‘He’s here, Di,’ he said slowly. ‘That bastard is here, in this room. He’s real.’

Diana glanced at Greg.

‘Marcus,’ Greg mouthed. ‘He’s seen Marcus.’

Diana knelt at the side of the makeshift bed and took Roger’s hand. ‘He can’t hurt you, love.’

‘Too damn right. I’ve nothing for him. It’s the kids he wants. He wants their energy. But he’s not going to get it.’ He gripped Diana’s hand so hard she winced. ‘I’m going to fight him on his own ground.’ The breath was rasping in his throat.

‘Roger – ’

‘He didn’t bargain for that, did he. I’m going after him. To hell, if necessary.’ He looked from his wife to his son and back. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sane. Dying, but sane. I’ve never believed. Not in heaven or hell or God or Satan until now. But this bastard has made me realise there is somewhere out there. If his soul can survive there, black as it is, then so can mine!’ He laughed weakly and Diana buried her head in the blanket near him, trying to smother her sobs. ‘I’m going to find out what it’s all about. And if he can come back then so can I. I shall return to tell you.’

‘Dad -’ Greg tried to interrupt, but Roger talked on, his words slurring together now as the drugs took a stronger hold on his pain.

‘No, my mind is made up. I am going to find out why she cursed him. She’s here, you know, in the house now. She was his first wife. She’s come to help me. She wants me to find him. I shall get him. I shall win – ’

‘Dad!’ Greg knelt down stiffly on the other side of the bed, wincing as his foot dragged on the ground. ‘Dad, don’t talk like this.’

‘Why?’ Roger turned and looked at him. His eyes, though unnaturally bright, were perfectly lucid. ‘After what that bastard has done to my daughter, you think I am going to let him get away with it?’

‘No, of course not, but – ’

‘But nothing. My mind is made up. I am going after him. A quest. A glorious quest through the realms of the afterlife. How do you like that idea?’ He sounded delirious as he laughed again, clutching at Diana’s hand. Then he began to cough.

‘Roger -’ Desperately she tried to soothe him. ‘Get some water, Greg, quickly. Roger, darling, please, calm yourself. You’re going to be all right.’

‘Balls!’ The word was gasped through another spasm of coughing. ‘Do me the kindness of treating me like an adult, Di. I know. You know. Greg knows.’ He paused, breathless, and sipped gratefully as Greg held a glass of water to his lips. ‘Thanks son. Look. Better this way than lingering for months in some goddam awful hospice. I love Redall. All of it. I was born here. My father was born here. Not many families can say that nowadays. I’d like to think that you or Paddy will make your home here too. This place is in our bones,’ he smiled grimly. ‘Who knows, perhaps we are descended from Marcus himself. I’m bound hand and foot to this place – its history is in my blood.’ He looked at Diana. ‘What I’m trying to say, love, and making a frightful hash of it, is that I’m happy to die here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still love you, whatever happens. And I’ll stick around. Not to frighten you. Just to watch over you and keep Marcus in line.’ He closed his eyes, exhausted.

Diana looked up at Greg. Her eyes were blinded by tears. ‘Greg -’ She mouthed his name but no sound came.

Greg was biting his lip. Neither of them said a word as, holding a hand each, they watched Roger’s face lose the colour which had animated it, as he dozed again. Around them the room seemed to grow darker in the candlelight.

‘A quest,’ Greg said at last, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘I like that idea.’ He frowned. If it were possible – to travel through time and space – to treat death as a mere doorway – that would only be comforting if one expected to find angels on the other side.

But Marcus was a demon.

LXVI

The waves threw off the snow, thundering up the beach in clouds of spray. The sea had reached the soft sand now, the sand which was never covered by the tide, sucking greedily at the ground and spitting out the residue with each successive incursion. Peat and soil swirled and dissolved; sand turned to brown liquid, dispersed and vanished, to be deposited again on a distant shore. In the dune the grave welcomed the first deep wave which seeped into its heart, whisking away a trowel and a brush, tearing at the remaining bones, grinding them, stirring them, flushing out every trace of what had been. Another followed and then another and then the sea overwhelmed, passing onwards towards the calm, ice-bound estuary where, long before, the geese had gone, flying inland away from the storm.

Joe stood panting at the top of the track and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He could barely see now for the weight of snow on his eyelashes; his face was frozen stiff and his tears seemed to turn to ice as the wind whipped them from his eyes. He looked round, exhausted. Two cars were parked at the edge of the road. Drawn up under the trees. Anne’s he supposed; but whose was the other? He walked over to it, and swept the snow off the snow-covered bonnet. Ron’s Land Rover from the pub. He frowned and glanced back the way he had come. Whatever Ron had come for, he had left no trace. His tracks had long ago been covered over.

Wearily he turned up the road and began to trudge towards home. Twice he stopped and looked behind him. A dozen times in the wood he had had the feeling that he was being followed. Each time he had stopped and raised the gun, sweeping it menacingly around at the undergrowth. But there had been no one there. No one at all. Only the silence and the wind and the occasional crash of snow falling from the trees.

It took him another hour to trudge the few hundred yards home, grope in his pocket with deadened hands for the key to the back door, and let himself into the blessed warmth and stillness. The house was very quiet. Stamping the snow off his boots he shrugged himself out of his coat, leaving it where it fell on the kitchen floor and he went over to the wall telephone. Picking it up, he listened. The familiar dialling tone rang out almost deafeningly in his ear.

Nine nine nine.

He had never dialled it before. Shaking his head wearily, he waited for a moment before asking for police and ambulance. The woman on the other end of the line was dubious. ‘They’ll be with you as soon as possible Mr Farnborough, but the weather is so bad! They’re still forecasting hurricane force winds and blizzard conditions. The helicopter can’t take off. It will be down to the police to try and get through with a medical team.’

‘Do your best, love.’ Joe found he had sunk down onto the wooden chair left neatly against the wall. Near him Cissy’s apron hung on the back of the door. He shook his head. ‘Things are bad down there. Very bad. There’s a man murdered. Another man dying. Please. Help us.’

He sat still for a long time after he had hung up. There was nothing more that he could do. He could not go back. He had agreed to wait so he could guide the police vehicle down to the farmhouse. Leaning his head against the wall he closed his eyes wearily.

In two minutes he was fast asleep.

LXVII

Kate glanced up at Jon as they stood side by side looking out of the bedroom window of the cottage. She still wasn’t entirely sure how or why he had appeared – explanations would come later – but she was comforted and happy that he was there. Behind them Alison was sleeping deeply. Downstairs in the kitchen Pete and Patrick were rummaging in the drawers of the dresser for candles and matches.

Patrick didn’t like being down here. He was acutely conscious at every moment of the dead man lying on the sofa in the next room. Bill who in life had been a genial, popular visitor at Redall Farmhouse was in death a terrifying threat.

They were half-way up the stairs when Alison screamed.

‘Shit, what was that?’ Pete was close behind Patrick who stopped dead, his face white. ‘That was Allie.’

‘OK, son, I’ll go. You wait here.’ Pete pushed past him, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time.

In the bedroom Jon and Kate were standing over the bed. Kate had clutched at Jon’s arm – her fingers were white as they sank into his sleeve. Alison was lying on the bed thrashing back and forth as though in pain, her hands clasped to her head. ‘Mummy!’ she screamed again. ‘Mummy, help me!’

Anne sat down on the bed. She caught Alison’s wrists, trying to pull them away from the girl’s face. ‘Allie. Allie, please, listen to me. You’re dreaming. Don’t be afraid. Wake up. Allie, wake up.’ Alison was raking at her temples with her nails. A streak of blood appeared across her forehead, then another. ‘Allie, don’t, you’re hurting yourself. Please.’

Alison did not hear her. They were there again, inside her head. Only this time he was laughing. Gone! Gone under the sea at last! Now you’re forgotten. Forgotten forever, you and your priest lover!

Claudia’s screams inside her head were so loud she thought her brain would burst; pain and anguish swirled about her; a tide of blood washed back and forth behind her eyes, and now, suddenly, there was another voice – a man’s voice – the voice of Claudia’s lover. At last he had come. He was there with them. And he was strong; stronger than Marcus, his fury uncontrollable.

With a groan Alison pulled at her hair, sitting up, rocking back and forth with such violence that Anne slipped off the bed to the floor. ‘Alison!’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘Can you hear me? Listen!’ She grabbed at the girl’s hands again. ‘You must be strong. Come back to us, Allie. Open your eyes and come back. Whatever it is you’re fighting, you must be strong.’ She gasped as Alison tore her wrists free and went back to attacking her own face with her nails. ‘Alison, please!’ She looked wildly at Jon. ‘We’ve got to tie her hands. She’s going to scratch herself to pieces. Please, help me, quickly.’