The Secret of Crickley Hall

•

Who is this man? He was a stranger, she'd never seen him before, and he was certainly no relative because she had none. Only Augustus, her dear brother, gone now, gone a long time ago. Perhaps that was for the best—they would have persecuted him if he hadn't drowned. But she did not want this strange man in her room; he wasn't even smartly dressed. Nobody ever came to see her, no, nobody ever came. Except for that one time, but it was long ago and in a different place to this, somewhere where they kept her locked up and where they were always asking questions—questions, questions, questions! But she never let them know, she never answered their silly questions—that would have been too dangerous—and eventually they had given up. Yes, he had visited her there—not this man, but the one who knew everything. He had come to her out of curiosity, not for love. Years ago that was, but she remembered it clearly as if it were yesterday. The doctors didn't know it but her mind was still razor-sharp—how else could she have kept up this pretence?—her memory unimpaired. Oh yes, she remembered the other man quite clearly.

'Ms Cribben, my name is Gabe Caleigh.'

Who? She didn't know anyone called Caleigh. Did she? No, she would have remembered. She wasn't stupid as everyone thought she was. Just because she wouldn't speak, it did not mean she'd forgotten how to. Oh no, that would have been too risky. Did they still hang people these days? She couldn't be sure. And she certainly couldn't ask.

The stranger had made himself comfortable now, he's sitting on the edge of the bed— her bed. Who had given him permission? Improper, that's what it was. Most inappropriate behaviour, a strange man alone with a poor defenceless woman who could not even protest! The very idea! It was a good thing the door was open or he might have tried anything. On her bed, indeed! Such insolence, such bad manners.

She wouldn't let him know she was cross, though. She would not reveal her outrage. She wouldn't even look at him any more.

'Currently I'm living at Crickley Hall with my family.'

Crickley Hall! There it was. He would try to trick her, he'd ask about the house, what happened there…

'Do you remember Crickley Hall, Magda?'

Oh such atrocious manners. He was addressing her by her Christian name as if he were a friend or an acquaintance. Trying to be familiar because he wanted to ask her questions. But no, she wouldn't be tricked, she wouldn't speak to him, no, she'd not say a single word. He wasn't even English, he was what was commonly called a Yank. The Yanks were coming to help Britain fight the Germans. No, no. The war had ended, hadn't it? It was over a few years ago. Ten? Fifty? A hundred? It was a long time since, if she remembered correctly. And she did remember correctly, didn't she? Yes, she did, more than anyone else would ever know.

'When you were in your thirties you lived in the house called Crickley Hall with your brother, Augustus Theophilus Cribben.'

He knows something! He knows something about Augustus and he's trying to trick me into telling him about what happened that time in Crickley Hall. That horrible night when the river broke its banks and the river beneath the house rose up through the well. She had escaped just moments before the flood had come, when Augustus was—no! She must not even think of it! Her heart was pounding and he might hear it. It would give her away. She must calm herself, reveal nothing in her expression. 'That the time may have all shadow and silence in it.' Shakespeare wrote that. See how acute her memory was? After she had been found the next morning, they had explained what had befallen Augustus and the children—what they thought had befallen them—but she had not betrayed herself, she had not shown any emotion, even though inside she had been devastated, her heart and soul left raw and damaged. She had been cunning, though: she had pretended to be in deep shock. No, that wasn't quite true—she had been in deep shock—but she had fooled them all, the doctors who had examined her, the police and the various officials. Even the pious prig, the Reverend Rossbridger (yes, see how sharp her memory was?) had been duped when he had come to the hospital, pleading with her to save her brother's righteous name (and, of course, his own by association). He had wanted her to refute the outrageous but necessarily covert report and the rumours that followed it, stories of how Augustus had shut the orphans in Crickley Hall's cellar on the night of the flood. Surely Augustus would not have acted so wickedly, Rossbridger had pleaded. The guardian has cherished those unfortunate children. Certainly he was firm with them, but he was loving also, and taught them the way of the Lord. Speak out, dear Magda, the old fool had begged her, defend your brother's honour. But she would not speak out, the truth would only defile Augustus's good name even more.

And then, many years later when she was in the bad place where they had locked her away and she thought she'd finally been forgotten, another man came to speak with her. But this one she knew well, even though he had changed, for he had been her willing ally once.

He had been aware of everything—all that had taken place that last night and all that had gone on before: everything—but he, too, had plied her with questions, questions, questions, and she had played dumb, she had not broken her silence even for him, she'd not said a single word. She wasn't going to be gulled into admitting anything! She was just a dumb old lady with no memories and who played no part in the present world.

Curiously he had looked satisfied when he left her all alone again (which was how she liked it—no temptations to speak then). He had never returned, though, and that was fine too. Her own company was good enough for her! Perhaps he didn't know they'd moved her to this place, where she had the door open all day (she had closed it several times when she'd first arrived, but they had scolded her, so she didn't do it any more. That was perfectly all right, though—they could spy on her as much as they liked, but they wouldn't catch her out, she was too clever for them).

'Back in 1943,' Gabe said doggedly, aware that Magda was paying no heed, as if she were in a world of her own, 'you and your brother were custodians of a bunch of evacuees sent down from London because of the war. Do you remember that? Just nod your head if you do, you don't have to speak.'

Now this man was interrogating her! Had he no respect for a frail old woman whose only pleasure was solitude? Why was he asking about the best-forgotten past? Hadn't she suffered enough, didn't she still have the nightmares? Surely she had paid the price for what had happened at Crickley Hall. None of it was her fault anyway—she'd left the house when she realized her brother had lost his mind. She couldn't have helped those children—Augustus was too strong and he might have turned on her! She had run out into the storm, and then walked miles to get away from Crickley Hall and her brother's madness. She couldn't, she wouldn't be blamed! At least, not for that night. Her grievous sin came before then, but she'd only committed it out of love for her Augustus, knowing he would have been in serious trouble with the authorities should they learn just how rigorous was his rule. The young teacher—what was her name? She knew it, she was sure, because her memory was razor sharp. Miss Linnet, that was it! Miss Nancy Linnet—the young teacher had to be stopped. Magda would not allow the betrayal! The girl had been soft with the children, pandering to them, treating them as if they were special. Well, they weren't special, they were unruly and needed strict discipline, a hardy regime to mould them into proper young persons! Augustus had the right idea, he knew the value of chastisement, and Magda always carried out what was expected of her. She revered her older brother.

The children learned respect, just as they learned their lessons, yet still they rebelled and still Augustus had to punish them. But finally, it all became too much for him: Augustus's mind snapped. His rage was awful and his actions frightened even her. First the Jewish infant (how she and her brother hated the Jews! They were the real reason, with their worldwide conspiracies and profiteering, for the war in Europe) had been dealt with, then the children who had attempted to run away. But in the end, it was she and the boy who had fled, frightened by Augustus's madness, not sure how far the insanity would drive him, afraid for their own lives.

'Magda, how about I get a pen and some paper? Couldn't you write down your answers? You used to be teacher, so obviously you're a educated woman.'

Hah! Flattery now. As if she would betray her brother. They had told her a long time ago that Augustus had drowned within the walls of Crickley Hall, so if his soul were weighed down by sin—a sin caused by his own derangement—he had paid the price. Now his soul should be left in peace.

They had also told her that the children had perished with him in the flood. How little these people knew! Perhaps they thought another shock would move her to speak, might unlock her mind and release her from the amnesia (the false amnesia!), but she had been too clever for them. She had not reacted at all; not one tear of grief had fallen from her eyes. She could tell her interrogators were suspicious about the deaths of the children, but they had no proof of what really happened that night. None at all. They didn't even know the fate of the young teacher with the ugly withered arm. And they never would. Not even on her own deathbed would she tell them. 'In dumb silence will I bury mine.' The great bard again, put so aptly. No, the secret would die with her.

'Y'see, Magda, weird things have been going on in Crickley Hall lately. My wife thinks the place is haunted. She figures there must be a reason for it. Now personally, I don't go along with all this ghost, uh, stuff, but I have to admit I've been pretty shaken by some of the things myself.'

What did he expect her to say if she chose to speak?

'We can't understand why the kids weren't at the top of the house, you know, above flood level? What were they doing in the basement? The mystery is why were they down there in the first place? Common sense should've taken them to high ground, wouldn't you agree?'

No, she wouldn't agree at all. The man wasn't going to trick her even if he could read her mind.

'My wife's theory is that the kids were put down there as some kind of punishment. Maybe just to scare 'em. But your brother took it too far, he kept them there when the flood came. My wife, she figures that those children have somehow come back, as ghosts, I mean, and they won't leave until the mystery's solved. She wants to help them move on, but there's no way of knowing how they were trapped. Although you were found miles away next morning, she thought you might've been there when those kids were shut away. But maybe you weren't, maybe you'd already left before the flood hit. Seems likely, otherwise you'd have drowned with your brother. But either way, we'd like to know. At least it might stop my wife wondering, kinda let me off the hook.'

Let him off the hook? What language was this young man speaking? Oh yes, the nurse had said he was from America. Magda decided she didn't like Americans. Why had it taken them so long to join the war effort against the Germans? Which was a stupid and needless war anyway. She and Augustus liked the Germans. They were a fine race of people, strong and adamantine in their beliefs and pursuits. Not like the insidious Jews, the murderers of Christ. And not like the Americans with their impudence and slovenly speech. Not like this impertinent individual before her now.

'Look, we know how badly those kids were treated. We found the Punishment Book, y'see, and it's all written down, every detail of the punishments given for so-called misbehaviour—the canings, the whippings with a leather belt, making 'em go without food, the cold baths, standing still for hours in their underwear. Pretty harsh on a bunch of orphans, the eldest of 'em no more than twelve years. Sure, I know things were different in those days, but even so, you and your brother were a tad excessive, don't you think? The authorities would've thought so too if they'd ever found out. What puzzles me is why you didn't destroy the book—oh, and the split-ended cane we found with it—instead of just hiding it. Why was that, Magda?'

Because Augustus would not allow her to! He said every transgression and its consequence had to be recorded as evidence of their exemplary guardianship. But, always the pragmatic one, she knew the powers that be would never approve of their methods for controlling disobedient boys and girls, so, with his grudging acquiescence, she had hidden the book and the thrashing cane away. Inspectors might arrive on any day of any week, so it was best that they find no handwritten testimony to the punishments. Both book and stick could easily be retrieved whenever they were required.

'And for some reason there was a picture stashed away too. Of the kids and you and your brother.'

And the trainee teacher, the silly girl who protested and threatened to betray them with exaggerated stories of how the children were treated! Well she had been dealt with and the photograph put away with the other items because the young girl's image served as a constant reminder and Magda did not like to dwell on just how she had silenced Miss High-and-Mighty Linnet. But Magda was too proud of the photograph to get rid of it. It displayed Augustus and her in all their authority, a permanent tribute to their fine achievement and dedication. Before, they had been mere teachers with limited powers, but then the opportunity had come along to become tutors and custodians of eleven evacuee orphans for the duration at Crickley Hall, far from the war-torn city. She and Augustus had been chosen for the post from above all other applicants. No, she could never have destroyed that photograph. She swelled with pride just thinking of it. If only Augustus had not suffered the headaches, the excruciating pain that had him crushing his head between his own hands to suppress it. It was the headaches that slowly deranged his brilliant mind, leaving him with fits of uncontrollable anger. It was the agony of them that caused the insanity.

'Okay, I'm done here. It was my wife's idea to drop by anyway. I didn't expect much, and that's what I got. 'Cept for a slight reaction in your eyes. I caught it twice, just a flicker, even though you wouldn't look at me. Once when I said my wife thought Crickley Hall was haunted, and then again when I mentioned the photograph. Both times it was just a stab of fear. Well, it looked like fear to me. It came and went fast, but it was there.

'Maybe you're trapped inside a world of unresolved guilt, living in a hell all your own. Who can say? If I've got it wrong, I apologize. Didn't mean to bother you. So long, Magda, I hope you really don't remember.'

He was going! At last he was leaving the room. Curiously, she was tempted to break all her years of silence to speak to him. She wanted to defend her righteous brother. And herself, of course. But silence had protected her for a long time now—a century, it seemed—and she was not about to break it for this brazen young man. In truth, she had remained quiet for so long that she wondered if her voice had atrophied along with her tired old body. Damn this stranger, and damn all those others, all those officials and medical people who had tried to make her communicate! There, this man had caused her to curse. But God would forgive her. He had forgiven her for everything else, even the killing of the teacher, because He understood the necessity. God was with her always.

Besides, she hadn't cursed aloud, had she? So it didn't count.

•

Gabe was more disgusted with himself than impatient with Magda Cribben. She may have been one hell of a bitch when she was young, but now she was just a shrivelled-up old lady who looked so frail a sharp sneeze might cause her whole body to disintegrate. In the photograph he'd found she appeared so formidable, with her colourless face and black, shadowed eyes and stiff posture. Now she was a relic of her former self, a pathetic hunched figure whose bone structure seemed to have shrunk beneath her flesh. Yet, oddly, she did not have an elderly person's vulnerability; there was still something scary in her unblinking gaze. Had he really seen a flicker of fear in her eyes, though, or were both times only in his own imagination?

At the door he glanced round for one last look at her: she remained staring at the blank wall.

Well, at least he'd kept his promise to Eve, he thought to himself as he strode out into the corridor.

He had only taken a few paces when the partially open door he and the nurse had passed by earlier swung wider. A thin, brown-spotted arm reached out to him.

'Mister,' a low, raspy voice whispered.

Gabe stopped and saw the same wrinkled face that had peered out at him before; now there was more of it to see. The woman with grey straggly hair clutched a worn pink dressing gown closed tight against her flat chest and he could see the hem of a nightdress hanging low round her skinny ankles and slippered feet.

He drew close and she narrowed the gap in the door again as if fearing he might attack her.

'D'you need something?' Gabe asked. 'Can I get a nurse for you?'

'No, no, I jus' wants to speak to yer.' She had an accent almost as broad as Percy's. 'Yer've been to see her ladyship, haven't yer?' The elderly resident didn't wait for a reply. 'No one ever comes to see her. Got no relatives, no friends either. Give yer the silent treatment, did she?' She gave a sharp cackle.

'Yeah,' said Gabe. 'She never spoke a word.'

'Likes to pretend she can't speak, that one does, likes to play dumb. But I've heard in the middle of the night when everyone's's'posed to be sleeping. Walls're thin d'you see, an' I don't sleep much nowadays. I listen an' I hear Magda Cribben speakin' plain as day. She has nightmares and she moans somethin' awful an' talks to herself. Not loud though, not so the night nurse might come down to her. I can hear all right though. Puts my ear against the wall. Thinks they're comin' to get her, see?'

'Who? The police?' It was a fair assumption if Magda had played some part in the children's deaths. Guilt might still be hounding her.

The woman became tetchy, almost cross. 'No, no, not the police!' Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper again. 'It's the kiddies she's scared of. She thinks they're comin' back to get her for what she done to 'em. She cries out she's sorry, she shouldn't have lef 'em alone. She don't do it fer long, jus' fer a coupla minutes most nights. She can speak all right, despite what they thinks here. I know, I can hear her.'

She closed the door a little more, as if even more cautious.

'An' sometimes, sometimes I gets frightened too 'cause I can hear somethin' else. Soft little feet runnin' past my door an' goin' into her room. Goin' in to haunt her 'cause of what she done.'

It was ridiculous but Gabe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

47: GORDON PYKE

Loren skipped off the people-carrier, gave a wave to her new best friend Tessa (ignoring the scowl she received from Seraphina, who sat silently but grumpily in the back seat of the vehicle) and hurried across the road to the bridge. She hardly registered the dark red Mondeo parked behind her father's Range Rover and whose driver's door was beginning to open. She was too eager to get out of the rain and tell her mother about Seraphina, who had turned up for school that morning nursing a sore-looking nose and without a word to say to Loren. Loren had expected more trouble from the hefty girl when she eventually returned to class, but Seraphina had ignored her all day (although Loren had caught some dirty looks from her). Loren knew it was wrong, but she felt pleased that punching her seemed to have worked, for Seraphina's intimidation had stopped. Mum would be relieved there was no further problem, though she would hide it, and Dad would be delighted, but he wouldn't show it in front of Mum.

She reached the wooden bridge, rain seeming to thud against her woollen beanie, and quickened her pace. Unfortunately, she didn't realize how slippery the bridge's planks were.

One foot slid sharply forward and she went down, her other leg collapsing beneath her, bending so that her bare knee whacked against the wood. She cried out in pain and surprise, her school bag falling from her shoulder, spilling some of its contents onto the bridge.

Momentarily numbed by the shock, Loren was unable to move. She sprawled on the wet boards, her weight on one elbow, eyes smarting with welling tears. Mustn't be a baby, she told herself. Her leg wasn't broken, it just hurt a lot. Looking down at her injured knee, she saw blood beads appearing on its scraped skin. She wondered if she would be able to walk properly. Not far to the house, but she was soaked already. She tried to rise on wobbly legs but found it difficult.

That was when a large, strong hand reached under her shoulder and began to pull her up.

•

Gabe had just come down from the room in Crickley Hall that he used as an office. Earlier that day at the Seapower office in Ilfracombe he had surprised his new colleagues with the news that he had almost solved the maintenance problems of the marine turbine. However, he preferred to work out the details alone, without distractions, and that was probably best achieved from home. He had offered no excuse for his late arrival that morning (after visiting the old folks' home) and none was sought—in any case, as a subcontractor to the company and technically a free agent, he was allowed some latitude, provided he came up with solutions. So Gabe had returned to Crickley Hall mid-afternoon.

In truth, he had wanted to leave early so that he could discuss with Eve his eerie meeting with Magda Cribben. He'd had to phone Eve from the office because his cell phone still wouldn't reach Hollow Bay, although it worked fine outside the area, but it proved difficult to talk freely with co-workers in close proximity. He had told Eve that Magda hadn't said a word to him, that she'd remained silent throughout the visit; he hadn't mentioned the crazy next-door neighbour who maintained that Magda had not lost the power of speech but sometimes spoke in her sleep. As for ghosts running down corridors in the dead of night, well, he thought he'd omit this from his report for now.

Face to face, he told her everything and Eve had become very quiet—if not pale—when he mentioned the crazy woman's assertions that Magda Cribben still had the power of speech, even if it was only when she was dreaming, and that ghosts were also haunting the nursing home. It had all only served to deepen his wife's belief in spirit children.

The engineer had then worked solidly on his design for raising the marine turbine's gearbox and generator above the water level so that maintenance could be carried out using a surface structure and ancillary vessel, and it was late afternoon before he came down again, hungry and thirsty because he had worked through lunch.

He crossed the hall, but before he could enter the kitchen, the loud discordant sound of the doorbell brought him to a startled halt. Through the kitchen doorway he caught Eve's surprised look in his direction. He shrugged and went to the front door to unlock it.

The man standing outside with Loren was tall, at least six foot one or two, Gabe reckoned. The stranger wore a funny little Tyrolean hat with a small stiff feather stuck in its band.

'Delivery of one young lady with a badly scraped knee,' the stranger announced in a deep but friendly voice. Then, smiling, he introduced himself: 'My name is Gordon Pyke. I think I might be of some help to you.'

•

Gordon Pyke had the kindest eyes Gabe had ever seen. They were of the lightest blue and creases—laughter lines—spread from their corners almost to the man's temples. He looked to be in his sixties—late, or early seventies, Gabe couldn't tell—but his long figure looked strong and straight, only a slight paunch bulging against the lower buttons of his waistcoat, which was worn under a brown tweed jacket. An open fawn raincoat hung over both. He leaned on a stout walking stick that favoured his left leg.

When Loren had explained that she had fallen on the bridge and Mr Pyke had helped her to the front door, Gabe had immediately invited him in out of the rain.

Once inside, the stranger had removed his hat to reveal thin grey-black hair swept back over the dome of his head. He sported a small goatee beard, which was also black flecked with grey, as were the thick sideburns that partially disguised the largeness of his ears. His smile was warm, with teeth so perfect Gabe guessed they had to be manufactured.

Eve came out of the kitchen, Cally following, and went straight to Loren. She bent to examine her daughter's injured knee.

'Oh, you poor thing,' she said sympathetically. 'How did you manage that?'

'I slipped and fell on the bridge,' Loren told her, putting on a brave face even though the scrape was really sore by now. 'Mr Pyke picked me up.'

'I'm sure you'll find it's not a mortal wound,' Pyke said teasingly.

'Thank you for helping Loren,' said Eve, satisfied that the injury really wasn't serious.

'You are Mr and Mrs Caleigh, I take it.' The tall stranger looked first at Gabe, and then at Eve. 'Yes, you're certainly Eve Caleigh. The photograph of you in the North Devon Dispatch was an excellent likeness. Not all newspaper pictures are.'

'You saw that?' Gabe was both resigned and suspicious.

'I'm afraid so. Not the sort of publicity one normally seeks, is it? But newspapers enjoy publishing such hokum because they increase circulation figures.'

'Is that why you're here?' Gabe suspected they had one of those sightseers they had dreaded on their hands.

'As a matter of fact, it is, Mr Caleigh.'

Gabe felt his heart sink. He would thank the man, and then get rid of him.

'But not out of mere curiosity,' Pyke continued, 'I can assure you of that.' He smiled at Gabe, and then at Eve.

Eve spoke to Loren. 'Go into the kitchen and wait. I'll be there in a minute to clean your knee and put some ointment on it to stop any infection. It might need a plaster. Oh, and take Cally with you.'

Loren limped off, leading Cally back into the kitchen, while Eve returned her attention to the tall man with the nice smile and pleasant manner.

'So you believe all this nonsense about ghosts,' Gabe said when Loren and Cally were out of earshot.

'No. It's precisely because I don't that I'm here,' came the reply.

Gabe and Eve exchanged glances and Pyke gave a short, deep-throated chuckle.

'I came here, Mr and Mrs Caleigh, because I seek out so-called "ghosts" for a living.' He smiled at Gabe's pained expression. 'You might be relieved to hear,' Pyke went on, 'that rarely, if ever, do I find them.'

Gabe shook his head. 'I don't get it.'

'No. Well, as it happens I don't believe in hauntings either and eight times out of ten I find my disbelief is vindicated. There are no such things as ghosts and, if you'll allow me, I'm confident I'll prove to you that this house isn't haunted.'

'So you're one of those guys who investigate spooky places.'

'I'm a psychic investigator, or a parapsychologist, if you like, and I do investigate houses and buildings where it's claimed—usually mistakenly—that they're haunted by supernatural forces—apparitions, phantom voices or poltergeists.'

'Poltergeists?'

'Mischievous demon spirits.'

'Yeah, I know what they are. I just don't give 'em much credence.'

'Good, then we agree.' But again, Pyke took in Gabe's doubtful expression.

'Let's take poltergeists as an example then,' the self-pronounced psychic investigator resumed. 'Such activity involves objects flying across rooms, doors opening and closing, furniture movement, knocking sounds, even smells—there are a whole range of incidents that can startle or terrify the poor victim. But the fact is, they are often instigated by the kinetic mind energy of pubescent girls, whose emotional and hormonal state is undergoing profound changes. Or they can be caused by individuals who are in high-stress situations.'

'Are you telling us that what has happened here is all in our minds?' Eve's voice was cautious, yet challenging.

'No, I'm only giving you an example of what might be the cause of paranormal activities.'

'You're thinking of Loren,' Gabe guessed.

'Not necessarily, although her age could suggest it's her. But you or your wife might equally be the epicentre of such activity. That is, if either one of you is deeply anxious or distressed at this time. Perhaps you both are.'

Once more, Gabe and Eve glanced at each other.

Yes,' said Eve, regarding Pyke again. 'Yes, there's much more going on here that isn't mentioned in the newspaper.'

'Then why don't we make ourselves comfortable and discuss precisely what has been happening?' Pyke turned first to Gabe and then to Eve, and the warmth of his smile was persuasive.

•

'Sometimes,' Pyke was explaining, 'energies, especially if they're traumatic or violent, can be absorbed into the very fabric of a building itself, as if the stone and timbers act like a tape recorder, to be released as images or sounds, or both, at some later date.'

The three of them were in Crickley Hall's sitting room, Gabe and Eve together on the couch, the psychic investigator in the high-backed armchair, his cane resting between his legs. Gabe had not yet laid a fire, so the room was chilly and dank.

'It's these type of events that seem to register mostly, because the energy released at the time is extremely potent. It's when those occurrences are subsequently replayed as images and sounds that they're taken for supernatural encounters.'

Eve had related some of the unusual incidents that had happened in Crickley Hall that past week and Pyke had listened attentively, making sympathetic noises here and there, a nod of his head occasionally. Sometimes he gave a benign smile, other times a deep frown.

'Now, this house,' he continued, 'is old and full of draughts—although I'd rather call them air currents. They're certainly evident in this room. The building itself is situated in a deep-sided gorge through which winds and breezes are channelled. A sudden fierce gust could easily have caught the swing outside, frightening your youngest daughter and consequently knocking you to the ground. Now, you tell me there's a well to an underground river in the basement area, from which I imagine all manner of air currents rise, and on occasion they probably bring vapour mists with them. Mists that you have misguidedly thought to be apparitions.'

Eve looked doubtful, but it was Gabe who protested, even though in truth he was prepared to believe in the investigator's theories. 'They were scooting all over the place, following each other.'

'Vapours driven by rampant but localized winds. In your own mind you might view them as having purpose or direction, but the reality is that they were merely carried along on the air currents.'

'The banging from inside the closet?'

'All manner of causes. Wind, hot waterpipes, bats, rodents, vibrations…'

'But the cupboard door moved; it rattled in its frame,' asserted Eve, 'as if something inside was pushing against it. And when we opened the door, the cupboard was empty, there was no living thing in there.'

'If it were a rodent it would have disappeared through whatever opening it had used for entry. Or it may well have been vibrations from internal piping.'

'Well, there are hot and cold waterpipes running through the closet…' Gabe said uncertainly but willing to be convinced.

'When a person is in shock or frightened, it's all too easy for their own imagination to exaggerate what is really happening.' Pyke leaned forward, his large hands resting over the curved top of his cane. 'Take the cellar door as an example. You claim you always lock it, yet it constantly appears to unlock itself. The lock is obviously faulty, or the frame is slightly warped, probably both, so the locking bolt works itself loose with the continual pressures of the draughts coming from the well below being funnelled up the stairway.'

Plausible, thought Gabe. Just.

'Puddles on the floor? I think perhaps water either seeps up from minute cracks in the cement between the flagstones, or there are slow, tiny leaks in the roof and ceiling.'

'But the puddles disappear,' said Eve, sceptically.

'Obviously not through evaporation, but perhaps the water sinks back into the same cracks that caused them. Those cracks are so fine that they can't be seen unless examined closely. The same applies to those created by leaks in the ceiling—they merely drain away. Puddles on the staircase could be formed by cracks in the ceiling directly above or by rainwater driven in through small gaps in the large window. They would disappear through splits in the stairboards.'

'But I saw children in outdated clothes dancing in the hall,' Eve insisted, her hands clasped tightly over her knees.

'Yes, that's interesting.' Pyke settled back in the armchair again, his voice and his manner somehow calming. 'Tell me, what had you been occupied with just before you had this vision? Sleeping, perhaps?'

'No, it was mid-morning and I was wide awake.' She thought back. 'Yes, I'd been in the kitchen looking at the spinning top.'

'Spinning top?'

Eve hesitated. 'We found an old-fashioned spinning top in the attic among the other toys. It looked like it had never been used. I oiled it and got it spinning.'

'You spun it?'

'Yes. It was stiff at first, but I soon had it turning.'

'These toys spin very fast, don't they?'

'Very fast. The colours merge into a kind of whiteness as it makes a high-pitched humming noise.'

'What's the pattern or design? They're usually very colourful.'

'It's a picture that goes all the way around. Of—of children holding hands and dancing in a circle.' She knew what Pyke was about to suggest.

'And the figures blended, became a white blur…?' Pyke prompted.

'Yes.'

'You watched it spin. I suppose it might have some kind of hypnotic effect if you stare at it too long and too hard. Revolving patterns at certain speeds can induce trance-like states. Is that what happened to you, Mrs Caleigh?'

'I—I don't think so. I'm not sure.'

'I suggest that's precisely what happened; and when you went out into the hall, the vision of dancing children became a reality to you. You were still in a semi-trance, you were in a waking dream.'

'But Cally saw the children too. It was because of her call that I went out there.'

'Auto-suggestion.'

She stared at him.

'I assume you are very close to your daughters. The mother-child relationship is one of the strongest bonds possible, one that's full of intuition and shared feelings. A mother can often know why her baby is crying without there being any physical evidence of something wrong. In the same way, a baby or small child can often sense the mood of their mother without a word being spoken.'

Eve thought of her intuitive connection with Cam, but it was Gabe who spoke.

'What are you saying, Mr Pyke? Cally saw the children because the thought of them was already inside my wife's head?'

'That's exactly what I'm saying.' Pyke thumped the top of his cane enthusiastically. 'The almost hallucinogenic vision of children dancing in a circle was created by the spinning top and was fixed in your wife's mind. It transferred itself to your daughter, who thought she was seeing the real thing and so called out to the mother.'

'Wait a minute.' Gabe scratched the side of his chin, perplexed. 'The night before last, Loren woke up screaming. She said someone had beaten her with a stick. Was that some kinda thought transference too?' He was thinking of the punishment stick they had found earlier that afternoon and how disgusted and horrified both he and Eve had felt at the sight of it.

'No, I don't think so. But there is an underlying emotional tension in this house; I sensed it as soon as I entered. Have you suffered a bereavement recently, or had bad news?'

Eve looked down into her lap, leaving it for Gabe to answer.

'Our five-year-old son went missing a year ago,' he said dispassionately. We're still grieving.' Glancing at Eve, he added, 'And we're still hoping.'

'Ah.' Pyke brought his steepled fingers up to his mouth and stared into the mid-distance. 'That could explain much. You must all be in a fragile emotional condition. Perhaps Loren, when she felt herself being beaten, was punishing herself because she is here, safe with her parents, when her young brother is gone. Perhaps she feels guilty. You've heard of the stigmata, people suffering the wounds of Christ on the Cross? It's a rare but accepted phenomenon. An inborn guilt causes those who devoutly believe Christ suffered for the sins of mankind to take on the agony of repentance themselves. I merely suggest Loren might feel some unreasonable blame for your loss and so had to be punished.'

He let out a compassionate sigh. 'I take it there were no visible signs of her pain?'

It was Eve who shook her head; Gabe was too busy trying to understand what Pyke had just suggested to them. The investigator had to be wrong: Loren was a normal well-balanced kid; there was nothing for her to feel guilty about. And besides, she'd never had that kind of dream before.

'If anyone was to blame,' said Eve, 'it was me. I let Cam out of my sight that day.'

'Eve…' Gabe reached for her hand to comfort her, even though he had become a little weary of the guilt she imposed upon herself. He wished he could take that burden from her, but even after all this time he just didn't know how.

Gordon Pyke was about to expound further when Loren entered the room bearing a tray on which there were two teacups in their saucers, a jumbo coffee mug that was for Gabe, and a bowl of sugar, a teaspoon dipped into it. Gabe noticed she had even laid out a small plate of biscuits. Cally trailed after her.

Treading slowly so that nothing was split, Loren made her way directly to the investigator.

'I thought you might like a cup of tea, Mr Pyke,' she said respectfully. 'I didn't know if you took sugar.'

Gabe was impressed. Loren was not usually so congenial towards adults, especially when they were strangers. Polite, always. But most times she was too shy to come forward like this. She must have taken an instant liking to the man who had helped her on the bridge.

Eve saw that Loren's injured knee had stopped bleeding, although the scrape looked red and sore. She had meant to clean it for Loren and dab on antiseptic, but Gordon Pyke had kept them talking in the sitting room.

His cane now leaning on the arm of the chair, Pyke stretched forward to take a cup and saucer from the tray. He gave Loren a broad smile.

'No sugar, my dear, but I'll help myself to a biscuit if I may?'

Almost coyly, she returned his smile. She really did like Pyke, thought Gabe again, and he wasn't surprised—there was something reassuring about the big man. Cally, as ever, was indifferent, as she was with all grown-ups.

So far, Pyke had impressed Gabe with his grounded logic for things considered paranormal or supernatural, although he could tell Eve was far from convinced. It broke down to two attitudes, he supposed: the willingness to believe in ghosts or believe in what Pyke was saying. Eve was definitely in the former category and Gabe blamed Lili Peel for that.

After Loren had given Eve her tea and Gabe his coffee, she leaned the tray against the side of the couch and squeezed herself in beside her father. Cally pressed herself against Eve's knees. Both girls eyed the stranger as he bit off half his biscuit. He munched away, a small smile showing through his short beard as though he were content in their company.

But Eve had other ideas: she didn't want her daughters included in this conversation.

'Loren, haven't you got homework to do? And Cally, why don't you do some painting in the kitchen? Loren will help you set it up.'

'Oh let them stay,' said Pyke, the remainder of the biscuit poised only inches away from his mouth. 'They should be part of this. Besides, our conversation might allay some of Loren's concerns. And the little one, well, much of what we say will go over her head.'

You might be surprised at what Cally understands, Gabe thought, but he said nothing. Loren was smiling at Pyke gratefully, pleased to be respected for the sensible girl she was.

Gabe was curious, but not only about hauntings and their rationale.

'Mr Pyke…' he began.

'Ask me anything you like,' said Pyke and popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.

'I was just wondering how you got into this business.' Gabe was not ready to trust the investigator completely. He was cautious because Gordon Pyke had arrived unannounced and unexpected, and they had allowed him in because of his kindness to Loren. But they knew zilch about him and there was a chance he could be another nut like the psychic, Lili Peel, even though outwardly he seemed sane enough.

'A perfectly reasonable question,' said Pyke cheerfully as he flicked crumbs from his fingers. 'To you ghost-hunting must seem a singularly odd occupation, but for me it's a splendidly unique calling and one, I discovered, that I'm particularly adept at, although investigating psychic phenomena is a passion that came to me late in life. Oh, I had a cursory interest in the paranormal, but my profession took up most of my time. I was a librarian in London, you see. That was a while ago and eventually I left the grime and the clamour of the city to follow a more sedate life as a librarian in Barnstaple.'

Gabe had heard of the town, which was quite a distance from Hollow Bay. So the man wasn't a local.

Pyke paused to sip some tea. Cally was thoroughly bored by now.

'Mummy,' she said plaintively, 'can I play in my room?'

'Yes, of course, dear,' Eve replied. 'Just in your room though—you're not to go up to the attic.'

'No, Mummy.' Cally trotted to the door and they heard her small steps clattering across the flagstones of the hall.

'You have exemplary children,' remarked Pyke.

'Thank you.' Eve was growing impatient. She had already guessed Pyke's purpose in coming to Crickley Hall, but she wasn't sure if she was willing to agree to it. No matter how the investigator sought to explain the bizarre events of the past week, she knew he was fundamentally wrong: Crickley Hall was haunted by ghosts. The problem was that Gabe, ever the pragmatist, seemed to be going along with Pyke's rationalizations.

Pyke placed the cup and saucer on the occasional table next to the armchair. 'As a librarian, I found I had lots of time to indulge myself in outside interests. Study of the preternatural became more than just a hobby with me and I soon realized that to become a psychic investigator was not difficult if one had the, uh, aptitude for such work. I found that I had.

'I began to devote my weekends to visiting alleged haunted sites and more often than not I was able to prove that most disturbances were caused by physical aberrations and not by spirits of the dead. I could do this using only the minimum tools of the ghost-hunting trade, if I may call it a trade. Early successes led to more consultation requests, which kept me very busy, so I was pleased to reach retirement age and devote all my time to researches and practical experiences.'

Pyke was retired, thought Gabe, at least sixty-five, obviously older if he left his job some time ago. He looked in fine shape.

'Is this how you find your work?' There was no hostility in Eve's question, but Gabe detected some cynicism. 'You read a wild newspaper story and then just turn up on the subject's doorstep?'

'Well, sometimes, yes,' Pyke admitted. 'I even use a cuttings agency to send me any snippets about hauntings or such. Usually I would find a phone number and ring the prospective client first. If they're not interested, fine; but more often than not, they're only too anxious to get to the bottom of the problem. I also place small ads in the local papers. You'd be surprised how many people believe their houses are haunted.'

'Eight times out of ten,' said Eve. 'Earlier you said two out of ten hauntings are unaccountable.'

'Yes, yes, I take your point, Mrs Caleigh, and you're absolutely right to make it. But in certain cases all the factors cannot be known and sometimes the psychological state of the person or persons involved is not immediately evident. So yes, of course, not all the mysteries can be solved. But that doesn't necessarily mean unnatural elements are at play.'

'But you can't be sure.'

'No, I can't be sure every time. Some mysteries will always remain so, despite our best efforts to understand them. Sometimes, perhaps, a glimmer is all we're allowed.'

There was a silence between them for a moment or two, then abruptly Eve said: 'Mr Pyke, thank you for your kindness to Loren, but I'm afraid we aren't in need of your services.'

'Wait a minute, hon,' blurted Gabe. 'Having Mr Pyke look into things can't do any harm.' Truthfully, Gabe hoped Pyke would bring a little sanity into the house.

'I can assure you, my investigation will not be disruptive. My equipment would be minimal to begin with—a couple of cameras, one with infrared capability, a tape recorder, thermometers, talcum powder and synthetic thread. We can move on to other appliances—sound scanners, magnetometers, thermal heat scanners, and other pieces—only if necessary for a more sophisticated type of investigation. From what you've already told me, I'm fairly sure that won't be the case.'

Eve was shaking her head, but Gabe pressed on.

'And you're certain you can come up with answers?'

'I'll do my best for you, that's all I can promise. I could make a start tomorrow evening.'

'Gabe—' Eve started to say, but Gabe cut her off.

'How much is your fee, Mr Pyke?'

'Oh, I don't charge anything. Any expenses, obviously, but they won't amount to much. You see, I don't do this for financial gain. With my pension and what's left from a modest property inheritance when I was much younger, I'm moderately comfortable financially and have never had the need to charge for my services. The only thing I'd require from you is permission to write a paper on my findings, which I might submit to the London Society for Psychical Research at some later date. They're always interested in the fieldwork of independent investigators like myself. And I would ask you to stay in one part of the house once I've set up my equipment. As that will be at night-time, you'll probably be in your bedrooms anyway.'

'You want to do this at night?'

'Fewer natural disturbances then. People walking about, children playing, visitors—all the usual daytime matters. Besides, that's when most of the incidents have occurred, haven't they?'

'Gabe, I don't want this,' Eve said earnestly.

But Gabe was undaunted. 'Eve, either we let Mr Pyke do his stuff, or we move out of this place at the weekend. Maybe if we find the causes of these things happening here we can fix 'em.'

Eve was about to object again, but she saw the resolution on her husband's face. Once Gabe was set on something, there was no changing his mind. Besides, the investigator might find that Crickley Hall was haunted.

And in her heart, that was what she hoped.

48: ICE

The bath was long enough for Eve to stretch full length, her legs straight, only her head and neck above the waterline. It was almost relaxing lying there cocooned and snug in the warm water, her face wet with light perspiration; only her troubled thoughts kept her from dozing.

Tomorrow evening Gordon Pyke would come to the house and set up his equipment, then would keep a lonely vigil through the night while she and her family slept. She wondered if anything more would happen when the place was under observation, something mystical that would prove his investigation pointless. Would the hours pass by peacefully, the spirits choosing not to reveal themselves, not by sound, nor by apparition? Would Pyke's apparatus show that the disturbances had perfectly natural causes? Perhaps the man was right—she had imagined the dancing children because her mind was susceptible to images prompted by a simple kiddies' toy, the colourful spinning top. She was aware of how emotionally vulnerable she'd become, worn down by grief and fading hope, but surely she had truly seen them, and surely she had not imagined that dark, evil presence last Sunday, and again yesterday when Lili Peel had also sensed it?

She closed her eyes against the starkness of the bathroom with its black and white tiles and plain bowled light overhead. Rain pittered on the frosted window and curls of steam rose from the water in which she tried to relax. The warmth felt good against her skin and her thoughts wandered.

Eve was tired—she always felt tired nowadays, but this week had been particularly stressful. Good idea, Gabe, getting us all away from London so that we wouldn't be at home with its memories on the anniversary of Cam's disappearance. She gave a bitter smile. As if it would make any difference, as if it would hurt any less. But Gabe meant well.

She wiped the flannel across her face, water mixing with the perspiration. It was good not to be cold for a change, the house was always so chilly. Full of draughts, Pyke had said—or air currents, as he would have it. He was a tall, big-boned man, but he seemed trustworthy. A gentle not-quite giant, with a good-natured countenance and a comforting smile. Eve hoped she hadn't been too rude to him, but she knew Lili Peel would be of more help to her. Eve was sure the psychic would reach Cam eventually; it would just take a little time and the right conditions. Hadn't she herself felt him close by?

Keeping her eyes closed, she sank lower into the bath, water covering her chin, almost reaching her bottom lip. So warm, so comfortable. Eve began to drift…

Mustn't fall asleep. So tired, though, so wearied by events. And by sorrow. Briefly, she wondered if they would ever find Chester again. Lost dog, lost son. The girls were still upset. Over Cam. Over Chester. One loss too many. Sleepy. Very sleepy…

Because her eyes were closed and she was half asleep, Eve didn't at first notice the light above flicker, then dim, then burn out.

But she felt the change in temperature that followed almost instantly. It roused her with a start.

The water she bathed in was suddenly chilled—no, it was cold and fast becoming freezing. It was as if it were congealing into ice.

Then, there in the absolute darkness, she heard its sound—ice crackling as it merged on the water's surface.

She lifted her leaden arms and her numbed hands came in contact with the thin icy layer. She pushed against it, but already it was firm and wouldn't break.

Her face, just above the waterline, felt the frigidity of the room itself. Her hair stiffened and crackled with ice particles and the cold beneath seemed to press on her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. She tried to call out, but drew in frosted air that constricted her throat. This could not be happening, it was beyond all reason! How could a bath full of heated water freeze over within seconds? It was insane!

The coldness about her body seemed heavy, hardened, and it clamped her limbs, making it almost impossible to move them. And each time she tried to suck in air so that she could scream for help, it was as though a rod of ice had rushed into her throat to stifle any sound. Instead of raising her hands, she pushed them against the bottom of the bath, using her heels too, hoping to break through the glacial surface with her shoulders, but she kept slipping on the porcelain, kept slithering on its slickness.

Desperately, she sharply brought up one knee, the foot of the other leg pressed hard against the end of the bath. She heard the ice crack, sensed it give a little, felt the impact on her knee. But the effort caused her head to sink further down into the water, which rushed up her nose and surged into her open mouth. She panicked even more and threw her body around, writhing in the icy thickness, kicking up with both knees now, one after the other, cracking, then breaking the frozen sheet. Her head and shoulders were completely underwater and her back pressed against the bath's solid bottom.

She was frantic, she was terrified. She did not want to drown.

With a massive effort, she lifted her torso, her forehead breaking through the thin layer of ice that was already forming over the opening where her head had been only moments before. She gulped in a huge breath, not caring that it froze her mouth and throat and invaded her lungs like an arctic breeze, just desperate to take in air so that she wouldn't die.

She opened her eyes to the darkness and that was when vice-like fingers clamped the top of her head and pushed her down again. She went under, not understanding, just fighting for her life, tossing herself around, squirming and wriggling, refusing to be still despite the cold, tight embrace of the water, twisting so that the iron hand that held her could not get a firm grip. Eve burst through the surface ice, this time further down in the bath, one leg over the side, the other one bent, her foot pushing against the slippery porcelain.

Blinking to clear her eyes, Eve perceived rather than saw the dark figure looming over her and this time she did scream, for it was an instinctive, animal cry that was not forced but came from sheer terror.

The piercing sound echoed round the tiled bathroom. Now two stunningly gelid hands grasped her, one in her hair, the other on her shoulder. They forced her down once more, but she struggled so much, the ice breaking up completely around her, that they could not keep her under. She heaved herself upwards, screamed again, and the bathroom door crashed open, dismal light from the landing pushing back the reluctant darkness.

Gabe rushed in and grabbed Eve, hauling her out of the bath, hugging her naked shuddering body close. He tried to calm her, squeezing her tight, hushing her sobs with quietly spoken words.

'It's all right, Eve, you're safe, I'm here.'

He quickly scanned the room and although it was shadowed, he could tell there was no one else in there.

But he smelt the thick cloying stink of strong soap mixed with decay and excrement.

49: COMFORT

'But I felt the water, Eve, and it wasn't cold. Tepid maybe, but for sure not icy like you say.'

'You have to believe me.'

'Maybe the light burning out like that scared you and you thought—'

'I didn't imagine what happened, Gabe. The light went off—'

'It was just the bulb. I checked. None of the other lights failed.'

'When the light went off the bathwater froze. Just suddenly froze! I was caught in it. Then someone—something—started to push me under. It was trying to drown me! A hand was on my head, it pushed me down. I didn't imagine it!'

'Okay, hon. I'm just trying to make sense of it all.' He didn't say anything about the noxious smell. At a stretch it might only have been the bathroom's ancient drains. He had to face it, though: he was looking for plausible reasons for the weird things going on in this house. 'I suppose really I don't want to believe in ghosts,' he admitted.

'How can you ignore everything that's gone on since the day we moved in?'

He was silent. Eve was right. He himself had witnessed the strange little glowing lights hovering round Cally while she played in her room; he, too, had heard the scuttling of small feet coming from the attic, and he had been there when the closet door had almost burst its hinges with the banging coming from inside.

Finally, he said: 'You're right, there's something wrong with this place, something bad here. Chester knew straightaway. S'why he hit the road.'

They were in their bedroom, both sitting on the edge of the bed, Eve with her bathrobe wrapped around her. Mercifully, and perhaps oddly, her screams had not awoken their daughters; they had slept on, the sleep of the innocents. The house was taking their energy.

Gabe slumped, bent over his knees, his hands clasped together. 'I'm beat,' he said. 'We've had enough. We gotta pull out, quit.'

'But there's something good here, too.'

'How can you know that?'

'I've sensed it. So has Lili.'

'We can't go through all that again. Look, if you're right, if Cam did make some kind of contact with you, he can do it wherever you are.' He thought she was deluding herself, but now wasn't the time to voice that opinion. Eve was in a fragile state, she was too strung out.

She leaned into him, one arm crossing to his shoulder. Gabe slipped his own arm round her waist.

'All right, Gabe, we'll leave.'

He let out a sigh of relief.

'But only after Lili Peel comes here again.'

'Eve…'

'Just one more time. We can also let Mr Pyke carry out his investigation, if that's what you want.'

'Doesn't seem much point if we're leaving.'

'As you said earlier, his investigation can do no harm. Besides, I'm interested in what he might find.'

'You just wanna see me proved wrong, is all.' He said it lightly.

'No, I want you to be satisfied.'

'You gonna be okay tonight?'

'I'll take a sleeping pill. I feel exhausted, but I doubt I'd sleep otherwise.' The house was sapping her strength too.

She softly kissed his cheek, aware of his confusion, confident of his love. Her lips lingered.

'I was so frightened, Gabe.'

'I know. That's why we have to go.'

Yes, she thought, they should leave Crickley Hall.

But not tomorrow.

50: FRIDAY

Eve took the breakfast bowls and mugs out of the hot soapy water and left them on the draining board to dry. She looked out the window at the habitually dismal day. Would this rain never stop? Sighing, she stripped off the rubber gloves and dropped them on the other side of the sink, then emptied the suds into the drain. Loren, disgruntled with tiredness, had finally gone off to school, while Cally, unusually for her, was still upstairs asleep. It would have been a shame to wake her, so worn was she last night; best to let her sleep it out.

Eve realized she would have to do a small shop this morning, just some fresh food for the weekend, but Gabe was in his makeshift office, so he could listen out for Cally. He had told Eve that he thought he'd cracked Seapower's maintenance problem—something about using a telescopic hydraulic pole, its jack on the seabed, instead of a crane fixed to a surface vessel—a boat, he meant—to bring up the marine turbine's below-the-waterline machinery for maintenance work. In a way, she hoped he hadn't found the solution, because if he had, then it wouldn't matter so much if the family returned to London. Gabe could make solo trips to Devon when required.

Contrarily, Eve wasn't ready to abandon Crickley Hall too soon, despite having been scared witless last night. Cam knew she was here, that was all that mattered. He had reached out—consciously or subconsciously, it wasn't important which—from wherever he was being held and had finally found her here. Although Gabe said if there really was some kind of telepathy involved it didn't matter where she might be physically, Eve wasn't sure and was not about to take a chance, not at this stage, not when the contact felt so close. Even now she could feel Cam's presence. She knew beyond all doubt that her son was trying to communicate with her. Hadn't he soothed her brow on Sunday with his little soft hand, hadn't his goodness, his purity, forced the dark horrid thing to go away?

Lili Peel could be the intermediary. Eve had to get the psychic to help her again. Cam's message could be channelled through her. Eve took Lili's card from the parka hanging up beside the kitchen door and went out into the hall.

She tapped out the number on the old phone. It took six rings before Lili picked up.

'Hello?'

'Lili, it's Eve Caleigh.'

'Oh. Are you all right?'

'Not good.' Eve quickly told the psychic how the same black spirit whose presence had frightened them so the day before yesterday had tried to drown her in the bath last night. 'I'm scared, Lili,' she admitted. 'But that's not why I'm ringing. I want you to come back to Crickley Hall. I want you to try and contact my son again.'

'After what happened on Wednesday?' Lili sounded astonished—and afraid. 'It came back for you last night, don't you understand? It's too dangerous, Eve, I won't do it. I—I had a similar experience some time ago: an entity, a malevolent entity, came through unbidden. I can't take the chance again.'

'Lili, I need you. I know you could help me save my son if you tried. You almost reached him before.'

'Yes, and look what manifested itself instead.'

'But you'd be prepared this time. You could send it away, close it off from your mind.'

'It doesn't work that way. Once I'm in trance I'm vulnerable, I can't control what comes through.'

'Then don't go into a trance, just use your conscious mind.'

'Don't you see? I can't help it sometimes, it takes me over. I just go under.'

'I won't let it happen, I'll keep you awake even if I have to slap your face. But you could reach Cam without being in a half-conscious state, couldn't you? I'm not even asking you to communicate with the dead. My son is alive, I know it! I only want you to establish a telepathic link, that's all I'm asking. Only you can control it properly, Lili, I'm convinced of that.'

'Your husband doesn't want me there.' Lili was struggling to excuse herself.

'Gabe won't object if it's just one more time. I'll talk to him and it'll be okay. Just try once more, Lili.'

'I'm sorry, Eve.'

'Please. Please, Lili.'

'You don't know what you're asking. Crickley Hall is filled with unrest. There's so much wickedness, so much fear.'

'Is it the children?'

'Yes, their lost spirits. Something is keeping them there. They're frightened.'

'Have you considered it might be the dark man, the thing that terrified us both when you came here, the entity that never quite materialized that day? It was stronger last night. It froze the water and wanted to drown me.'

'Its force is building and I don't have the power to stop it. Something really bad is going to happen in Crickley Hall—I felt it as soon as I walked into the hall—and I don't want to be there when it does. My advice to you is get out as soon as you can. Please take your family away from that house.'

'We are leaving. Soon. That's why I want one more chance.'

'No, Eve. Not with me. I'm so sorry.'

Eve heard the connection break.

•

Lili stared at the small cordless phone on her desk. The shop was empty of customers so far, but business would pick up towards lunchtime. Midday Friday was always busy.

She felt awful. She had hated turning Eve down—the woman was in deep mental anguish and desperate—but Lili could not get involved: it was too dangerous. Eve didn't understand, even though she knew there was evil in Crickley Hall. She seemed to have a blind trust in Lili's psychic ability and an unreasonable belief that her son was still alive. It was foolish on both counts.

The truth was Lili was too afraid to return to Crickley Hall after her visit on Wednesday when she had been almost overwhelmed by fear and despair as soon as she'd entered the place. And afraid again later, when that dark thing—literally dark—had terrorized her and Eve. What might have been the consequences had not Gabe Caleigh and his daughter walked in at that point? Lili gave a little shudder at the thought.

No, she could not—she would not—go back to that house, not for Eve, not even for the children… She broke off her deliberations and stiffened in her chair. No, she told herself, don't think of the children who had perished there. There was nothing she could do for their earthbound spirits! How could she stand up to the other, the malign, force that haunted the house? Eighteen months ago she had nearly been driven to a nervous breakdown by a spirit that had spontaneously manifested itself, the spectre of someone from her past, someone she had hurt badly, someone who even in discarnate form could not forget.

Lili unconsciously twisted one of her coloured wristbands. She blocked her own thoughts, wishing it were possible to discard certain memories.

The shop door opened and two people, shoulders still hunched against the rain, stumbled through. It was a welcome distraction.

•

It was just after eleven when Gabe heard the phone downstairs ring.

Bent over his drawing board, he muttered something nasty and snapped down the Rapidograph. He was tempted to ignore the brilling tone, but Eve was out at the harbour village store and Cally was sleeping a few doors away. He didn't want his youngest daughter disturbed, because while she was asleep she was no bother to him and he had a lot of work to wrap up before they left Crickley Hall. Gabe almost regretted not having gone into the office that morning; but then, he supposed, there would have been even more interruptions there. He wanted to finish up his sketches this morning and deliver them that afternoon, hopefully the engineering problem solved.

With a resigned groan, he stepped down from the high stool and went to the open door. Maybe it was someone from Seapower ringing; or maybe it was his own London office, checking on his progress—he hadn't spoken to anyone there for a whole working week.

On his way along the landing, he popped his head into Cally's bedroom to see how she was doing. She was still sleeping soundly, her mouth slightly open, quietly snoring through her nose. Poor mite, she had become as tired as her older sister. Getting Loren out of the door to catch the school bus this morning had been hard work for Eve.

He hurried to the stairs, now having decided to answer the phone, anxious not to miss the call. Might be important.

Crossing the hall's stone floor in sneakers, jeans and half-sleeve sweatshirt, he grabbed the receiver from its cradle.

'Yeah?'

'Gabe Caleigh?'

'Yeah.'

'It's DI Kim Michael.'

Gabe drew in a sharp breath. His heart didn't know whether to sink or be elated. Instead, it became neutral. Michael was the police detective in London who had eventually, when it was assumed that Cam had been abducted, taken charge of the investigation and search.

'Hey, Kim.' Gabe's voice was low and steady. He and Detective Inspector Michael had become almost friends during the long quest to find Gabe's missing son for, although two FLOs (Family Liaison Officers) had been assigned to the family, the detective had taken a personal interest in the case, going out of his way to inform Eve and Gabe of every lead the police were following, of every reported sighting, and every disappointment when they followed them up. He would call in on Eve and Gabe regularly after duty hours, just to see how they were bearing up, encouraging them at the beginning, letting them down as gently as possible as the months went by, his sympathy genuine, unaffected by the official role he played.

'I tried your mobile number first—I wanted to speak to you, not your wife. Couldn't even get a tone though.'

'Yeah,' Gabe responded, 'cell phones don't seem to work in this neck of the woods.' Then, bluntly: 'What is it, Kim?'

The detective was equally blunt. 'We've found a child's body.'

51: THE DRIVE HOME

Gabe tried to concentrate on the road ahead as he joined the motorway that led straight into the heart of the capital. Rain lashed the windscreen, keeping the wipers busy, but when he glanced out of the side window he saw there was worse to come: huge grey-black clouds had assembled in the north-east, great over-burdened bulks that were steadily progressing across the country, portents of punishment yet to come. His mind kept wandering back to the conversation with the police detective, the same questions and the same replies repeating themselves like a script that had to be learnt.

A little over three hours ago he had been standing in the great hall, the phone shaking in his hand, while the world shrank around him. He had endeavoured to remain calm as he spoke to DI Michael.

'Have you seen the body itself?' he had asked the detective.

'Yes, I have.'

'What… uh, what kind of condition is it in?'

'Gabe, come on. You don't want to know. It's been in the canal for a long time. The pathologist reckons it's been in the water a good few months, possibly a year.'

'For as long as Cam's been missing.'

Silence at the other end.

Then, Gabe: 'Tell me, Kim.'

'It's badly decomposed. As you'd expect.'

Gabe had thought for a few moments, the news taking time to sink in even though he had been expecting—fearing—something like this since Cam had been gone.

'Thing is,' the policeman said slowly, 'we need you to ID.' More quickly: 'You don't have to see the body, Gabe, you could just identify the clothes. They're worn and ragged, and the colours are faded, but you should be able to recognize them. The shoes are gone. Eve gave a fair description of what Cameron was wearing the day he disappeared, so no doubt you'll know yourself.'

Of course he'd fucking know: he was there when Eve described the clothes to the police for about the hundredth time. He remembered getting the phone call at the office, Eve too distraught to make it herself, a WPC doing it for her. The fast drive home to be with Eve, hoping, praying—he had more faith in God back then—that they would have found his little boy by the time he reached the house. The panic in Eve's eyes, her body-rattling weeping, throwing herself into his arms the moment he walked through the door. Yes, he remembered—that day was seared into his brain.

'Look, Gabe,' DI Michael had said this morning almost exactly a year later, 'I don't think you should bring your wife with you. Come on your own, will you?'

'She's gonna want to be there.'

'My firm advice is that you don't let her. Your son or not, either way, it would be too distressing for her. I don't think she needs to be put through an ordeal like this.'

'Okay. You're right. Someone has to look after Cally anyway—we can't drag her all the way back to London. And Loren's at school, she doesn't get home 'til around four. I'll make Eve see sense.' His shoulders were hunched and he consciously forced them to relax. 'Eve's out, but she'll be back any minute. When I've told her, I'll be on my way. Look, just to be certain, you're talking about the canal that runs past the park, right?'

'Afraid so. The body was trapped a mile or so further on, which was why the divers found nothing when they searched before.'

'You say trapped?'

'Yes, it was inside an old pram—one of those big perambulators—someone had dumped in the water probably years ago. Apparently it was lying on its side among a lot of other junk on the canal bed. There's a council estate along that stretch and residents have been dumping stuff for years. Yesterday, the Underwater Search Unit was searching the area because a local known villain was seen tossing a gun over the canal wall as he was being chased by uniformed cops.'

So, the body had been discovered by chance. Gabe suppressed any cynicism he felt.

'Kim,' he said quietly. 'What do you think?'

'I can't lie to you, Gabe, but it looks bad for you. The clothes—'

'Okay. Where do I meet you?'

'At the mortuary.' The detective gave Gabe the address as well as the mortuary's phone number in case he got lost. 'You've got my mobile number, so ring me when you're approaching London. It'll give me time to get there before you.'

Gabe had hung up. Cally was at the top of the stairs, rubbing sleep from her eyes with her knuckles as she looked down at him.

•

Surprisingly, when Eve had returned from the harbour village she had taken the news calmly; perhaps it was because she was almost totally drained, had little more emotion left. Also surprisingly, she had agreed to stay at Crickley Hall while Gabe made the trip to London. She seemed to see the logic of remaining behind with their daughters.

Now, Gabe pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator, keeping to the outside lane, flashing his headlights at other drivers who blocked his way, forcing some to pull over into the middle lane by tailgating them.

Anxious already, Eve's reaction made him even more so. He had feared the finding of a child's body so close to the park where Cam had been lost would leave her broken, hysterical at least, but she had been composed, albeit a brittle type of composure. Her one condition for staying, though, was that he phone her immediately he knew whether it was the body of their son or not. She had kissed Gabe and leaned into him so that he could enfold her in his arms. That was the moment he thought she might break, but she had only trembled against him, and when he lifted her chin with the crook of his finger, she had gazed back with dulled eyes. He realized she was in shock, a numbing kind of shock. He was loath to leave her like that, but he'd had no other choice, he had to find out the truth about their son. And if it was Cam? Right now that was too painful to contemplate.

He kicked down hard on the accelerator once more to get past a lorry that was throwing up spray from the middle lane. The wet greyness of the day closed round him.

52: SECOND VISITOR

Iris ushered the visitor into Magda's room at the nursing home.

'There now, Magda, aren't you the popular one? You've another person come to see you. That's two more than you've ever had since you've been here.'

Magda ignored the nurse's prattling and took in the man who had entered.

Oh, she knew him. He had visited her once before, but in the other place, where they kept a person locked up all the time. But that was a long while ago and he was much younger then, a young man and not the awkward boy she used to know.

'You can sit in the armchair, if you like.' The blue-uniformed nurse indicated the lumpy soft chair in the corner. 'Magda won't move from her one unless it's to be put to bed. Sometimes I think she's stuck to it.'

The visitor gave Iris a genial smile before making himself comfortable in the armchair, altering its position so that it faced the elderly resident. The nurse left the room and he waited for her footsteps to recede down the corridor before speaking.

'Hello, Magda,' he said. 'Do you know who I am? Do you recognize me after all this time?'

Of course she did, you fool. Maurice Stafford. Who could forget such a devoted boy?

She remained silent.

'I came to see you a long time ago when you were in the other place. They don't call them mental asylums any more, did you know that? But then so much has changed since we sat on that cold and wet station platform.'

When he'd left her alone and frightened, too frozen with fear to get on the train with him when it came the next morning. He never even pleaded with her. He was just gone. Gone for ever, she'd thought. But now he was back for the second time and she wondered why.

'Won't you speak to me? Won't you say hello to your old friend?'

Speak? She'd not spoken a word since that day, not even when they found her alone at the station. Why should she drop her guard now?

'Still refusing, eh, Magda? Is it a game you're playing so you don't have to confess? Either way it's good, it's very good. You can't tell tales on your brother, can you? People would never understand why Augustus did the things he did, especially nowadays. Discipline is an old-fashioned concept.'

He leaned forward and peered at her intently, his cruel eyes searching for any sign of recognition, of recollection. She remained impassive.

She remembered many things though, dear Maurice. How he had spied on the other children, reporting their misbehaviours to either herself or Augustus. And she also remembered what she and Maurice had done to the young teacher whose prettiness was marred by the ugliness of her withered arm. Oh, they had taken good care of her, the prying, interfering little wretch, but it was Maurice who had killed her, creeping up behind the silly girl and bashing in her head with one of the stouter logs piled on the boiler-room floor for winter fires.

'You remember what we did to the teacher, Magda? How we killed her next door to the cellar? I was, shall we say, agitated afterwards, but then I was a mere child of twelve years. You took charge, you knew what had to be done to conceal the crime. We carried Nancy Linnet's body back into the cellar and dropped it into the well. You were brisk and efficient, utterly cold—if there was any trepidation, you hid it from me.'

Yes, she had hidden her panic: she'd had to be strong for Augustus, she could not allow him to be betrayed. It was only at the very end, on the night of the fierce storm, that she'd had to desert her brother in his madness. She had fled with the boy, Maurice Stafford, braving the storm because they were too afraid of Augustus to stay, terrified that in his insanity he would turn on them.

'The game was up that last night, we both knew it. Augustus could no longer be protected from the outsiders, the snoopers, the government people—he had gone too far. In the end, he wreaked havoc, didn't he?'

Those street urchins only had themselves to blame! They were bad boys and girls, incorrigibly wayward! They had planned to run away from Crickley Hall that night and they had to be stopped!

Magda sat perfectly still on her hard chair.

But in the end it was she and Maurice who had run away.

'We defied the storm and reached the train station. We sat on the platform bench, bowed and shivering, until the next morning when the storm had ceased and all was calm once more. But when the train came along, quite early, you refused to get on it with me. You had sunk into yourself, Magda. You refused to speak and you wouldn't be moved. At the last moment I caught the train myself. Your face was as expressionless as it is now. Like stone. I could tell you how I survived in the city on my own for almost a year before I found someone to take me in, but I'm afraid it wouldn't mean a thing to you.'

He rose to his feet.

'You really are mad, aren't you?' he said.

Certainly not. She was just… just cautious, that was all. She could talk if she wanted to, couldn't she? Of course she could. It was safer this way, though. They left her alone now, didn't even try to coax her to speak. To confess. Oh, she could talk all right, but this way was best. This way they thought she knew nothing and could tell nothing. Hah! Fools, all of them.

'You're harmless, I can see. I came today because I was curious after all these years. I saw you once—what was it, thirty years ago?—when they kept you in a locked cell, and you were as silent as you are now. You've grown old, Magda. You must be at least ninety-three, ninety-five? I don't suppose you even remember me and I doubt you remember anything about those days in Crickley Hall.'

He walked to the door, paused and turned back to regard her.

'Let me assure you,' he said with a faint smile, I've never forgotten Augustus Theophilus Cribben and all the things he—and you, Magda—taught me. I hear his call even now. He won't be denied, do you know that?'

Magda refused to look at him. She went on staring at the blank wall.

'At least, Magda, you seem to be at peace in your lunacy.'

The visitor left the room.

A lunatic? Yes, perhaps she was. Perhaps all the years of silence had finally made her that way.

But she wasn't as mad as Maurice. His madness shone from his eyes.

Magda listened to his footsteps fade away. Inwardly she smiled, but her face did not change expression. Someone might be watching.

53: THE MORTUARY

Detective Inspector Kim Michael was waiting for Gabe at the mortuary entrance, which was in the basement of a huge teaching hospital. They shook hands in a perfunctory manner, both men wanting to get through the ordeal of viewing the body as quickly as possible.

DI Michael was just below average height but fit-looking, with dark-brown hair and intelligent greeny-brown eyes that softened his tough features. From experience Gabe knew the policeman was a good listener, whose sound advice and quiet encouragement had helped Eve and Gabe through the bad times after Cam's disappearance. He looked at Gabe sympathetically now.

'How was the journey?' he asked as he led the engineer down a long sloping corridor with pale two-tone green walls.

'I used the motorways, made good time, although the rain didn't help,' Gabe replied.

DI Michael nodded. He stopped before black plastic swingdoors, pushing open one side and ushering Gabe through. The engineer found himself in another but broader corridor with doors left and right, all of them closed except one, the nearest.

I've got the clothes ready for you,' the detective said, indicating the open doorway. 'Let's see how you do with them before we try anything else.'

Gabe entered and found himself in a viewing room, a long plain table on one side, a few metal chairs set against another wall. To his right was an interior window, the drapes behind the glass closed. It was a viewing window and he wondered if the child's corpse was already lying there beyond the curtains. There was a door beside the window.

On the long table was a semi-clear plastic bag in which items of clothing were bundled. Gabe could just make out a faded reddish jumper lying on a blue anorak.

DI Michael went to the bag and began to pull the rumpled clothing out, laying each item along the table. The woollen jumper was ragged and now closer to pink in colour; when Cam had worn it, the jumper was a vivid red. Gabe almost choked. There were holes where the wool had unravelled or had been nibbled by scavenging fish. He managed to get a grip on himself before moving on to the blue anorak. The colour had paled but it was truer to its original tone than the woollen jumper. Next to this was a tiny vest that had been white but was now a dirty grey, as were the small underpants close by. The material of both was torn and punctured as though river fish had gnawed through to get at the meat beneath. That image caused Gabe to waver and the detective held on to his arm to steady him.

Gabe forced himself to continue looking. The little pair of shrunken jeans came next; they were so drained of colour they were almost white in places.

'As I told you on the phone,' Kim Michael said, 'the shoes are missing, but I forgot to say the socks were gone too. We think the underwater currents took them away. As far as the pathologist can tell, there are no signs of violence on the body before drowning.'

'You're sure?'

'As sure as we can be after all this time…'

Gabe could not tear his eyes away from the shrunken, damaged garments displayed on the table. He wanted to sink to his knees before them and wail his son's name, wanted to scream denial. But there was no doubt—the clothing had been Cameron's. Now, as if to confirm the gut-wrenching truth of it, he noticed the tiny crocodile logo stitched to the jumper's chest, some of the stitching broken, the crocodile no longer green but a colourless smudge with only the outline defined. Cam had loved that little cartoon emblem.

'Gabe?' DI Michael had dropped his hand away from the engineer's arm, but he angled his head, trying to look into Gabe's downcast eyes. Gabe knew what was expected of him.

'The clothes belong to Cam,' he said without apparent emotion.

'You're sure?'

He nodded. 'Pretty much.'

'If you are certain, there's no need to see the body.'

'I got to.'

'It's been in the river for a year. Sorry, Gabe, but it's been eaten away, as well as spoiled by the polluted water. It isn't necessary to put yourself through any more. We've got the clothes—you've identified them.'

Gabe nodded towards the interior window. 'He's in there, isn't he, Kim?'

'Yes, he's there. But I'm telling you, there's no need to see the body itself.'

'I don't want to see the body,' Gabe replied grimly. 'I just want to see the hands.'

•

Gabe slowly sank down onto Cam's small bed, leaned his elbows on his knees and cupped his face in his hands. He was still numb from the shock of finally accepting his son really was dead, that there was no more hope, that their little boy was gone for ever.

With its Shrek posters, brightly patterned wallpaper and robust transporters and the like spilling from an open pine chest, the cheerfulness of the room belied the desolate mood of its occupant. A Lion King mobile hanging from the overhead light-fitting stirred only slightly in the draught he had caused by entering the room. Early evening shadows gradually deepened and cohered as he sat there, his heart a dead weight, his thoughts dulled by the trauma of unbearable truth.

At the mortuary, Gabe and DI Michael had gone through to the room where Cam's poor decomposed body was laid out beneath the green sheet. Horribly, a few strands of hair—blond hair that had been bleached white by the dirty shifting waters—protruded from one end of the sheet and Gabe had forced himself to look away, to concentrate on the only parts of the body he needed to see. The mortician who had accompanied them had been considerate; he had pulled up the cover so that the exposed hair was concealed. Then carefully, after instructions from the detective, the man had folded back both sides of the green cloth, revealing the corpse's hands and arms.

Gabe had felt nauseous and horrified when he saw the skeletal fingers, scraps of corrupted flesh still clinging to the digits and the wrist. He had sucked in a sharp breath when he compared the little fingers of both hands and found the one on the right was shorter than the one on the left.

He had wanted to see no more than that, but the temptation to draw back the sheet and reveal the whole of the body was almost irresistible. It was Kim Michael, as if reading Gabe's mind, who deterred him. He tugged gently at the engineer's elbow and led him back to the viewing room next door. Gabe knew he would always be grateful to Kim for that: full sight of Cam's despoiled little body would have haunted him for ever. He officially identified the corpse as Cameron Caleigh, then left the mortuary and drove to his Canonbury home.

Ringing Eve was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, but unexpectedly she had not broken down or become hysterical; rather she had taken the news calmly, as if he were telling her something she already knew so it was no shock. He realized her denial this past year had been a sham, something she would never admit even to herself—especially to herself. Part of her had rejected the idea that Cam was dead, but another, deeper, part of her, had already accepted his fate.

He sat on Cam's small bed, with its gaily patterned duvet, its pale blue pillow, and his emotions began to surge, to rise to the surface, overwhelming that numbness he felt, finally bursting through so that his chest spasmed, his shoulders shuddered, and the tears he had held back for so long flooded his eyes and wet his cupped hands. It was as if at last he had been given permission to grieve properly.

He remained weeping for his dead son until the room's darkness was almost complete.

54: MAURICE STAFFORD

Sam Pennelly, landlord of the Barnaby Inn, wiped the bar counter with a teacloth, surveying the room as he did so. It was all very well keeping the pub open all day, but where was the trade? Two customers, that's what he'd had since three o'clock. Old Reggie (as he was known) with his halves of bitter, each one lasting at least an hour before he ordered another, was sitting there in his regular place by the fire, cloth cap and muffler still in place but his storm coat laid over a chair opposite. Because he was long retired, Old Reggie spent most afternoons and evenings in the Barnaby, ready to engage anyone who gave him a greeting in conversation, but most of the time content to sit alone and no doubt reminisce about the old days. Earlier, when he'd ordered his first half-bitter, he had complained about the inclement weather, likening it to 1943 when Old Reggie was just a nipper and the constant rainfall had caused the Great Flood. Sam didn't like such talk—it made his other customers edgy, afeared it might happen again.

'Can't resist the force of nature,' the old boy had remarked glumly as he'd handed over the exact amount for the beer. Mebbe he was right, but there was no cause to go alarming people. Some villagers were even talking about moving out, going to stay with relatives or friends on safer ground until the downpours had passed, but Sam saw no sense in that, not when it meant he might lose his regular customers. In any case, the widened estuary and fortified embankments would see the village all right if a flood ever occurred again.

He wiped his hands on the teacloth and his eyes wandered to the bar's other solitary customer, who sat at a small corner table. The man seemed thoughtful too, mebbe reminiscing like Old Reggie.

Sam was glad of his custom. Large brandies, the man drank, and he'd had two since he'd arrived. The landlord frowned. He hadn't said much to his customer, just the usual pleasantries when the first Hennessy had been ordered, no more than a polite welcome and a short exchange about the foul weather, but Sam had thought he recognized the man. Couldn't place him, though.

It came to him then. The man was an infrequent visitor to the inn, dropping by once or, at the most, twice a year. Sam only remembered him because he always had the same tipple: a double brandy, always a Hennessy, and never with ice or soda. Yes, the man had been coming in for a few years now, always as a stranger because of the length of time between visits. Not one for conversation, Sam recollected, just a 'good day' and a 'thank you' when he took his drink.

Without a newspaper or book to read, Sam's occasional customer seemed to be concentrating on the glass of brandy before him on the small round table. He was certainly lost in thought. He had a half-smile on his face.

•

Maurice Stafford was hardly aware of the coppery-gold liquid in the tumbler. His fingers encircled the bowled glass and he leaned his elbows on the tabletop, but although he gazed into the brandy, his thoughts were on other things. Like the old man who sat by the pub's warm fire, he was sifting through his memories, remembering a different era…

Most of the evacuees had been collected by the LCC (London County Council) from meeting points at schools, orphanages and town halls all over south London and brought by coach (or charabanc, as they used to be called, Maurice reflected with a faint smile) or bus to Paddington railway station, while a few had been taken there directly by fretful and remorseful mothers. Hundreds of children were gathered on the station's great concourse, all with identity labels attached to collars or coat buttons, gas-mask boxes hung around their necks, a few possessions in cardboard suitcases or brown paper parcels tied with string. Ministry of Health and Board of Education officials were in charge of the mass exodus of children, and they were fraught with disorganization and noise.

Maurice stood and waited with nine others from the same orphanage. None of them were crying like many of the evacuees, because they had no family from which to be parted. In truth, the ten of them regarded the evacuation as an exciting adventure. At the last moment, another boy joined them, hurriedly brought there by two members of the RCM (Refugee Children's Movement). Documents were checked by officials before the five-year-old boy, Stefan Rosenbaum from Poland, was formally handed over. After the first evacuee-laden trains had departed the station, the eleven orphans were herded towards an already crowded carriage and put on board. One of the older orphans, a girl called Susan Trainer, had immediately taken charge of the overwhelmed Polish boy, holding his hand tightly and calming him with soft words he did not understand.

After a long journey, the eleven orphans were taken off the train by their adult guardians at a town none of them had ever heard of in North Devon, and from the small rustic station a yellow bus carried them to a house in Hollow Bay called Crickley Hall, where they were cheerlessly greeted by their new custodians, Augustus Theophilus Cribben and his sister Magda.

Cribben was openly furious at the addition of the Polish refugee, while Magda was plainly hostile towards him. They had not been expecting the boy. The guardian, who had accompanied the children from London, explained that it had been a last-minute arrangement. Stefan's parents had been shot when they tried to flee Poland with their son, and he had been brought over to England by other escapees and turned over to the authorities. The boy was shy and spoke very little English.

Cribben had gone through the relevant papers concerning Stefan's status with a fine-toothed comb before reluctantly accepting the boy into his care. He had stated his disapproval of the situation forcefully and the temporary guardian looked relieved to get away at last.

On that first day, and despite the long journey the children had made, the harsh regime began. They were immediately ordered to wash themselves, two at a time in the house's one bathroom. A waterline was marked in the bathtub of three inches rather than the government's water-saving limit of five inches. The tepid water was only changed twice during the bathing and Magda supervised it from a chair on the landing outside the bathroom, issuing orders through the open doorway. Even Maurice, who was considerably bigger and older than the other boys, had to share the bath, as did Susan Trainer, who at eleven was the eldest girl. After the communal bathing, it was nit-seeking time. Magda carried out the searching with a metal comb. Then everybody's hair was cut short, the boys having a pudding basin placed on their heads to set a line for the barber's clippers that Magda used, the hair up to that line so short that the lower scalp and back of the neck was exposed to the air. The boys looked ridiculous and the girls fared not much better—they had to have short bob-cuts that just covered their ears. As well as a toothbrush each and a spare set of underwear, the LCC had provided the orphans with black plimsolls, which they were ordered not to wear inside the house (which would be for most of the time, their only outings being the Sunday-morning visit to the local church) so that they would not leave scuff marks on the floors and stairs, nor make undue noise.

After a meagre meal of mincemeat and boiled potatoes (this was to be their staple diet from that day on) they were sent up to the dormitory, which was a capacious converted attic where iron cotbeds were set out. There was no excited chatter between the children as they undressed for bed. At the orphanage, Susan had been allowed to tell bedtime stories, but not here in Crickley Hall: the children were instructed to go to sleep immediately after Magda had switched off the lights.

They were an austere twosome, Cribben and his sister Magda, and they made it clear from the start that they would tolerate no dissension or misbehaviour from the children in their charge. Ominously, Cribben had used his split-ended cane the very next morning when Eugene Smith, nine years old, was late down for the assembly in the hall (the orphans had to present themselves washed and dressed in two lines at precisely six thirty every morning). Breakfast would follow after prayers in the big drawing room, which also doubled as a classroom. Eugene hadn't appeared 'til the rest were all seated at the two long trestle tables that were used as desks during school time, and Cribben had flown into a fearsome rage. The nine-year-old was made to bend over in front of the others and Cribben administered six hard strokes of the cane.

Swish-thwack! Maurice had never forgotten that sound. Neither had he forgotten Eugene's screech of pain. Swish-thwack! Six times. By the end of the caning, Eugene had been reduced to a blubbering wreck.

Cribben and Magda's very presence was intimidating—no, it was downright scary— and Maurice knew he had to ingratiate himself with them as quickly as possible. He was not only big for his age, long and gangly, but he was also smarter than the other children and certainly more cunning. He did not relish that cane leaving red stripes across his own backside and he determined to do anything to avoid it.

As luck would have it, his chance to gain favour with the Cribbens came the very next day.

The parents and baby brother of two of the evacuees, Brenda and Gerald Prosser, had been killed one night in the Blitz when a German bomb had fallen on their home (the father had been on leave from the army at the time, prior to being shipped overseas). Their parents' bedroom, in which the one-year-old baby also slept, had been totally demolished, while Brenda and Gerald's bedroom had hardly been touched. With no relatives to take them in, the sister and brother had been sent to the orphanage. That had been almost three years ago, and ever since the deaths of their parents and sibling, they had feared the nights, afraid that a bomb might drop and this time kill them too. So they had taken to sleeping, sometimes together, beneath their beds. The punishment of their friend Eugene had traumatized them so much that on the second night at Crickley Hall, Brenda had taken the blankets (there were no sheets) from her own and Gerald's bed and laid them on the floor under her bed. They had slept the night there, cuddling together. Maurice, who was a natural sneak, had informed on them the next day. As punishment the Prossers had been caned across the palms of their hands, six strokes each, with Gerald collapsing in wails and tears after the third stroke. Magda had to support him and force his arm straight so that Cribben could finish the chastisement. Both children were left with livid red weals on the hands and their punishment noted in a big black book that Cribben kept.

And so it continued, Maurice telling tales on the other orphans and soon earning small rewards for the betrayals. Discipline at Crickley Hall was rigid, unbending, the rules of the house too many for Maurice to remember now, but severe punishment was the penalty for breaking them. Sometimes it would be Cribben's cane or Magda's strap (she always wore a thick leather belt round her waist which she would snap at any rule-breaker's hands and legs). Other times it might be fasting for a day, or being made to stand silently in a corner for six hours or more. Toys and board games were not allowed, even though Maurice knew there were some in the house because he had helped Magda carry them—they were sent by orphan-concerned charities—up to the storeroom next to the dormitory, where they were locked away. On Saturday mornings, however, the evacuees were allowed to play on the swing the young gardener had rigged up for them on the front lawn. Only two at a time though, just for the benefit of passers-by who would think it was part of the children's recreational fun. In particular, it was meant to impress the vicar of St Mark's, the church further down the hill; the Reverend Rossbridger liked to pop in for tea and biscuits with the Cribbens from time to time. It was not long before even those innocent sessions on the swing became another form of punishment.

Maurice quickly became Magda's preferred child and loyal servant to Augustus Cribben himself. The other children hated him for this (as they had hated him in the London orphanage before) because they knew he spied on them, that he reported the slightest misdemeanour on their part to the Cribbens, and that he stirred up problems for them with their guardians. Susan Trainer got into the most trouble, because Maurice disliked her in particular—she was too lippy and always defending the smaller kids, especially the Polish boy. Stefan Rosenbaum was constantly picked on by Cribben and Magda; that Stefan understood very little English didn't help matters.

But Maurice enjoyed it all. He liked the strictness and it was fun to see the other boys and girls get punished. He loved the brutality of the canings. And quite soon Cribben saw Maurice's potential.

55: LIGHTNING

Gabe was heading west in the Range Rover and making reasonably good time despite the Friday-night exodus from the city. Now on the motorway, he was able to pick up speed, illegally keeping to the fast lane, once again flashing his headlights at any vehicle that impeded his progress, tailgating them if they didn't pull into the middle lane. It was a foolish thing to do, reckless and heedless of others, but he wanted to reach Hollow Bay as quickly as possible. He was in no mood to dally.

Eve had not wanted him to return to Crickley Hall that night because she felt he would be too exhausted both physically and emotionally. She would comfort Loren and Cally when she broke the terrible news to them. They, in turn, would console each other. For him to drive back that night was too big a risk, especially as it was raining still.

But Gabe hadn't liked the sound of his wife's voice. It was too dispassionate. Eve was too calm, too collected. She had to be in shock. Maybe she had nothing left, her emotions wrung out. Whatever the answer, Gabe had to be there with his wife and daughters; they would need his love and support, as he needed theirs.

Rain suddenly hit the windscreen so fiercely he was momentarily driving blind. He eased up on the accelerator and turned the wipers on to a swifter speed. Other vehicles were also slowing down and he groaned aloud. He didn't need this.

The change from light drizzle to absolute downpour was dramatic and unexpected, like driving into a waterfall. Gabe saw that the sky ahead was black and, just to make things worse, there was a lightning flash that bleached road and countryside, followed by the distant rumble of thunder.

Gabe swore and flicked his headlights at another driver who was blocking his way. He pressed down harder on the accelerator pedal and once more gathered speed.

56: MEMORIES

He drained the last of the Hennessy and pondered whether or not to have another. Glancing at his watch, he decided it was still too early to leave.

Rising from the table, Maurice went to the bar. An attractive but rather sluttish girl, who had arrived a short while ago, was serving. The man Maurice assumed was the landlord or pub manager was standing at the far end of the counter, talking to a couple of customers. The place was just beginning to get busy.

Maurice ordered another large brandy, his third, and smiled at the girl he'd heard the landlord call Frannie. Keep the change, he told her, and took his drink back to the small table.

The old man with the cloth cap was still gazing into the fire. Frannie had livened it up with a few fresh logs when she had come on duty. The fire-gazer had an inch or so of the half-bitter left in his glass and Maurice wondered if it would take him another half-hour to drain it.

Maurice sipped his own drink, enjoying its bite, taking his time because he had plenty of that, plenty of time yet.

He settled comfortably in the chair and went back to his memories. Augustus Theophilus Cribben was a deviant: a masochist and a sadist. But Maurice did not understand such terms in those days. In fact, to Maurice, Cribben was a kind of god. And in three short weeks, the boy was to become an acolyte of the god. He always remained afraid of Cribben, but still he idolized him. Cribben was lord and master of Crickley Hall and Maurice was only too pleased to be his servant, for it gave him power too: domination over the other children, influence with Magda, and the approval of his master—especially that.

He found ways to please Cribben and Magda, watching over the other orphans, controlling them whenever Cribben or his sister was not present, making them stand in two straight lines at assembly in the hall, reporting them if they talked or played after lights out, and generally conspiring with the guardians to make life miserable for the evacuees. When they all marched down the hill to church on Sunday mornings, Maurice always walked at the back with Magda, ready to point out any chatter or mischief from the boys and girls in front. He also kept alert during the Mass, on the lookout for misbehaviour or whisperings among them.

Soon, he had inveigled his way so much into his guardians' good books that he was allowed to stay up long after the others had gone to bed, although he had the habit of sitting on the narrow staircase just below the open hatchway so that he could listen to anything they might whisper about the Cribbens or himself. Augustus Cribben never seemed to sleep: he would walk the landing, pace the flagstoned hall, climb the broad stairway—and sometimes stop at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading to the dormitory, waiting there as if listening for the slightest noise, the quietest of murmurs, hoping to catch the children out, ready to stomp up those wooden steps and deal out immediate punishment—he always carried the cane with him. Then, in the evenings, he began to take Maurice to his bedroom.

There he would instruct the boy to kneel at the bedside with him and pray. Such prayers could go on for two hours or more and such was Cribben's fervour, so intense were his supplications, that Maurice's boredom was never noticed.

It was on one of those nights that something took place that was totally bizarre to the boy—bizarre then, but soon, with repetition, becoming an acceptable part of the evening ritual.

Cribben had been suffering a severe headache all day. Migraine, Magda had informed Maurice when they were alone one day, a condition Augustus had endured all his adult life and which was made worse when they were caught up in an air raid, the house they occupied demolished by a German bomb. Augustus had been trapped in the parlour, beneath half the ceiling that had fallen in, sustaining a serious injury to his head. His life was spared, but from that day the migraine attacks were even worse than before. So bad had they become that sometimes the pain carried him to the very brink of insanity. The attacks were punishment for his past sins, her brother had declared, and this he truly believed even though his life had been pure, his adoration of the Lord absolute.

But one day, Augustus suddenly knew what must be done to relieve this sickly pounding in his head, for it came to him as an epiphany: only further pain, further punishment, could release him from his affliction; only this further penance could absolve him of his sins and thus take away his suffering. Pain defeated by more pain. Magda would have to punish him to the limit of his endurance so that his sins would be washed away by the physical contrition.

One night, as Maurice prayed with Cribben, intoning prayer after prayer, most of them of repentance, the guardian had leaned his head on the bed, his hands clawing at the single sheet. Cribben's face had been ashen all day, his treatment of the evacuees even more stern than usual. At times he had clutched his head in his hands and moaned and even Magda had been wary around him, as if he might explode into violence at any moment. Instinctively, the children had become more subdued than usual (if that were possible) and had avoided even meeting his pain-raddled eyes. They crept quietly around him, never once raising their voices beyond a murmur.

Maurice, kneeling beside Cribben at the bed, watched with a kind of awed anticipation as his master's shoulders jerked with smothered sobs.

After several moments, Cribben seemed to pull himself together. He turned towards Maurice, who saw his guardian's gaunt face was even whiter than usual and drawn with the agony of his headache; tear trails glistened on Cribben's hollowed cheeks.

'You have a duty, boy,' he said to Maurice tightly. He pointed to the commodious wardrobe that dominated one side of the room. 'You're tall, Maurice: you can reach it.'

The boy was confused as he gawked first at the wardrobe, then back at the kneeling figure.

Cribben's order seemed squeezed through his lips, as if pain and impatience were constricting his throat. 'Fetch it, boy!' he hissed.

Bewildered, Maurice nevertheless scuttled over to the big wardrobe. He regarded it blankly.

'You'll find it hidden away on top,' Cribben told him fretfully. 'If you stretch you can reach it. Hurry, fetch it to me!'

Anxiously, Maurice stood on tiptoe and raised his arms above his head, his taut belly pressed against the wardrobe's closed door. He ran his fingertips along the edge and felt nothing at first. But when he stretched himself even higher, his whole body straining with the effort, he touched something lying there out of sight. It was light, for it moved easily when he nudged it. Working his fingers to draw the object closer, he soon realized what Cribben wanted brought to him. He pulled the long thin stick off the wardrobe and faced the guardian with it.

Like the punishment cane Cribben flogged the children with, this was split into several strands at one end; however, there were tiny iron studs impressed into the separate slithers of wood, there to inflict even greater pain when used as a scourge.

'Yes,' was all that Cribben said as he rose from the bed, his eyes glazed with either tears or fervour, and proceeded to remove his jacket. The rest of his clothes followed until he was completely naked. Maurice's eyes widened when he saw the stripes and barely healed weals on Cribben's body, across his chest but mainly across his thighs and lower legs. The studs had also left their marks as small red puncture wounds and short sore-looking scratches. The boy understood that the cane had been used on Cribben before—many times before, for some of the marks were old and faded while others were fresh, almost livid.

'This is my personal instrument of chastisement—it hasn't been sullied by those sinful wretches. You know what to do, Maurice. You must do it fiercely,' Cribben urged—no, he implored—the boy, who was still afraid and uncertain.

He jumped when Cribben screamed at him.

'Punish me! Let the pain absolve me of my sins!'

What those sins could have been, Maurice had no idea, for his God-fearing master was surely without the stain of sin upon his soul. But then, who could tell what dark and covert thoughts tortured the man? Maurice only knew that his own mind possessed many thoughts and images that might be deemed sinful.

Cribben knelt at the bedside again and he threw his upper body across it so that his back and buttocks were exposed. Maurice felt a strange thrill of excitement.

'Make it hurt, boy, let me feel its sting!'

In shock, and without further thought, the boy obliged, though his first couple of strokes were tentative.

'Harder, boy, harder!' Cribben shouted.

Maurice brought the cane down harder, the strokes clearly defined on the guardian's pale flesh, together with small pricks of blood made by the metal studs.

Swish-thwack!

'Lord, let the pain wash away the corruption of my spirit, help me atone for the evil that is mine!'

Swish-thwack!

Maurice struck with more passion, enjoying the sound the cane made on skin and bones, encouraged by the whimpers and cries it brought from his master—excited by the hurt he was causing. Oh, it was glorious. It aroused feelings inside him that he'd never before experienced. It made his groin tingle and caused a new and exquisite sensation, a wonderful feeling that he wanted to go on for ever.

Cribben, his face laid sideways on the bed so that the boy could see his expression, seemed to be in some kind of delirium, his open lips formed into an agonized grin, his eyelids fluttering as if he were about to faint. His hips were inches away from the bedside and Maurice saw something he didn't quite understand, something he'd never seen on any other man or boy before.

Cribben's erection was enormous, its engorged globular tip pressed into the bed's thin mattress.

'Yes,' the guardian moaned in a low, parched voice. 'Yes, more. Harder now!'

Eventually Cribben had had enough. 'Good boy, good boy,' he gasped as he rested his head and shoulders on the bed. 'Go to your room now, boy, and pray for your soul. Mine too. Go.' He sounded exhausted.

Maurice had walked to the door and opened it to find Magda waiting outside on the landing. She had been silent but a wisp of a smile had told Maurice she was pleased with his labours.

The flogging of his master was not the last. It was just the beginning.

57: FRIDAY EVENING

Lili had closed the shop and gone upstairs to her flat. It had been a slow day, unusual for a Friday, but the lack of trade hadn't bothered her too much. Business was always good around Christmas-time and, of course, in the summer months when tourists were like locusts in this part of town. She could have used some distraction that day, however.

She took a bottle of wine from the fridge, uncorked it, then filled a glass almost to the top. She went into her small but neat sitting room, taking both glass and bottle with her. Still standing, she tasted the wine before setting the bottle down on a glass coffee table.

Put the TV on, or not? She weighed up the option in her mind. Not, she decided. Even if it meant having some kind of company in the room, there was hardly anything worth watching nowadays and she hated reality shows (whose reality was it supposed to be anyway? The lives they showed were nothing like her own or anybody's she knew.)

Lili walked to the window and looked out at the storm. So hard was it raining, she could barely make out the lights from the shops and houses across the road. She shivered. The rain was unrelenting, sudden gusts of wind throwing it at the glass in wintry flurries. Lili pulled the curtains closed and turned away, going to the comfortable beige armchair that faced the television screen. The window behind her rattled in its frame.

She sat, sipped her wine and brooded. Too many evenings like this. Alone in her little flat above the shop, drinking wine, sometimes 'til a whole bottle was empty. Lili never got drunk, though. No matter how many glasses of wine she had, she always ended up sober. The second or third glass might give her a lift, but it invariably led downhill to depression after that. She wished it had a different effect, wished it would wipe out certain memories. Never did, though. If anything, consumption of wine revived them. So why did she drink? A shrink might know.

Placing the glass next to the wine bottle on the low coffee table, she relaxed back into the chair. Something else that rekindled times past. She was looking down at one of her wristbands. With a deliberate shrug of her shoulders as if to say, 'Who cares?' she pulled off the coloured band and stared at the thin, fading scar across her wrist. There was another one hidden on her other arm.

Stupid cow! she thought, not because she had tried to bleed to death, but because she'd done it all wrong and had been saved by a young Asian doctor in the Surrey hospital's A and E department. Seven years ago. Since then, she had learnt that the most successful way to slit your wrists was down the veins, not across them.

So she had been saved and made to feel foolish in the process. Why kill yourself just because an affair that had been doomed from the start had ended predictably badly? Don hadn't been worth it; his wife deserved him. For three years they had been lovers and in the end he'd refused to leave his wife as he had promised. It was not even that there were children involved: his wife (Don had complained) was barren.

Lili had fallen in love with him at the minor pharmaceutical publicity agency where she'd found her first job after leaving art college. She had been a junior art director, Don was the marketing manager. Love very nearly at first sight. Ha-ha, witty, because she was psychic and had the power of second sight. She should have known the outcome from the beginning then.

In the end, he had chosen Marion, his wife, but even so, Marion was not satisfied. The bitch had made Lili's life hell after she discovered where she lived. Phone calls, hate mail, threats and even physical confrontation—Marion would not leave Lili alone. Marion the mad woman. Who wanted revenge. Soon to die of cancer.

After her swift but ghastly death, Lili and Don had not tried to rekindle their love for each other: she because he had let her down irrevocably, had turned his pledges into lies; he because he was weighed down by too much guilt. So Lili had changed her life. Certainly they could not work together in the same company, which was too small to get lost in, and he was not going to turn his back on a good job, especially after such a profound tragedy. No, Lili had been the one to leave. It seemed inevitable to her, the only thing to do.

So her father had helped her financially, as had the bank, which thought her idea was sound (it was at a time when banks were practically throwing money at borrowers in order to hook them for life with an almost scandalous payback interest rate). She had enough money to lay down a deposit on the charming little high-street shop in Pulvington, North Devon, that had been advertised in the property section of The Times. The mortgage she took out was from a building society that had an office in the same town. The shop had previously sold ladies' high fashion, which apparently had low appeal to the local women, but Lili had fallen in love with it the moment she stepped through the door.

The town was crammed with tourists in the summer and Lili had the idea of selling craftworks, light hats, paintings and exquisite but not too expensive hand-tooled ornaments and jewellery. All executed by herself and local artists (who were easy to find by placing ads in the local press). Tourists always wanted something to take home from places they visited, either as gifts or keepsakes; also the indigenous population would be interested if the work was quality and the price right.

And her idea appeared to have merit—the shop attracted a lot of customers in the first few summer months. Unfortunately, she hadn't given much thought to the winter season, when most of the tourists had disappeared and dark days did not encourage locals to buy what might be regarded as frivolities. So as a sideline, and to help make up for loss of trade, Lili returned to giving psychic readings, again putting ads in the local newspapers and her card in shop windows.

Both occupations balanced out well—readings could be given in the evenings or on half-day-closing afternoons, so they never interfered with the day-to-day running of the shop—her reputation as a psychic soon established itself locally.

Unfortunately, the past had not been left behind.

It was on a Tuesday evening that the dead wife of her ex-lover had returned for more revenge. Lili was at an elderly woman's small bungalow on the outskirts of the town, her client a widow of several years who had come to wonder if her late husband was in a happy state of being (apparently he'd been generally disgruntled for most of their married life) wherever he was now, or if gloom had followed him into the next world. Older women usually wanted to know about relatives or loved ones who'd passed over, while younger and middle-aged females (nearly all her clients were female) generally wished to discover their own futures, good or bad (Lili only relayed the good, unless the bad was a warning of some kind that could be acted upon).

This was the second visit Lili had made to this particular woman, a Mrs Ada Clavelly by name, the first time being only a partial success—her husband had come through and given indications that he truly was Ada's late partner in life by referring to things only he and his wife would know about, but his voice had been distant, as if from a long way off (which, of course, in a metaphysical sense it was), and Lili had hoped for a clearer 'sighting' this time.

On that particular late-spring night, however, something occurred that had almost destroyed her confidence as a 'seer'. In fact, something happened that terrified both her and her sitter.

Instead of the spirit or voice of Ada's long-departed husband coming through, Marion, Lili's ex-lover's wife, had made her presence known. Through Ada, herself.

Sometimes Lili could talk to a spirit as if it were in the same room, but on rare occasions it might speak to the client through Lili's own mouth—it had happened to Lili only twice since she'd known she was psychic and clairvoyant, and she had never encouraged the phenomenon, it just happened that way. But this time, the spirit had used Lili's client, Ada, to speak through.

Lili could only stare as Ada's very features seemed to alter. Even though she was sure that this was an illusion conjured by a voice that was instantly recognizable for its husky venom—Lili still clearly remembered the phone calls and the face-to-face confrontations between herself and Marion five years before, the low threatening voice that had risen through the octaves to evolve into a shrill shrieking—it seemed so real. With Marion's words came her visual image, transmuting another living person's features into her own likeness. It was incredible and something Lili had never before experienced. She was stunned by it.

The possessed woman lunged across the table between them and spat and hissed into Lili's face. Ada's grey hair had stiffened as if charged with static (Lili actually heard the faint crackle of electricity coming from Ada's hair) and the room itself sank to a wintry coldness that frosted breaths.

Clawed hands tried to scratch the psychic's face, but Lili pulled back in time and the widow's brittle fingernails scrabbled in the air before falling and raking Lili's blouse. Lili screamed but the malevolent entity that had appropriated the widow's body did not have the power to make it rise from the tabletop. Instead it lay collapsed on the table, where it twitched and writhed as though in seizure.

When she had screamed, Lili had jumped to her feet, knocking her chair over. Hands to her mouth, she could only stare down at the jerking body on the table as Marion's shrieks died, her borrowed power spent, her curses becoming murmurs and finally dying away altogether.

The poor widow woman was left in a state of shock, although she wasn't aware of what had taken place, only that she was very, very frightened. As was Lili.

She had helped Ada sit back in her chair and quickly brought a glass of water from the kitchen for her to sip. But Ada remained trembling for a long while after and Lili was afraid to leave her alone like that, even though she herself was desperate to get out of the room and away from the bungalow lest the transfiguration recur. She had stayed with the suddenly frail, weeping woman for as long as it took to settle her, to reassure her that nothing like it was going to happen again (a reassurance that lacked conviction).

Lili had told Ada that she had been momentarily possessed by a rogue spirit, an evil one that sometimes came through unbidden. The psychic hadn't explained about her ex-lover's dead wife whose soul, tormented by jealousy and reprisal, had somehow reached out from the dimension in which she now existed to hurt the person she still believed had wronged her.

Unsurprisingly, Ada Clavelly had not wanted to see Lili again; as for Lili, she vowed never again to make herself vulnerable to unearthly forces. Since that evening she had endeavoured to block her psychic sensing and refused to contact the dead any more. Nevertheless, she was still susceptible to psychic vibrations, even though she did her best to ignore them.

That had been eighteen months ago and her resolve remained firm. She had tried to help Eve Caleigh because the poor woman was desperate and had pleaded with her. It had not turned out that way: something evil had manifested itself through Lili and she couldn't let it happen again.

But now, on this Friday night, alone in her flat, she was aware of metaphysical disturbances around her, as if there was a riving beginning in the thin dividing fabric between life and death. Somehow she knew Crickley Hall was at its centre.

She gave a little start and almost spilt her wine as the wind outside threw rain at the windowpanes. Lili shivered, but it was because of an inner coldness and had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Her hand shaking, she lifted the glass and sipped more wine.

58: MORE MEMORIES

Maurice Stafford, now a man—an old man of more than seventy years who looked and felt much younger—glanced around the room. The inn was filling up despite the storm raging outside. People looked forward to their end-of-week tipple. For some it might be the only social evening of the weekend. Dreary little lives, sad little people. If only they knew the pleasure that comes from fulfilling a duty. He had been looking forward to it for a long, long time, but circumstances had never been right. This night they could not be better.

He drank more brandy and wondered whether to finish it in one big swallow. No, make it last. He had plenty of time, but didn't want to refresh his glass. He wanted to keep a clear head. Too soon to go to the house, though, so take your time with the Hennessy.

Despite the hubbub around him—the telling of stale jokes, the laughter, the complaints and warnings about the inclement weather—Maurice ignored it all.

He easily slipped back into his reverie.

•

Now Maurice had learned that inflicting pain was so agreeable it thickened the penis (Magda had told him the proper word for his willy or wee-wee thing all those years ago when he shared her bed, although she had emphasized it was a bad word, a dirty word), he was willing and eager to enjoy the experience again. And he soon discovered that the beating was not the only aberration (this particular word one that he learned later—many years later) of Augustus Theophilus Cribben's, in his quest for absolution, for not only did he need his soul to be cleansed by pain but he also wanted the vessel in which his soul resided to be cleansed.

On several occasions, Maurice was charged with the task of scouring Cribben's body from tip to toe, using a strong carbolic soap and a stiff-haired brush of the type used for scrubbing floors. Cribben would stand in three inches of water (the same amount he allowed the children) in the bath and Maurice would start with his face and wiry hair.

'Harder!' the guardian would demand of the boy in a voice that was almost guttural. 'Purge my wicked flesh, boy, drive out the impurities.'

And as with the flogging, Cribben's penis would engorge until it stood fully erect. Maurice scrubbed hard as he was bidden, grimacing with the effort, and Cribben's skin turned blotchy red and raw. How his guardian stood the rough scrubbing of brush and harsh soap, the boy could only wonder. Eventually Cribben's neck and back would arch, his arms rise to shoulder height, and he would stare at the bright light in the ceiling, his eyes wide and glazed as if hypnotized, his mouth stretched open, yellowed teeth laid bare, and Maurice would scrub even harder, aware of the pain he was causing, Cribben's chest, his legs, his groin, livid with the scraping, scored by the hard bristles of the brush.

Finally, the purged man would all but collapse, his hands grabbing the edge of the bath as he bent down, legs almost giving way beneath him, hissing at Maurice to cease, to give him respite, his body chastened, his sins absolved.

In later years, Maurice was also to wonder that Augustus Cribben had never once molested him during a session either of scourging or scouring, even though Cribben was clearly aroused (did he never notice that Maurice was aroused too?). Magda, on the other hand, was a different matter.

He had found her waiting for him outside the bathroom door as usual after the scrubbing of her brother and this time there was a peculiar lustre to her usually cold eyes. After he'd closed the bathroom door behind him, leaving the naked man alone to continue his now-gibbering prayers, she had beckoned Maurice to follow. Cribben's sister led the boy along the dingy landing to her bedroom, where she had drawn him in by tugging at his shirtsleeve. She brought him to her bed and, still wordlessly, she lay him down on it. She turned off the bedside lamp and he heard her undressing in the darkness.

If Magda was disappointed with her young lover—he may have been big and mature for his age, but he was only twelve years old!—she didn't reveal it. Instead, she told him to pray with her and beg the Lord's forgiveness for the mortal sin they committed, only they must do it quietly so that they wouldn't be heard by her brother should he pass by her door during his nocturnal prowling. An hour later, after many repeated acts of contrition, Maurice was allowed to leave and sneak up to the dormitory.

Next day, Magda was her usual cold, stone-faced self, although she treated him with less severity than the other boys and girls. Augustus Cribben also regarded Maurice with less asperity, never once using the cane on him nor punishing him in any other way—not that Maurice ever did anything to occasion the guardian's displeasure. In a way, he had become part of Crickley Hall's ruling triumvirate, although his own power was limited to informing on the other orphans and keeping them in order whenever Cribben or Magda were busy in other parts of the house.

And so it went on: The flogging, then scrubbing of Augustus Cribben, the loveless trysts with Magda. All this went on while the other children lived in misery, with daily punishments, sparse rations and lack of love (which was the most needed).

The little Jewish boy was singled out for particular punishment. Maurice was delighted to tell Magda that Stefan had climbed into Susan Trainer's bed one night and slept with her until morning call. Magda was disgusted (and perversely pleased) to hear of such naughtiness and Stefan was at once taken down to the bitterly cold, damp cellar and left there all day and all night, on his own in the dark, the only sound he would hear being the rushing water at the bottom of the well. It was a dreadful punishment, for the total darkness could conjure all manner of monsters and demons in the mind of a five-year-old child, especially one who was already traumatized by personal tragedy. Susan Trainer had protested, shouting at both Cribben and Magda, and had received six strokes of the cane for her trouble. Maurice had smirked when she continued to plead for the little boy and had taken six more strokes, this time across the knuckles of her hand. That had shut her up all right, although she had howled with pain. When Stefan had been brought up from the cellar next day, he was pale and quieter than ever before. He was cowed.

Maurice enjoyed himself at Crickley Hall. He revered Augustus Cribben, who remained the dominant one; even during the canings and scrubbings, the boy was merely his acolyte, his chattel, which suited Maurice fine. And Maurice also enjoyed his secret liaisons and alliance with Magda, even if her body was skin and bones and her breasts were tiny and flat (such imperfections did not bother the boy; his sexual awakening was too glorious for criticism). Life, if a little austere, was good at Crickley Hall and he revelled in it.

But then that interfering busybody Nancy Linnet had come along and tried to spoil things.

59: THUNDER

Loren and Cally were in their room, both of them subdued. Eve had waited 'til Loren returned from school, and then had explained to them both that their brother would not be coming back to them, that he had drowned a year ago when she had lost him in the park. The two sisters had sobbed in their mother's arms for a long time afterwards, but Eve had not wept with them. She did not understand why this was so, only that her thoughts—and heart—were numbed; there were no reserves of emotion left. She knew the certainty of Cam's death should have broken her, but she realized that perhaps she had been broken that first day he'd gone missing. And every single day that followed.

So instead of grieving she had kept herself busy, tidying the house, washing the kitchen floor (so much mud trodden in because of the mucky weather), making the beds, laying new fires in the sitting room and the great hall, anything to keep herself occupied. It wasn't that she didn't think of Cam—his lovely face was a constant image on the screen of her mind, but only partially formed; it was when she closed her eyes that all the colours and features of his face were filled in. She was coping, that was all she could say of herself, but she did not know how long it would last. Until her emotions filled to spilling point once more, she supposed.

Right now, she was preparing her daughters' evening meal while they rested (their crying seemed to have left both girls utterly worn out). As she checked the softness of the boiling potatoes with a sharp knife, she heard the rumbling of distant thunder. Crossing over to the kitchen sink, she leaned forward and peered out of the window.

It was too dark to see much outside but when, after a few seconds, sheet lightning stuttered along the gorge, she saw the swing beneath the big oak rocking from side to side, pitched by strong winds. The bridge was lit up too, and the boiling river that passed under it. Disconcertingly, the water level was high, almost brimming over the top of the riverbank. The sight made her drop the knife into the sink.

The thunder that followed the lightning was much louder now, as if it were rolling round the gorge itself, and its noise made Eve cringe. Gabe. She needed Gabe to be with her. But she had urged him not to drive all the way back from London. He would be weary with all the travelling, plus he must still be shocked, having had to identify Cam's little body (he hadn't told her how their son looked, but she realized that after a year in the water—No! she mustn't think of that, she mustn't try to picture the condition his body would be in!). She insisted that her mind should stay on Gabe. All she knew was that she needed him here, with her and the children. But he shouldn't drive, not all that way, not in this weather. Would he see sense and stay in London?

A fierce gust of wind shook the window and kitchen door, causing Eve to take an involuntary step backwards.

She heard other parts of the house creak, contracting timbers, storm-battered windows, the oaken front door shifting on its hinges. Eve hated this place. Even though it was she who tried to persuade Gabe to stay, she loathed Crickley Hall for what it was: a morgue in which eleven children had perished along with their cruel guardian. You could almost feel the house's pitiful history…

She gave a little shudder. So cold, always so cold here.

The lights suddenly dipped, brightened, dipped again, then became bright once more.

Oh, please no, Eve thought almost drily, please don't let the power blow. That's all we need on a night like this.

She jumped when a loud crash came from the hall. Walking quickly to the kitchen's inner door, she went out into the hall to see what had made the racket. It happened again, but this time she saw the cause.

The cellar door had swung open, its edge hitting the wood-panelled wall behind. The door began to swing back in rebound, but it stopped halfway and was thrown wide again.

Eve hurried forward, shoes briskly clattering on the stone floor. She caught the door just as it was about to repeat the process and smash into the wall behind it. Holding it still, she looked into the dark cavernous cellar below, the draught that came up the steps from the well strong enough to ruffle her hair. It was silly, but to her the dense blackness there seemed to be pressing upwards as though riding the current of chilled air.

Eve closed the door and locked it, even though she knew it wouldn't stay shut. The key was icy to her touch.

60: THE KILLING

Maurice Stafford had decided another Hennessy was in order—but no more after this one, didn't want his breath to stink of alcohol when he went up to the house—and he had brought it back to his cosy little nook in the inn. He hooked his walking stick over the curved back of his chair.

The pub was getting even busier and he detected a collective nervousness in the drinkers' banter, their occasional laughter just a decibel or two louder than it ought to have been. Oh, they felt comfortable enough inside the bar, but he doubted any one of them was unaware of the storm outside for one single moment. The crack of thunder was directly overhead now; it had moved across country and found a nice little harbour bay to torment. It was quite funny to watch the inn's patrons glance towards the thick leaded windows whenever lightning flashed or thunder boomed. Bumpkins, the lot of them. Not his type of folk at all. But then, there were very few that were. Maurice wasn't very fond of people.

He picked up his previous train of thought. One day, Nancy Linnet had arrived at Crickley Hall, sent there by the education department to help out with the teaching of the evacuees. Probably they didn't know what to do with her.

Prissy Missy Nancy Linnet couldn't do enough for Augustus and Magda at first. Pretty little face with tumbling locks of copper-coloured hair and Maurice had been quite smitten with her until he realized the shawl she wore round her back and over her lower arms concealed a hideous deformity. Oh, that spoilt the effect all right, that marred her looks. Her hand was a withered twisted claw, the arm above it up to the elbow just as unsightly. But she couldn't hide it all the time. When her shawl slipped and Maurice saw the disfigurement it had almost made him sick. God's punishment for her past and future sins, Magda had quietly told him. The Lord was wont to punish in this life as well as the next.

The young handyman/gardener had taken a shine to her, though, as if he didn't notice the horrible affliction. It had turned out to be propitious when Percy Judd was drafted into the army and taken away from Crickley Hall.

She loved the kids. Spoilt them. Always smiling at them and patting their heads as if they were angels from God. Didn't have a clue how to discipline them, although they always behaved when she was around; they weren't afraid to open their mouths to her. The kids adored Miss Linnet.

Well, she never patted Maurice's head. He couldn't even remember her smiling at him. Maybe the first couple of days. Then she turned against him, even though he tried to please her. So he turned against her, reported her soft ways with the orphans to Magda, knowing Magda would tell Augustus.

But as the weeks went by, the teacher became more and more rebellious, protesting whenever Augustus had cause to chastise the older children with the cane, and actually blocked his way when he tried to punish the younger ones by the same means. She was against all other punishments too, the denial of food, the hall vigil, Magda's leather-belt strapping—she decried all these punishments.

Then one day if happened: Miss Linnet threatened to go to the school authorities and denounce the Cribbens for the cruel (her word) way they treated the evacuees. Susan Trainer had been the catalyst.

It was evening and the children were taking their turns in the bath. Susan had been washing the smaller ones until it was time for her to dip into the three inches of water with Brenda Prosser. Maurice had been at the landing door that lead up to the dormitory, making sure the children went straight to bed after their baths, when a panicky scream had pierced the air.

Magda Cribben, at her usual place on a chair outside the bathroom, shot to her feet. Over the balcony, Maurice saw Augustus quickly striding across the hall, alerted by the noise. His footsteps were heavy on the stairs and he passed by Maurice with a look of thunder on his face. Maurice followed him to the bathroom's open door, where Augustus stopped abruptly, the boy almost bumping into him. Maurice peered over his guardian's shoulder.

Brenda was out of the bath, dripping water onto the tiled floor. She was naked and shivering, her frightened eyes on the cowering figure still in the bath. Magda slapped her face to stop her gibberings.

The naked figure in the bath was Susan and her legs were bent, her shoulders hunched, and blood was visible on her fingers as she clutched herself between her legs. The blood had streaked her legs and turned the bathwater red. Maurice remembered the scene as if it were yesterday.

'Susan's hurt,' Brenda wailed, pointing at her older friend.

Maurice was fascinated, not by the sight of two nude girls, Susan with her budding breasts, but by the blood on Susan's legs. Augustus seemed to be transfixed.

'Stop it, child!' Magda told Brenda briskly, and pushed her to one side. The teacher's eyes narrowed and her voice was full of disdain. 'You horrid, dirty girl,' she rasped at Susan. Grabbing a damp towel from the metal rack, she shoved it at the distressed eleven-year-old. 'Use this! Soak up the bleeding!'

'What is it, miss?' Susan asked timorously. 'Am I dying?'

'Of course you're not' There was no compassion in Magda's reassurance, only anger and disgust. 'There's nothing the matter with you.'

'Why am I bleeding?'

'Because you're impure. This is a woman's illness, a curse from the Lord to punish them for Original Sin.'

'But I haven't sinned, miss. I promise, I haven't done anything.'

'Well, you must have. You're far too young for menstruation.' She spat the word out, as if its mere expression was iniquitous. 'You're a wicked girl!'

Augustus finally spoke, and his voice was brutal. 'She must be kept away from the others or her uncleanliness will taint them all.'

In the corner of the bathroom, Brenda was now crouched and sobbing. Susan had shrunk away from Magda and was cringing against the tiled wall.

'Please help me,' she pleaded, first looking at the woman, and then at the man.

Magda snatched her wrist. 'Come with me. We've a place for dirty girls.' She pulled Susan to the edge of the bath and, to stop herself falling, the girl stepped out still clutching the reddened towel to her body.

Augustus grabbed her by the other arm and Maurice quickly stepped aside as brother and sister brought the bowed girl out of the bathroom between them.

'My clothes!' Susan shrieked, dragging her feet.

Augustus and his sister merely tightened their grip and pulled her along the landing.

'You will not need clothes where you're going, child,' Magda sneered.

The other children had gathered at the bottom of the stairs to the dormitory, none of them daring to venture out onto the landing. Two of the youngest, Stefan and Patience, were clinging to Eugene Smith, both of them crying.

Maurice would never forget the shame on Susan's face as she was led naked past her friends, and he would never forget the smugness he felt as he trailed behind, even though he was mystified by the girl's condition. Had she cut herself somehow, would she bleed and bleed until she was dead?

Susan screeched as the brother and sister dragged her down the stairs and across the grand hall, spots of blood dropping behind her as if to mark her path. They ignored her desperate entreaties, for she knew where they were taking her. Maurice watched from the landing balcony and was afraid for himself. There was grim spite on Magda's hard face, while Augustus stared resolutely ahead, his deep-set black eyes burning wickedly, a glistening of spittle on his thin lower lip. It was then that Maurice, only twelve years old but big for his age and both cunning and smart, truly understood that there was madness in his guardian, which ran just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at any given moment. The boy had witnessed the man's wrath many times, but this evening there was a light behind Augustus's dark eyes that hinted at barely suppressed violence and insanity. Maurice sensed it as much as he saw it and he was in a terrified kind of awe. Somehow, perception told him he would always be in terror and awe of Augustus Cribben, even after the man was dead.

Magda waited at the cellar door as her brother took the recalcitrant girl below. The sound of Susan's shrill remonstrations came back out into the hall, amplified by the cellar's brick walls and the narrow staircase. Suddenly, her cries were cut off.

Maurice heard heavy footsteps on the creaky narrow stairs, and then Augustus stood in the doorway next to Magda. The children, who had at last crept out onto the landing to look through the balustrade, all scooted back upstairs to the dormitory. Brenda Prosser, having dressed and left the bathroom, followed after them. But Maurice continued to watch, scared but fascinated. At that point, he seriously wondered if Susan Trainer had been murdered in the cellar. Augustus's words to his sister swiftly put an end to this notion.

'She'll remain there until the impurity has been purged from her body. I've counselled her to pray for her damaged soul and she is not to eat until her discharge is complete.'

'That will be days, brother,' Maurice heard Magda say.

Augustus's features were like granite, tough and uncompromising. 'That will be her penance. You'll give her water only.'

Without another word being said, Magda locked the cellar door and followed her brother into the sitting room that was used as an office. Another entry for the black book, thought Maurice, glad that his own name had never featured on its pages.

He sat on the stairs for a while afterwards, waiting to be called by his master or mistress. An hour went by and still they hadn't left the office, so reluctantly Maurice made his way up to his bed in the dormitory.

It was the next morning that things began to go wrong at Crickley Hall.

•

Maurice Stafford settled more comfortably in his corner seat at the Barnaby Inn. As he sipped his last brandy, he listened to the storm that raged outside. It was ironic that as a boy he had looked much older than his age, for now he looked much younger than his seventy-five years. The crowd in the bar had thinned out considerably, some customers having openly admitted they were worried about the ceaseless downpour and the effect it might have on the high moors. All were aware of the harbour village's history, even though the last great flood was more than sixty years ago, and they wondered if all the precautions taken since were enough to avert another disaster.

Maurice placed the bowled glass on the table and smiled to himself. He was unconcerned. He'd survived one flood, he could survive another. At ease with himself, he resumed the contemplation of his former life.

•

Miss Linnet. Miss Nancy Linnet. That fucking seditious little bitch. Maurice rarely swore, even in his thoughts. Augustus Cribben wouldn't like him to swear. But it was difficult not to be furious with the teacher who had upset everything.

He remembered she had arrived at Crickley Hall that morning at her usual starting time of 7.45. As soon as she'd gone into class she noticed that one of her pupils was missing. Where is Susan Trainer? she asked the children. No one answered at first, they were too frightened to, but when Miss Linnet asked again, Brenda Prosser, the ten-year-old girl who had been with Susan in the bathroom the previous night, hesitantly spoke up. She told the teacher that Susan was locked in the cellar. Miss Linnet had been aghast, especially when she learned the girl had been down there all night, and then she had been angry when she found out the reason for the punishment.

She marched straight out of the classroom.

Maurice gave Brenda a threatening look. 'You're in trouble,' he told her.

Timid though they had become at Crickley Hall, the older children crowded round the classroom's open door and listened. Only Maurice was bold enough to take a step outside the door.

They could hear Miss Linnet remonstrating with Magda Cribben in the office, and although they could not catch every single word, they caught the drift of what was being said.

The young teacher was telling the older woman how outrageous it was for Susan Trainer to have been incarcerated in the cellar all night. Magda's replies were spoken in a low, even voice, but the children could tell she was cross. She warned Miss Linnet not to interfere, that school discipline had nothing to do with her. Only when Miss Linnet insisted that Susan had done nothing wrong, that what had happened was perfectly natural for a growing girl, did Magda raise her voice.

'The girl is dirty! She's too young to bear the curse! She must have done something very wicked to have such punishment brought down on her so soon!'

'There is too much punishment for all the children in this school. They are afraid even to speak. It's all I can do to coax a smile from them, so browbeaten are they.'

'Mr Cribben will hear of this impertinence,' Magda responded stiffly.

Maurice remembered that Augustus Cribben had left the house earlier that morning to catch the bus to Merrybridge where he had business in the local council offices.

'Very well.' Miss Linnet sounded defiant. 'I want to take the matter up with him. The situation cannot continue like this. I've a mind to report you to the school inspectors and the local authorities.'

With that, the teacher strode back through the office doorway and went straight to the cellar door. As always, the key was in the lock and she turned it with a swift twist of her good wrist. Reaching inside, she switched on the stair light, and they heard her clumping down to the well room below.

She must have had a conversation with Susan Trainer, or at least spent time comforting her, for it was several minutes before she reappeared again, now with the naked girl, who cowered against her, ashamed and exhausted. Susan held the blood-sodden towel to her lap, but blood still managed to drip and leave tiny spots across the hall's stone floor. The older children were frozen in the classroom doorway, watching the teacher help their friend up the broad stairway, taking her to the bathroom or dormitory. But when Magda appeared in the office doorway, her face incandescent with rage, they scattered back to their desk tables.

It was evident when Miss Linnet returned to the hall that she and Susan Trainer had had a long conversation. Her small pretty lips were set in a grim line and anger blazed fiercely in her hazel eyes. As usual, her long knitted shawl covered her withered arm and hand, but her other hand was clenched into a tight fist. She marched across the hall and went straight through to the office to confront Magda once again, who had already returned to her desk.

Maurice still lingered by the classroom door, and half turned to hush the other children who were whispering excitedly to one another. Wary of him, they fell silent immediately.

He listened again to the sound of Miss Linnet and Magda's voices.

'… down to the village pharmacist…' the young teacher was saying. 'I shall purchase the appropriate items for poor Susan and show her how to use them.'

'You will not leave the classroom this morning,' said Magda and Maurice thought there was a trace of uncertainty in her otherwise stern tone. 'The girl may use old towels 'til the flow ceases.'

Flow? Flow of blood? Maurice was too confused to understand any of it. Was Susan bleeding from somewhere inside her body? If so, how had it happened? Perhaps Magda would explain it to him later. All he knew at that moment was that Susan had committed some grave sin for which she was being disciplined.

'Don't be absurd.' Miss Linnet's voice was raised. He had never heard her speak like this before; she was usually so quiet and well mannered. 'She needs proper sanitary towels and she must have them as soon as possible. Her first period has frightened her and made her unwell. I don't think spending the night without clothes in a cold damp cellar has helped matters.'

'How dare you speak to me in this manner?' Uncertainty had now been ousted by Magda's indignation. 'Mr Cribben will hear of your impudence the moment he returns. You, a chit of a girl, barely an adult yourself, daring to speak to me in this fashion.'

'I shall look forward to that moment. I've a few things to say to him about the running of this establishment. You and your brother are unnecessarily cruel to these orphans…'

Maurice was amazed at the defiance in the teacher's attitude. He would never have guessed she had the gumption to act so boldly. Until now, she had appeared to be a timid little creature.

'… and it has to stop. They deserve to be treated kindly and without these dreadful corrections you impose on them. I've spoken with Susan and she has told me of your despicable punishments when I am not here. I've suspected it was so since I first came to Crickley Hall. The children are too meek and fearful—no, terrified—of you and Mr Cribben, and I didn't quite understand the reason. Now I know all of it, and I will not allow it to carry on. I intend to contact the authorities by letter and insist they send inspectors to investigate my complaints. I shall make sure the children speak up.'

'You will do no such thing.'

Maurice almost shuddered at Magda's menace.

'Nothing will prevent me. I trust you will take charge of the class while I go to the village for poor Susan?'

She came to the door again and Maurice heard hurried footsteps behind her as Magda followed. Miss Linnet had got as far as the open cellar door when Magda called her. She turned to face the woman who stormed towards her.

Magda shouted into the teacher's face. 'You will not leave this house!'

Maurice had never seen Magda so angry. Cross, yes, severe, it went with her nature, but never before had he watched her lose control like this, not even when she had cause to strike the children with her leather belt (but then, that was always carried out coldly). Her hard features were contorted, her face more white than usual, and her words had been spat out—literally, for he had seen the spittle fly from her mouth.

At first, whether in shock or to create space between herself and the raging woman, Miss Linnet retreated a step so that her back was to the open doorway behind her. But then she stood her ground, her face red as Magda's was white. She seemed consciously to control herself.

'Susan needs help, not punishment,' she said firmly. 'All the children need care and attention, not constant hardship, which is all they get from you and your brother.'

'You will not leave this house!' Magda repeated, taking another step closer to the teacher. 'Go back to the classroom immediately!'

Maurice felt his heart pound and he forgot to take a breath.

'You wretched child with your shrivelled arm. What have you done to cause the Lord's castigation?'

'I was born this way,' Miss Linnet replied evenly, Magda's jibe somehow calming rather than upsetting her. Perhaps experience of similar cruel remarks had taught her how to deal with it. 'Now please move out of my way. I'm going to the village.'

Magda's fury finally erupted. 'You evil girl!' she screeched and took another step towards the teacher, her arms stretched forward as she came. With great force she pushed at Miss Linnet's shoulders.

Astonished, the teacher teetered on the threshold of the cellar stairway. But Magda did not stop at one push. Incensed—and afraid of betrayal—she pushed the teacher again, even harder this time, and Miss Linnet toppled backwards.

Maurice watched in fascinated awe as the teacher fell into the darkness behind her. He heard her body tumbling down, striking the side walls as well as the steps as she went. Curiosity overcame trepidation and he ran forward to see what had happened to the young woman; the sound of her body hitting the concrete floor below with a resounding crunch came back up to him.

Magda seemed frozen to the spot when he reached her. She was staring into the cellar's blackness, but her eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing at all.

'Have you killed her, miss?' (Even when they were in bed together he called her 'miss'.) He turned away from her to squint into the gloom.

She did not answer and when he looked round at her, he saw something that might have been panic in those cold black eyes of hers. Then she appeared to gather herself—her shoulders twitched and stiffened, her chin lifted a fraction.

She spoke slowly and firmly, brooking no dispute. 'You saw what happened, Maurice. It was an awful accident. Miss Linnet missed her footing on the stairs.' Her voice hardly wavered at all when she said, 'Go down and see if she's badly hurt.'

His eyes returned to the pit. All he heard was the urgent susurration of rushing water from the well. He didn't want to go down there. Not alone.

'Maurice, did you hear what I said? I want you to go down to the cellar and see how Miss Linnet is.' She reached forward and gripped his shoulder. Her hand felt like an iron claw through his flannel shirt.

'But… but what if she's dead, miss?'

'Don't be silly, boy. It was only a fall due to her own carelessness.'

'Miss…?'

'Did any of the children see the accident?' There was a noticeable quiver in her voice and a restlessness about her eyes.

'No, miss, they were all at the tables.'

'So only you witnessed her accidentally fall.'

He took in a long breath. 'Yes, miss.'

'Good boy. Well, now you must go and see how Miss Linnet is. Here, I'll turn on the light for you.' She reached past him and stabbed at the light switch.

It was still dingy, but he could just make out a curled bundle lying at the foot of the stairs, a bundle he knew was a human body. He was startled when he thought he saw the shape twitch. He turned back to Magda. He was almost as tall as her and their eyes were level.

'Will you come with me?' he asked her nervously.

'Is that necessary, Maurice? Can't you go alone? The other children are unsupervised.'

'I'd prefer it if you come with me.' It was almost a whine.

She gave it a moment's thought and he could see the panic was still there at the back of her eyes. 'Very well,' she said stiffly, 'we'll go together. You can lead the way.'

As he hesitated on the top step, he was sure he saw movement below again.

'I don't think she's dead, Miss Cribben,' he whispered and Magda froze. It was then that he realized that Magda Cribben did not want the teacher to be alive.

•

Maurice momentarily closed his eyes as he remembered the frightening descent to the well cellar. Had it really been all those years ago? It was still vivid in his mind.

The brandy glass before him on the small table was nearly empty. Mustn't have another, though, had to keep a clear head. Yet he couldn't go up to the house too early. Make this one last then, drink the remains very slowly, appreciate its flavour.

•

Nancy Linnet was moving. She was pushing and pulling her battered body further into the dark cellar. She was desperate to get out of the light from the stairway, dim though it was, for she could hear footsteps approaching, heavy on the creaky wooden steps, and something—call it primal instinct—told her Magda Cribben was not coming down to help her. So Nancy dragged herself across the hard dusty floor, biting into her lower lip with the pain the effort caused her.

She knew that one of her legs was broken, because it was useless to her and hurt terribly, especially so each time she drew it along after her. Something was wrong with her back too, for her spine was numbed and her shoulders barely working. Tears of pain dropped from her eyes into the dirt beneath her and, although it was difficult to see, she continued to shuffle herself forward. She had to hide before Magda could hurt her again and at least the dingy light from behind helped her make out a deeper shadow ahead. When she blinked the tears away, she was able to see the black haven more clearly for a moment or two.

It was the entrance to the boiler room and if she could reach it, she would be able to hide there. She would have to be very quiet and very still, though, once she got inside. If only she could use both arms the effort would be so much easier, but her right arm had always been ineffective, just a withered limb that marred her life with its ugliness. So she managed with her left arm and her left leg to haul herself across the floor. She suddenly realized it was not only tears that were blurring her vision, but it was the blood streaming down her forehead also.

The boy, the sneak, the bully, watched from the bottom of the stairs. Magda had switched on the chamber's inadequate ceiling light and he could make out the figure on the floor as it crawled through the entrance to the boiler room. One of the teacher's legs dragged uselessly behind her and it seemed to be bent the wrong way. As if mesmerized, they both watched the teacher's progress. Gradually, her body slithering awkwardly, she disappeared inside the boiler room and the darkness devoured her.

Without further hesitation, Magda made her way to the boiler room and Maurice went with her. A churning mix of emotions caused his heart to beat even faster. There was anger at the teacher for threatening to betray his guardians and there was dread of the outcome now. Reigning over both was a feeling of excitement that made his limbs tremble and his brain tingle.

Although in shadow, they saw the shape of Nancy Linnet's prostrate body lying near the centre of the rough-bricked room. The light switch was just inside the entrance and Magda quickly pressed it on. As in the well cellar, the overhead light was dull and covered in dust, so that a dirty greyness prevailed with dark shadows at its edges.

Miss Linnet was still trying to drag herself on her belly but, too weakened, she was making no more progress. The fingers of her good hand scrabbled uselessly against the litter-strewn floor and one foot scuffed away at the dirt behind her without catching. Her once glorious hair was matted with silky blood, and because she lay with her cheek against the ground they could see that her lips were moving, although no sounds, no moans, no murmurs, came from them.

Magda raised a hand to her throat and her mouth dropped open. Maurice saw there was alarm rather than compassion in those black eyes of hers.

'What shall we do?' she said tonelessly, the question inwards, not meant for Maurice who stood by her side. 'She'll tell. She'll destroy us.'

It was the first time Maurice had seen weakness in the woman who had bizarrely become his mentor and mistress, and it distressed him.

'It was an accident, miss, like you said.' Anger began to override any fear that he felt. But it was excitement that continued to make him tremble.

'She'll say otherwise.'

'No, she can't! I'll tell everyone it was her own fault. I saw it happen.'

'She'll say I deliberately pushed her because I didn't want her going to the authorities. She'll tell lies and half-truths about Augustus and me. She'll make terrible trouble for us. They won't understand our methods, she'll tell them we're unkind to the children, and if they believe her they'll close the home. Our reputations…' Magda's mouth clamped shut: what would happen to their reputations seemed too horrible to contemplate.

'No!' shouted Maurice. He didn't want to leave Crickley Hall. He liked the things he did with Augustus and Magda. He liked lording it over the other orphans. 'I won't let her!' His words came out as a screech. He rushed forward and kicked the broken bundle on the floor. 'I won't let her!'

Taken aback by the suddenness of his anger, Magda could only watch as he ran to the pile of logs heaped against the back wall next to a hill of coke. Maurice picked up a short but stout log with both hands and a faint smile touched her thin mouth as she realized his intention. A cruel gleam of satisfaction shone from her narrowed eyes.

Lifting the heavy log high over his head, Maurice tottered back to the recumbent body, which was now twitching rather than moving. Magda made no attempt to stop him—she didn't want to stop him—as he stretched his arms, then brought the bludgeon down with all his might on Nancy Linnet's blood-soaked skull.

The sound of wood smashing against thin bone was hideous, a kind of popping-crunching that made Magda flinch despite herself. The teacher's injured leg jerked, the fingers of her outstretched left hand quivered.

Maurice raised and brought down the thick log again, perhaps even harder this time, and the teacher's exposed temple caved inwards. Maurice fell to his knees, but still he raised the log again and smashed it against the head that had already become a mess of pulpy gore. Nancy Linnet lay perfectly still beneath him, yet still he struggled to lift the deadly weapon. Only when Magda stepped forward and gripped his wrist did he stop.

'Enough,' she said quietly but firmly. 'She's dead, Maurice, the girl is quite dead.'

He froze and looked down at the blood that had spattered his knees and the front of his sleeveless jumper. He threw the log to the side as if afraid to be caught with it. His lower lip trembled and his eyes were wide in shock. But although fearful, he was glad, glad that the teacher was gone, glad that she couldn't interfere any more. His excitement had not abated. He even felt mildly proud of what he'd done—until he began to think of the consequences.

Would the police come and take him away? Would they lock him up in jail for the rest of his life? He looked pleadingly at Magda and saw she wore the faintest of smiles.

'She deserved it, Maurice,' she soothed him. 'She would have betrayed us, she would have undone all the good work Augustus and I have achieved. Now quickly, we must dispose of the body.'

'Miss…?'

'Have trust in me, Maurice.'

To him, it was the kindest she'd ever sounded.

'Come now, help me lift her.' Magda reached down for the teacher's legs. 'You're a strong boy—take her beneath the shoulders.'

First, they rolled the body over so that Nancy Linnet's half-open glazed eyes looked up at the ceiling.

'What are we going to do with her?' He felt no remorse and his fear was rapidly diminishing. Even the prospect of going to prison did not worry him. Magda had said to trust her, and he did, implicitly. He had no doubts at all that she would make things all right.

'We're taking her next door,' replied Magda, grunting softly with the effort of lifting the corpse's lower body.

Maurice's hands slid under the teacher's shoulders and he heaved her up. When alive, Nancy Linnet had looked as light as a feather but, although he certainly was a strong boy, he discovered a dead body was a dead weight. He and Magda struggled to carry it through the opening into the well room.

'Where will we hide her, miss?' Maurice managed to ask between gasps for breath.

'Where she'll never be seen again,' came the calm response.

'But what if the police find out?'

'They won't.'

Magda had not only thought of a place to put the corpse, but had already worked out a reason for Nancy Linnet's absence. Without prior notice, the young teacher had announced she was returning to London that very day. Magda would go down to the village in the afternoon and tell Miss Linnet's landlady that the teacher wanted her clothes and few small possessions sent on to her. A sudden crisis in the family, Magda would explain to the landlady and anybody else who might be interested (it was just as well that Nancy's sweetheart, young Percy Judd, had recently been called up for military service and had left to help fight the nonsensical war or he might have caused a fuss).

She brought Maurice and the body to a stop by the well's low wall, but did not lay down her burden. The rushing of the river below seemed to satisfy her.

Maurice realized the intention immediately. His eyes widened, both excitement and trepidation still burning in them.

'You know what we're going to do?' Magda regarded him levelly.

The boy nodded twice.

'The currents are strong in the Channel,' she continued, Miss Linnet's ankles tucked beneath Magda's arms, her hands holding the teacher under the knees. 'Her body will be swept out to the ocean and, with luck, it will never be found. Now, over the wall with her.'

They rested the body on top of the stone wall for a moment, then tipped it over the side. It was a deep drop, but the turbulent sound of water below almost covered the resulting splash.

Magda leaned over the circular wall and peered into the black pit as if to check that the corpse had been flushed away. Maurice copied her, but could see nothing, not even the bottom of the well. Finally, she straightened and regarded him with a cold—colder than usual—countenance.

'If you ever tell anyone of this,' she warned Maurice grimly, 'then you will follow suit. Remember, it was you who bludgeoned her with the log. It was you who killed her.'

He replied earnestly, 'I won't tell anyone, miss, honest'

'Good boy.' She gave him a wintry smile. 'Come to my room tonight. You deserve a reward.'

The reward would be as much hers as his, he was already cynical enough to know. Suddenly, Magda no longer looked old to him—she looked ancient.

61: STORM

After skidding for the second time, Gabe decided to slow down. Fortunately, the Range Rover's stability control and four-wheel drive had helped him avert anything serious, but he knew he had to take greater care: he had no desire to make Eve a widow and his children fatherless.

Forcing himself to ease up on the accelerator, he wondered how his daughters had taken the news of Cam's death. Loren would have been distraught, while Cally… Well, maybe Cally would cry without fully comprehending the whole implication of losing a brother, what loss of life truly meant. He felt his own eyes moistening again and he shook his head as though that would stem the tears. He had to get a grip, couldn't afford to cry, needed clear vision to see the road ahead. Driving was dangerous enough on a night like this.

By now he had left the second motorway behind and was on a smaller, country road. The windscreen wipers were on double speed, but still the glass kept filling up. The rain was not just falling on the car but was pounding it, and the wind buffeted it whenever there were gaps in the hedgerows. He passed through lonely villages that looked battened down for the night, and other vehicles that were travelling more cautiously than he. Several times he had to wait for a clear stretch of road to overtake cars and lorries in front; the headlights of oncoming traffic were intensified by the rain on the windscreen, blinding him so that he was forced to bring the Range Rover down to a crawl until they had gone by.

It was a nightmare drive and, he figured, a fitting end to a nightmarish day. At that time, Gabe had no way of knowing that the nightmare would continue long into the night.

Lightning flared, followed by a deep roll of thunder in the distance.

•

The row of small terraced cottages had been almshouses in days gone by, built for the needy of the parish but now individually owned. They were remote, set back from the main road and reached only by a rough track. In today's market, estate agents would refer to them as bijou residences, and they were the type of properties sought after by city dwellers who dreamed of holiday homes or boltholes in the country. Percy Judd had been lucky enough to have lived in one of them all his life, so price was never a factor as far as he was concerned, although he had been assured of a small (but not that small) fortune by frustrated local agents and developers should he ever decide to sell.

Inside the cottage, which was at the end of the row, Percy sat in his tiny living room in front of a roaring fire, his outstretched slippered feet almost in the hearth, while the storm outside raged, shaking windows and rattling the room's front door like some weather-beaten traveller seeking refuge for the night. He was warm and comfortable, settled there in his old, favourite (and only) armchair, a mug of cocoa in one hand, a self-rolled cigarette in the other.

With no faith in the electricity supply in such extreme weather (power cuts in the district were not infrequent when conditions were bad), Percy had lit two oil lamps, one of which stood on the inside sill of a window, the second on the room's centre table. They and the fire in the grate gave the room a cosy glow; yet despite appearances, the old man felt uneasy.

He was wary of this kind of weather for, although he had been away on National Service with the army when the flood of '43 had occurred, he had heard so many first-hand accounts of that night he felt almost as if he had been through it himself. And last time, he remembered being told, the rainfall had been heavy but not as consistent as these past weeks. Not that he had cause to be afraid: this row of low-roofed cottages was high up on the hill that ran down to Hollow Bay and well away from the river itself. No, it was the properties that stood on either side of the river-banks and the village itself that were in danger should the worst happen.

A mewling caught his attention. The dog was curled up on the rug in front of the fire, inches away from Percy's feet, and it suddenly looked towards the door. It whimpered and turned its head towards Percy, then back at the door again.

'Not tonight, fellah,' he said to the dog in a low gentle voice. 'It's a wild 'un out there, too stormy fer me to be takin' yer out. Jus' settle down now.'

But the animal was fidgety, restless. It uncurled itself and aligned its body so that it directly faced the door that rattled and shook in its frame. It gave a sharp yelp.

'Hush now. Nothin' to be getting' excited about. Yer been out once tonight, no need to go out again, not 'til it's time fer bed.'

Percy flicked the last of his cigarette into the fire and reached down to pat the dog's back reassuringly.

The dog whined.

'What's troublin' yer, lad? Hear a fox out there?'

A shuttering flash of lightning filled the room's two small windows and thunder cracked so loudly overhead that both man and dog flinched. The dog jumped up and ran to the door as if desperate to escape the close confines of the living room. It whimpered frenziedly as it scratched at the wood.

When it stood back and gave a long howling moan, a deep sense of foreboding came over Percy. There was something bad in the air tonight and it wasn't just because of the storm.

62: FRIENDLY EYES

Maurice drained the brandy, unable to make it last any longer. He smiled to himself as he remembered the day he and Magda had dumped the young teacher's corpse into the well. At that stage he'd felt little fear, only a frisson of excitement and an anxiousness to please Magda and Augustus Cribben. The troublesome Miss Linnet was out of their lives and nobody was any the wiser. Magda had covered up the murder perfectly: even the children believed the teacher had abruptly left for London without saying goodbye because of urgent family matters. They had missed her, sure enough, moping for days afterwards, and Susan Trainer was the worst. She was profoundly disappointed in Miss Linnet and spoke to no one for a week, but even she thought that the teacher had abandoned them and returned to the city. The school authorities had merely been miffed at the teacher's unprofessionalism and, what with the war going on and all, they had made no effort to contact her or, if they had, they hadn't tried very hard, nor for very long.

Magda had not told her brother the full story, had just kept up the pretence that Miss Linnet had absented herself. Augustus was not concerned: he was relieved that she was gone.

Scrubbing the cellar and boiler-room floor had been a bothersome chore, but Magda and Maurice had worked at it together. After they had cleaned the relevant areas, they had swept dust back over them so that the lighter patches would not stand out. No one would ever know what had happened down there, least of all Augustus.

Maurice smiled to himself again. Magda had kept her promise to reward him that night, though her reactions as ever were mechanical and her orgasms without abandonment. She never once lost her breath. At least he had learned from her. As he had learned from Augustus. Yes, Augustus had taught him the exquisite pleasure and the power of inflicting pain. It was just a pity that the psychiatrist who had had Maurice sectioned when he was a young adult did not appreciate or understand such joys.

Maurice's smile turned sour at that point. Some things are best forgotten.

Pulling back his shirtcuff, he checked his wristwatch. Time to go. Time he made his way up to Crickley Hall.

He stood and shrugged on his raincoat. Allowing the walking stick to take some of the weight off his left leg, Maurice leaned to pick up his hat from the table. He put it on, then lifted the empty brandy glass.

As he went by, he placed it on the bar.

•

Sam Pennelly, landlord of the Barnaby Inn, broke off his conversation with two local lads at the other end of the bar and sauntered down to where the customer had just left the glass.

'Thank you, sir,' he called after the tall man who was limping towards the pub door. 'Now you take care if yer drivin'. Some roads might be flooded already.' And yer've had four stiff brandies, he thought, so you're over the limit.

The tall man turned his head and in acknowledgement touched the brim of the funny little hat he wore. The landlord smiled back, thinking what friendly eyes his customer had.

A gust of wind drove heavy rain through the door when the customer opened it and the landlord watched as Maurice Stafford pulled the hat with the small feather sticking out of the headband more firmly down on his head before stepping out into the storm.

63: INNOCENTS

It was no good. She couldn't put them out of her mind. Not Eve and her family (although their predicament did weigh on her conscience), but the children who had perished in Crickley Hall. Lili could not stop thinking about them.

Their spirits were troubled and Lili sensed only she, or someone else with her gift, could help them. But she did not know how.

Why were they bound to that miserable intimidating house? Why hadn't their spirits passed over peacefully? Was it because they were still traumatized by their own deaths? Was something holding them there in a lonely neverworld of fear, were they somehow dominated by another force, one that was malign? She had felt it herself, had been terrified when it almost materialized in front of her and Eve. She dreaded the thought of facing it again.

But the children. They needed her help. She was convinced of it. But she had vowed never again to put herself in that position. And what if she did and next time it was the ghost of Marion that manifested itself? Would that be as terrifying? She couldn't help cringing in her chair as lightning flashed and thunder roared overhead.

Lili poured another glass of wine and her hand shook as she brought it to her lips. Oh God, help me, tell me what I should do. Those poor innocents should not have to suffer any more. They had been tied to Crickley Hall for more than half a century, they should be allowed to continue their journey. They shouldn't be afraid ever again. But how could she help them, what could she do?

A sob escaped her. Why was she so drawn to Crickley Hall? What was calling her from there? The children themselves? She could almost hear their small voices pleading with her, but surely that had to be in her own imagination. Was guilt causing her mind to play tricks, inventing these voices because somewhere in her deepest subconscious she felt responsible for them? Why else would she have been gifted—or cursed—with extrasensory powers if not to help lost souls find their way?

With the back of her hand, Lili wiped away a tear that had trickled down her cheek.

She couldn't ignore them. The child spirits were desperate, she could feel their mood. They needed her so badly and she could not refuse them. Suddenly, her determination grew stronger. For the sake of her own peace of mind, she had to do something for them, even if it meant putting herself in danger. And even if Eve's husband didn't want Lili there, she knew she had to go back to Crickley Hall, she had to do what she could for the children.

She sensed that things were stirring in the old house, that secrets were waiting to be exposed. Perhaps when they were, the spirits would find peace. Perhaps she would, too.

Lightning flared and thunder seemed to heave itself at the room's two windows as if to challenge her resolve. Lili trembled, but she would not give in to her fears. She put the wine glass down on the coffee table, then picked up the keys that were in an unused ashtray on the sideboard.

She headed for the door.

64: FLIGHT

Maurice Stafford stared out at the rain through the windscreen of his Ford Mondeo. The storm buffeted the car and bent the trees, the high walls of the gorge creating a natural channel for the wind that came off the moors and tore down to the sea. His car was parked in the short bay close to the bridge that spanned the river leading to Crickley Hall. Debris—branches, foliage, even rocks—was already piling up beneath it and Maurice wondered how long the wooden structure would last before it was smashed and carried away.

Curiously, his Mondeo was the only vehicle in the parking area beside the road; the Caleighs' Range Rover, which had been evident yesterday, was missing. Did that mean the husband was away from home? Maurice had slowed down before turning into the parking area so that he could get a good look at the house across the river and was able to make out a figure in the kitchen. Even at that distance he could see that it was a woman, so it had to be the wife, Eve Caleigh. Well, that was just fine and dandy, because if the man was away, then it would make his own task—his duty—all the more easy.

Something thumped against the Mondeo's windscreen causing Maurice to start. A loose tree branch rattled against the glass for a few moments before it was dislodged by a fresh gust of wind.

A truly dreadful night, he thought, so much like the night he and Magda had fled Crickley Hall in fear for their lives. In the shadows of the car's interior, Maurice grimaced as he remembered.

•

They had run from the house, terrified of the madness they were leaving behind. Augustus Cribben's final descent into total insanity had been swift, the terrible pains in his head driving him there it seemed. Of course, Maurice had come to realize, Augustus was always on the verge of insanity—his ways had never been entirely normal—but circumstances and excruciating pain had combined to throw his brain into a maniacal disorder that had become uncontrollable. Fortunately for them, they had left before the flood-waters had come, before the bridge had been swept away by the river that had risen above its banks, and they staggered into the storm, coatless bodies (there hadn't been time to grab their coats) flailed by rain and tree branches, battered by great billows of wind that almost blew them off their feet. It was a torturous journey that had them clinging to each other, every footstep forced, their bodies bent almost double into the gale.

Magda would not allow them to take shelter, nor even rest a while, for she had a destination in mind and it was far away from Hollow Bay, so far away that she could never be linked with the dreadful things taking place in Crickley Hall that night. Maurice could only be led by her, for he had no one else and did not want to die. Occasionally, he looked up to see Magda's face in profile and it was a mask of misery and horror. Once, she returned his look, as if she had felt his scrutiny, and as lightning strobed, he saw the same madness in her eyes that had been in her brother's: her eyes were wide open, even against the bolts of rain that pelted them, the pupils black and large, and they seemed to have no focus, seemed to stare right through him. The lightning flashes ceased and she was just a dark silhouette. But he could not erase the sight of her derangement from his mind. And as they stumbled, trudged, staggered through the wind and rain, both of them so soaked that they imagined their bones were wet, Maurice came to realize that he had been wrong to think that he had held some power over the Cribbens, that he had some control because he beat and scrubbed Augustus and gave Magda pleasure when they were naked in her bed. He now understood that he had no domination over them at all, he was there to do their bidding, a slave to be rewarded with treats and favours. This was why he would not have been safe back in Crickley Hall with the other children, why he followed Magda so blindly now. Augustus was his master, Magda was his mistress. Without them he was just another parentless child.

They used smaller lanes mainly, where high hedges gave them some protection against the wind, and passed no other person, motorcar or cart as they struggled on. They had travelled several miles when Magda dropped to her knees, then threw herself to the ground.

'Augustus… what have you done?' she wailed, the words torn away by the howling wind.

Maurice knelt on both knees beside her and tugged at her shuddering shoulders.

'Please,' he shouted over the noise of the storm, 'we can't stop! There's nowhere to hide!' He meant nowhere to take cover, but it came out as hide.

She beat at the rough roadway with the heels of her fists, her back juddering as she sobbed. Then, without another sound, she rose to her feet, swaying with the wind. She stared at the boy, but again it was with wide vacant eyes.

'Where are we going?' Maurice pleaded.

But Magda just turned away and walked on as if there had been no interruption to their journey. He quickly caught up and clung to her elbow.

They stopped only twice after that, once when a stout tree branch fell into the lane before them, and again when Maurice tripped over some soft and sodden creature—a rabbit or small fox—lying dead in a puddle on the ground.

Although their weather-hindered journey must have taken several hours, Maurice had lost all sense of time and was surprised when they reached the outskirts of a town. There were no streetlights or gaslights in this part of the country and only a few upstairs windows were lit as they made their way along the road. Magda's bent body was stiff and she seemed to be walking mechanically, like a wind-up toy. She spoke not a word to him, but when they came upon the deserted railway station, he at last understood that this had been their destination all along. The station master's quarters and the ticket office were closed, for these were now the very early hours of the morning, but Magda led Maurice through a side gate and along to the very end of the platform where there was a backless bench. Despite the exposure, she sat them both down and Maurice huddled against her for protection. She remained stiff, upright now, her back ramrod straight, ignoring the boy, lost in her own breakdown.

Leaning close to her ear, Maurice asked, 'Are we catching the train? Are we going to London?'

There was no response, but he assumed that was the idea, to get back to the city where no one would find them and no one could blame them for what had happened in Crickley Hall—and he was, after all, only a child. Maurice saw no future beyond that.

As the hours moved on to dawn, the storm abated and the winds died. They weren't to know that the gorge and Hollow Bay had been flooded and that there was no one left at Crickley Hall to bear witness to what had taken place there. No, Maurice and Magda were in their own world, Maurice drenched and shivering, hunched up as close to Magda as he could get, she still staring straight ahead, also drenched but her body rigid, her face expressionless, features hard as if made of stone.

As often was the case in the aftermath of a heavy storm, the morning was bright and clear, the smell of raw damp earth heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance there came the clang-clang of a fire-engine bell.

Still they waited and the sun began to dry out their clothes a little. Eventually, someone strolled out of the ticket office onto the platform, but it was too far away for the man to see them properly. As the hours went by, more people arrived on the platform, but none wandered down to the far end. Only Maurice was looking—Magda was still in a place of her own—and he saw a uniformed station master or guard step out of his office and check his pocket-watch, then glance towards them.

Maurice, sitting on Magda's right-hand side, sat back so that he was shielded by her body. He felt guilty, because they hadn't bought tickets.

All the uniformed man saw was a lone woman dressed entirely in black waiting for the morning train at the far end of the station. She was too far away to make out her features, although he could tell her face was very pale. He checked his watch again, a piece that had served him well for twenty years with its large sharp numbers and fine black hands, then peered in the opposite direction to the single woman, towards the west. He sensed the rumble on the railtracks before he actually heard it, a trick he'd picked up over the years—it was as if the rails were trembling ahead of the sound—and his eyes squinted as he waited for the London train to appear round the bend half a mile away.

For the benefit of the waiting passengers on the platform, he barked out the train's ultimate destination and the major towns it stopped at along the way.

Maurice heard the station man call out London and he ducked his head forward to see the train's approach. It soon chugged in and with a hiss of steam and a squeal of brakes the engine and first carriage came to a halt just past him. Doors began to open and slam shut again. No passengers alighted, for this was the train's first stop after leaving its departure point of Ilfracombe.

He looked at Magda, but she was not paying attention, she was just staring at the cream and dark-red carriage that was opposite them. He tugged urgently at her elbow and she took no notice.

'Magda,' he said in a quick hushed voice as if others might hear, 'we must get on. It'll take us to London. Please, Magda, before it starts up again.'

No response though. She was like an alabaster statue sitting there, so white was her colour, so still was her body.

'Please, Magda!' He was desperate now.