‘What’s wrong with her?’ Pete slid down beside them.

‘She’s ill. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Kate began to button the jacket across Alison’s chest. ‘We have to get her back out of the wind. She’s no strength left.’

‘She seemed to have plenty of strength to me, love.’ Pete grimaced. ‘She nearly pushed me across the beach.’

‘But don’t you see, that’s not her!’ Kate cried. ‘That’s not her strength. He’s possessing her. He’s draining her. We have to get her away from here.’

‘I’ll take her.’ Jon did not waste time asking her what she was talking about. He lifted Alison off her feet and turning, began to tramp inland, with his back to the wind.

He knew the exact moment when the strength went out of her. He could feel it draining away as he walked. Physically, she seemed lighter suddenly – a bag of bones in his arms where moments before he had held a rigid, angry body. He clutched her more closely, glancing down at her face as he cradled her against his chest. Her eyes were closed, her face white, a child’s face, when a moment before it had seemed to belong to someone else entirely. He shuddered and suddenly there was a hand on his arm. He glanced sideways and met Kate’s eyes. She smiled as she stumbled along at his side. ‘Thank God you’re here.’ Did he hear the words against the wind or did he imagine them? He wanted to reach out and touch her, but all he could do was smile and stagger on, feeling the weight of the girl dragging at his arms. Suddenly, her head lolled back and her eyes rolled open. He stopped, horrified, staring down at her face. She was limp now, cold inside the roughly-buttoned jacket.

‘Jon, what is it?’ Kate was beside him, looking down at Alison’s face.

He met her eyes. ‘We’ve got to get her inside quickly, Kate.’

Wordlessly she nodded. Tucking the jacket more closely around Alison’s inert body, she followed as Jon walked on across the snow through the dunes, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

In the cottage he carried her straight upstairs and laid her gently on Kate’s bed, then he stood back as Kate pulled the blankets over the girl and chafed her hands.

Pete appeared in the doorway behind them. He had pulled the front door closed, and then, firmly, shut the door to the living room before climbing the stairs.

‘What happened to Bill?’ Jon asked softly. His eyes were fixed on Alison’s face.

Kate did not look up. ‘He was attacked. In the woods near here.’

‘Attacked?’

She went on rubbing Alison’s hand. ‘He said it was a woman. Two women. We brought him here. But the phones were out. We couldn’t get help.’ Her voice was shaking; he saw a tear fall onto the blanket. Stepping forward he put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Judging by the bruises on his face no one could have helped, Kate. I should think his skull was fractured in a dozen places.’

‘He said Allie did it.’ The words were out before she could stop them. She heard both men gasp and at last she looked up. ‘She couldn’t have done, could she? She couldn’t… He was a big man. She’s only a child…’

The room was very silent. The girl on the bed, her face white, her hair strewn damply across the pillow, did not move. Her hand in Kate’s was limp and cold. Kate leaned back against Jon, her eyes closed. She was suddenly so weary she couldn’t move. Alison’s hand dropped from her fingers. For a moment it lay on the blanket where it had fallen, then suddenly it convulsed into a fist. The girl’s eyes flew open. Her voice when she spoke was strong and triumphant.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Listen. The tide is rising at last.’

LXV

When Boudicca swept across the country and burned the city she still called Camelodunum, he was one of the few who managed to escape. Taking his new wife and his child, he rode out of the town in good time and waited in safety as the smoke of rebellion rolled across the country. A spark had ignited the revolt as he had known it would. But it had not been his doing. Claudia’s curse had not touched him. The sacrifice of an unknown, unsung prince to the gods of a British bog had sunk unnoticed into the mists of time. He was triumphant. Later, when the revolt was quelled and Nion’s tribe had gone, lost in the slaughter of a proud and rebellious people, he would obtain the land.

He asked for the marsh where the whore he had called his wife had died, as a reward for his services to Rome and it was given to him with much more. He grew rich and fat; he bought more land; he owned two villas. He watched his son grow; the boy who had rich auburn hair and eyes of glass grey like his mother, and once a year he rode east, to the edge of the land and he stood looking down into the marsh, staring at the irises and bog cotton which blew in the knife-blade wind. Others, unseen strangers, still offered sacrifices to the gods of the marsh – pots of coins, small pieces of jewellery, even weapons. He offered nothing. He did not throw down a rose to commemorate the love which had gone; he did not hurl a dagger to the gods of hate. He merely stood and stared at the shifting, watery scene glittering in the sunlight, and, before he turned to go, he spat upon her curse.

‘The storm is getting worse.’ Diana turned from the study window, letting the curtain fall. She looked down at the bed where her husband lay. His face was grey with pain. His hands were clawing restlessly at the blanket she had pulled over him.

‘Don’t worry. Joe will make it.’ His voice was growing noticeably weaker. ‘He’s a stubborn old bugger. I can’t see him letting a mere blizzard get the better of him. And the kids will be all right.’

Diana forced herself to smile. ‘I know.’ She turned back to the window so that he couldn’t see her face. Drawing back the curtain a little she peered once again into the whirling snow. He was out there somewhere. Marcus. She could feel him. Evil. Waiting. Waiting for what? To use them? To draw on their energy? And no door could keep him out. She turned back to Roger. His eyes were closed and she watched him for a moment. The energy was draining out of him almost visibly. Their evil visitor would find no food in him. She shuddered. He was dying. She could not pretend to herself any longer. He was dying before her eyes. She wanted to throw herself at him and hold him, to will her own strength into him, but she couldn’t. She could do nothing but wait and watch. Shaking her head miserably she tiptoed towards the door and let herself out of the study into the cold hall. She could feel the draught blowing under the front door. It was icy; a drift of snow had somehow slipped under the draught-proofing and lay in a white veil across the stone tiles. Closing the door behind her silently she went through into the sitting room.

Cissy and Sue were seated on the sofa near the fire, side by side. Automatically her eyes went to the chair nearest the inglenook where normally in weather like this the two cats would be lying, in a heap of black and white fur. There was no sign of them. Greg was standing in the kitchen, leaning on the back of one of the bent oak chairs. He seemed to be gazing into space, ‘How is he?’ he asked as she wandered listlessly over to him.

She shrugged. ‘Not good.’

He looked at her hard. ‘Joe will get through, Ma.’

She tried to smile. ‘I’m sure he will. But I don’t think it will be in time for your father, Greg. We have to prepare ourselves.’

He put his arm round her, pulling her close against him. ‘It was bound to happen one day. We knew he hadn’t got long,’ he said gently.

She nodded dumbly.

‘He always said he wanted to go here and not in hospital.’

‘I know.’ It was a whisper.

‘Shall I go and sit with him for a bit?’ He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. ‘You get some sleep; you look completely flaked out. I’ll call you if he needs you.’

She nodded. With a glance at the two dozing on the sofa, she went to the door at the foot of the staircase ‘The moment he needs me, Greg,’ she repeated softly.

‘I promise.’

The staircase was cold and the upper floor of the house dark as she climbed wearily up to the bedroom she had shared with Roger for so many years. For a moment she stood in the doorway looking round, vividly aware in some inner part of herself that he would never walk through this door again. On the floor, in the corner, a pathetic reminder that Christmas was barely two weeks away, a pile of presents lay, partially hidden by a rug.

She walked across to the low window and stared out. It was growing light, but the snow was thick now, whirling through the air, blotting out the horizon. In this east-facing bedroom you could usually see across the dunes towards the sea, but today she was conscious of nothing but grey and white – a moving, whirling mass of nothing. Disorientated, she turned – and stopped short.

The woman by the bed was so clear she could see every detail of her clothes, her hair, her skin, her eyes. For a moment they stood there, their eyes locked together and for the first time Diana knew that Claudia could see her as clearly as she could see Claudia.

‘Sweet Blessed Jesus!’ The words were out of her mouth before she knew she had spoken. ‘What do you want?

For a fraction of a moment longer they stared at each other, then Claudia was gone.

‘Ma.’ Greg’s voice from the foot of the stairs was urgent. ‘Ma, come quickly.’

Diana whirled back to the door conscious with some part of her brain that the room smelled of a sweet, sickly perfume. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘He wants you.’ Greg hobbled ahead of her towards the study. Roger was lying propped up against the pillows and cushions. He was breathing with difficulty and his cheeks, which for so long had been colourless, had a livid, painful colour to them.