‘So, so,’ she replied. She sat down on the high stool. ‘Actually, not so good. I’ve had a burglary.’

‘You’re not serious. Oh my God, Kate, are you OK?’ The real concern in his voice made her wish for the second time that she hadn’t told him her news.

‘Yes, I’m fine. They didn’t take anything except -’ she paused, ‘- do you remember last time you phoned I was cleaning a torc?’

‘Belonging to an ancient Brit?’ Superficially light-hearted though the words were, she could still hear the worry in his voice.

‘They took that. And they smashed up some paintings.’

‘Kate, you can’t stay there – ’

‘No. No. I’m fine. I have the phone, and they’ve changed all the locks. I am bolted and barred like someone in Holloway, except that I am the only one with a key. It was probably local kids who thought the cottage was empty. I don’t suppose they will be back.’

‘Have the police been? Are you sure you’re all right? Oh God, Kate, I wish I were closer.’ The warmth of his voice filled the kitchen. ‘Take care, my darling, won’t you.’

She hung up thoughtfully. My darling, he had called her. My darling. He still loved her.

She was aware suddenly that the wind was getting up outside. She could hear the soft moaning of the tree branches from the wood, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly nothing mattered any more. Feeling unaccountably happy, snug, knowing there was a good supply of firewood in her box, and with a brand new lock and a bolt top and bottom on the front door, she smiled. The sound made her feel all the more secure and cosy.

She went back to her book. It was hard to concentrate; her mind kept wandering back to Jon, but eventually the narrative captured her again and she was drawn back to the childhood of her poet. Catherine Gordon was something of an enigma in her relationship with her son, her love as twisted and deformed as the poor club foot of her child. Kate leaned back in her chair, chewing the end of her ballpoint. A squall of wind hit the cottage. She felt the walls shudder and heard the sudden crack of rain against the window as she sat forward, her hands on the keys and began writing again. A minute later she stared at the screen in horror.

May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus, and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day…

Christ! she whispered. Oh Christ!

Another squall hit the windows and she flinched as though the wind and rain had hit her. Quickly, as though afraid it would burn her, she switched off the computer and pushed back her chair. Her hands were shaking.

I didn’t write that.

But she had, like some robotic amanuensis, taking down dictation. She stared round the room. It was very still. The squall had retreated as fast as it had come and the night outside was silent once again. All she could hear was the pumping of her pulse in her ears. She grabbed her cassette player and inserting a cassette with trembling hands, she switched it on. The sound of Sibelius filled the room as taking a deep breath, she moved over to the stove and bending down, opened the doors to stare at the warm glow of the smouldering logs.

‘I am tired, that’s all,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It’s been a long day. I need sleep. A lot of sleep.’ She poured herself a small whisky with a hand that was still far from steady. Sipping it slowly she stood for several minutes in front of the stove.

Only very gradually did she become aware that there was someone standing behind her. Her knuckles white on the glass, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with fear she held her breath, not daring to move. ‘Alison?’ Her voice was hoarse with tension. It was a woman. She was certain it was a woman. ‘Alison, is that you?’ Slowly she turned round.

The room was empty. She stared at the closed door. It had warped slightly over the years and already she had learned the sound of its squeak as it opened or shut. It was distinctive; loud. And she had not heard it.

‘Come on, Kennedy. Pull yourself together.’ She took a gulp of the whisky, feeling the heat of it burning her throat and creeping through her veins. It gave her the courage to walk over to the door and pull it open. Outside, the hall was deserted. The front door was still barred and bolted as she had known it must be. There was no one there. Resolutely, her glass still in her hand she climbed the stairs and flicking on the lights she peered into her bedroom. It was empty. The room was tidy. For a moment she hesitated in front of the spare room, then taking a deep breath, she flung the door open and switched on the light. The room was as they had left it earlier. Tidy, neat, almost empty, her cases stacked against the wall. The remnants of Greg’s paintings were gone – retrieved to the makeshift studio in his father’s study. Both windows were shut. The bluebottles had disappeared. Of the torc there was still no sign.

With a sigh of relief she went heavily back downstairs and into the living room.

Oh God, it was there again! The smell of earth and with it that sweet, indefinable scent. Shaking her head wearily she went over to the stove, piled in as many logs as she could and slammed the doors shut.

‘Go to hell, Marcus, wherever you are, and leave me in peace!’ she said out loud.

She turned round to switch off the desk lamp and let out a scream, knocking her empty glass to the ground.

A woman was standing in the corner of the room.

In the fraction of a second that she was there Kate saw her auburn hair, her stained, torn, long blue gown, and she knew that somehow, somewhere, she had seen this person before. And then she was gone, leaving only the scent of earth and with it the cloying, flowery perfume.

A taste of acid in her mouth, Kate backed towards the door. She reached it and backed into the hall, her eyes on the spot where the woman had stood. She didn’t believe in ghosts. No one sane believed in ghosts. Only to joke with the Lindseys. It was her imagination; she was too conscious of the black stormy night outside the windows and it had created this vision inside her head. That was it. Who was it who had said we are all mad at night? Was it Mark Twain? She shook her head. Whoever it was was right.

Or it might be the whisky. Perhaps she had been drinking too much. And the rest of the bottle was in the living room where – it – had been standing. Too bad. She could do without it. She took the stairs two at a time and running into her bedroom she slammed the door. She was still shaking, but not so much she couldn’t drag the Victorian chair, heavy for all its neat smallness, across the room and wedge it under the handle. Why, oh why hadn’t she insisted on having a bolt fitted to her bedroom door as well while the locksmith was about it this afternoon?

It was only as she pulled off her clothes and dived into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, that she remembered that ghosts can walk through walls.

XXII

In his bedroom Patrick frowned. The mathematical formula he had been working on wasn’t going to come out. Somehow he had to try it another way. He paused for a minute, staring into space. He could hear the music from Allie’s bedroom blaring down the passage. Even with two doors closed in between it was deafening. He sighed. Yelling would do no good. If anything it would make her turn it up louder. He frowned for a minute pondering on how she had persuaded Greg to fork out for a new radio cassette. Their father had said that the insurance would probably pay in the end, but why had Greg put his hand in his pocket so fast? He puzzled over it for a few minutes more but already his mind was going back to the figures on his screen.

Around him his books, their spines all neatly aligned, were gleaming, friendly companions in the semi-darkness. The only light in his room came from the anglepoise lamp on his desk and from the screen of the computer.

He thumped the enter key a couple of times and tried again, conscious suddenly of the sound of the sea in the distance and the whine of the east wind and the patter of rain on the window.

Before him the screen shivered. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. A letter had dropped from the top of the screen to the bottom. Then another, then another.

‘Oh, no! Oh fucking hell!’ He stared at it in disbelief. ‘Not a virus! Not a fucking virus!’

Holding his breath he tapped at the keys frantically, trying to save what he had been doing, but already the screen was blank and the cursor was moving purposefully up to the top left hand side once more. Slowly a message appeared.

May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus Secundus and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day…

Patrick stared, clutching at the wooden arms of his chair. For a moment he sat without moving, reading the message through and through again, then he stood up with such violence that his chair fell onto the floor behind him.

‘Allie! Allie! I’m going to wring your bloody neck!’ He hurled himself at the door. ‘What have you done to my computer, you stupid, silly cow?’

He pounded the six short strides down the passage and threw open her bedroom door.

After the comparative darkness of his room, hers was a shock. At least six light bulbs blazed in there – two spotlights, a ceiling light and three desk lamps, sitting at strategic angles on the floor. No wonder she had migraines!

His sister was lying on her bed, still fully dressed, a dazed look on her face as she listened to her Sisters of Mercy tape for the thousandth time.

Patrick flung himself on the machine and pulled out the cable. ‘You cow! Do you realise what you’ve done? You’ve only fucked up my project, that’s what!’