb Eve at her devotions—her pleadings. Outside, in the light drizzle, for the first time since he'd given them up, he wished for a cigarette. That had been when Eve had become pregnant with their first child, Loren, and that, for him, was reason enough. He needed a smoke now, maybe even a large shot of Jack Daniel's. Cold anger was returning like a winter season and it smothered the grief. He walked round to the other side of St Mark's, where the gorge wall rose sheer and abundant with trees and foliage. In the grassy space between church and gorge were more headstones.

He saw them at once, for they were better tended than the other graves around them. Their small headstones were clean even though over half a century old and their carved inscriptions were clear. The small plots were set out in a tidy row and bunches of wild flowers were in water jars below the headstones. In the rain, the flowers looked fresh, vibrant, and Gabe wondered who had put them there. Perhaps it was a kind of ceremony, the flowers laid out every year in the month of October; Gabe had already glanced at the preface of the book bought in the village store and it had said the Great Storm, as it was called, had occurred in the October of 1943.

He read the names on the neat little headstones and noticed that the Prosser children—obviously brother and sister—had been laid side by side. Arnold Brown, 1936-1943, Patience Frost, 1937-1943, Eugene Smith, 1934-1943, and so on. Gabe felt his eyes moisten, but he would not give in to tears now. His anger became subdued. But there was something wrong about this setting, some small thing that nagged at him.

He walked further into the hidden cemetery, distracting himself by reading the messages on other markers, noticing that all the lives here had ended in 1943. So this was where some of the adult victims of the flood were buried, along with the children. These other graves, though, had not been as well cared for. They were stained, weather-worn, lichen growing on most. It seemed the children were better remembered than the older flood victims. And maybe that's how it should be.

He was almost at the angled rise of the gorge when he spotted the stone hiding in long grass and weeds and, because it was set aside from all the other graves, Gabe was curious.

The American squatted before it and parted the long grass and weeds so that he could read the headstone's inscription. It said: