Mimsa had gone, leaving behind one of her usual barely decipherable notes. She switched the kettle on then went out into the hallway. The curate was pacing around the drawing room, looking up at the ceiling, frowning.

  'White or black?'

  'White, without, please.'

  She took the coffee in. 'Must just pop to the loo. There's one just under the stairs, if you �?'

  'Ah.' He nodded politely.

  As she climbed the stairs she realized that the house felt curiously hot, muggy, as if the heating had been left on all day. It felt even hotter upstairs. She tested the radiator on the landing; it was stone cold. She looked around uncomfortably, then went into her bedroom and walked into her bathroom. It felt like an airing cupboard.

  She stood at the basin washing her hands and examined her face in the mirror. It was wet with perspiration. She pressed her hand against her forehead, but it was cold, almost icily cold, she thought, and wondered if she was going down with flu. She dabbed her face gently with a towel, careful not to smudge her make-up, closed her eyes and patted the lids.

  There was a sudden cold blast of air, as if a freezer door had opened, and she felt the presence of someone watching her. She opened her eyes slowly and looked in the mirror.

  Fabian was standing, motionless, right behind her.

  She was conscious of a terrible jerk inside her chest, as if she had pushed a finger into an electrical socket, and then her body was wracked with pins and needles, hurting her so much she wanted to cry out in pain.

  As she turned around to face him she realized there was no air in the room. She could not breathe.

  He stood there, wearing a white shirt and his favourite floppy jumper, solid, so solid it seemed she could reach out and touch him.

  But there was no air.

  He was smiling a strange unfamiliar wry smile, and there was something in the dark of his eyes that was mocking her, something she had never seen before in her son, something that was ringing a terrible bell.

  She felt herself beginning to panic. The pain of the pins and needles was unbearable; she was shaking, her lungs ached, and she felt violently sick.

  Tricks of your mind, she heard the curate's voice echo. Tricks of your mind.

  She swayed, beginning to black out, pushed her trembling hands out behind her and clutched the basin.

  And then he was gone.

  She staggered into her bedroom, gasping, looking wildly around. She ran, tripping down the stairs, and stood in the hallway gulping air, shivering and itching all over. She went through into the drawing room. Allsop was staring at his coffee with intense concentration. He looked up uneasily as she came in. 'I didn't realize � you have another son?'

  'Eh?' She blinked at him, unable to speak.

  'The young man who just went up the stairs.'

  Why was he smiling? What did he think was so funny? Then she realized it wasn't a smile at all but his nervous twitch.

  'Fair-haired?' she gulped. 'Yes,' he said, quietly.

  'In a floppy sort of pullover?'

  Again he nodded.

  She clutched the arm of a chair for support, unable to stand any more, sat down and closed her eyes. Then she opened them and stared at him again. 'I don't have another son. That was Fabian.'

  She heard a sharp clack, followed by another, as his cup rattled in the saucer. She saw the spoon vibrating in his hand, rattling against the side of the cup as if he were playing a tiny musical instrument, and she saw the coffee slopping over the side.

  'I see,' he said finally, his right eye opening and closing. With great difficulty he put the cup and saucer down and looked around the room, clearly badly shaken, trying to compose himself. 'Is that what you meant?'

  Alex felt something soft and realized she was still holding the towel. She began to fold it, pressing carefully along the creases. 'Yes.'

  'There is no possibility of there being someone else in the house?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Like a window cleaner or a plumber, someone like that?'

  She shook her head.

  'No,' he said, opening and closing his mouth several times, like a goldfish, she thought.

  'Do you understand now what I mean?'

  He looked around the room again and then at her. 'About an exorcism?'

  'Can you help me?'

  He cupped his hands together and gently rocked backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked into his hands, frowning in deep concentration. 'There are alternatives to � er � exorcism, which have the same effect. Exorcism is seldom advisable, I'm afraid there is rather a lot of bureaucracy surrounding it these days. One has to present a case to the bishop and it's up to him to decide; it can take several weeks at the very least.' He looked up at her, fearful. 'You see, it's rather frowned upon these days; ordinary clergy like me are not allowed to perform the exorcism service.'

  'I can't wait several weeks,' said Alex. 'Please, you must do something.'

  'It could be very much longer in your case, under our current guidelines.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Permission would not normally be given after a bereavement for at least two years.'

  She thought again of the terror in the bathroom and felt overwhelmed with helplessness. 'Two years?' she echoed, weakly.

  'I'm afraid the Church considers the balance of people's minds can be in a troubled state for a long time after bereavement. It is only if things continue after this period that the service of Deliverance can be considered.'

  'Deliverance?'

  'The modem terminology.' He smiled and she saw the twitch again. 'The Church prefers the word Deliverance � it sounds perhaps a little less dramatic'

  'But surely,' said Alex, 'if it can be proven � you've just seen yourself.'

  'The Church has been aware for centuries that the state of possession is normally caused by mental illness and not by spirits. The Church of England leaders have become increasingly involved in psychology these days; there is a strong awareness that not all problems can be resolved by pastoral care alone. I suppose it is an effort by the Church to move with the times, to become more responsible. Frequently, the circumstances in which clergymen have diagnosed the need for exorcism and carried it out have turned out to be mental illness, and they have sometimes made matters worse.'

  'And you think I'm mentally ill?'

  He looked at her, then around the room again. 'No. I think that you may be right. There is a presence in this house. Something troubled. But I don't think an exorcism is necessary. We need to try to establish why the spirit is troubled, then perhaps we can lay it to rest.' He rocked backwards and forwards again. 'I know why he is troubled.'

  Allsop looked at her, continuing to rock backwards and forwards. 'Would you like to tell me?' he said gently. She looked at him, then shook her head. 'No. I can't.' 'It would be helpful to know the reason.' She looked out of the window, then suddenly at the hallway, convinced she saw something move. She listened hard, watching, but there was nothing more. She stared at the curate. 'I think that he had unfinished business.'

  He stopped rocking, then started again. 'I'm afraid most of us depart unprepared, with much that we have planned to do in life still undone.' She nodded. 'Is that what you mean?'

  'No.' She looked down at the towel, then at Allsop. 'I think he wants to come back to kill someone.'

  She looked down again, unable to face his stare, unable to face the knowledge that he thought she was mad.

  'I think a Requiem Mass would be the answer,' she heard him say, gently, quietly.

  She looked up at him. 'What do you mean?' 'We could hold a simple Requiem Mass service here in the house. I think you'd find that would lay everything to rest.'

  She felt uncomfortable, frightened by the words. 'How � would � what � I'm not sure exactly what you mean.'

  'We could have it today, if you like, after I've collected my son. I'd just have a few things to bring.' She stared at him. 'What things?'

  He looked at his watch. 'About six o'clock, would that suit you?'

  Could he help her, this solemn young man with his nervous twitch and his pristine jeans? Could he confound all that was going on with a few prayers? Or would the spirits laugh him out of the house?

  'Fine,' she heard herself say. 'Thank you.'

  'What will you do until then?'

  'Do?' her voice said.

  'I think it would be best if you did not remain in the house this afternoon. Is there somewhere you could go? Some friend you could visit?'

  'The office. I'll go to the office.'

  'Yes,' he said. 'A good idea. Try to concentrate on something different.'

  He stood up, looked around nervously, and made his way to the front door. He stared at the staircase and his eyes widened, filled with uncertainty.

  She followed him out of the house without looking back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  'There's an Andrew Mallins on the line; he says he has an idea for a play he would like to discuss.'

  She shook her head. 'No, Julie,' she said into the intercom. 'Not today.'

  'Do you want to speak to him at all?'

  'Ask him to call me next week.'

  She stared hopelessly at her desk; Christ, how it had piled up. She looked at the wooden calendar. Wed. May 3rd. The intercom buzzed again.

  'There's a Mr Prior on the line,' said Julie.

  'Mr Prior? I don't know him.'

  Julie's voice dropped. 'From the crematorium,' she said sympathetically.

  'O.K.'

  Mr Prior's tone was deferential but to the point. 'I was wondering,' he said, 'if you have had time to consider what you would like to do with the ashes?'

  She looked at the calendar again. May 3rd. The chill went through her. May 3rd. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow. May 4th. 'The ashes?'

  'Of course, we could scatter them for you, if you'd prefer.'

  'No,' she said.

  'We do offer several very nice options. Perhaps a rose bush? We could scatter them over it, or bury the ashes under. Not in the urn of course, there's not really the room.'

  'No,' she said, absently, 'Of course not.'

  'There's no need to make a decision now � we will hold them for you for three months.'

  Urn, she thought. A small black polystyrene pot. God, if only it was that simple. May 4th. May 4th. Tomorrow.

  'A carved plaque on the wall is very popular; of course, you do have to renew it every fifteen years.'

  'Of course.'

  'An entry in the Book of Remembrance is permanent; that's a once-only payment.'

  A small black pot filled with fine white powder. Her child.

  'There are some spaces still available in the rockery - but they are a little inaccessible. I'm afraid there's a waiting list for the more popular sites.'

  May 4th.

  'Or, of course, you could have the urn; a lot of people do that now; scatter them in his favourite place. Very popular these days; no cost involved, you see.'

  Favourite place. Scatter them over the lake. She thought of holding the pot, unscrewing the lid, the ashes blowing in her face, and shuddered.

  'Perhaps I could think it over,' she said.

  'Yes, there's no hurry, we hold them for three months before � er � disposing of them. Of course, we would notify you first.'

  'Of course.'

  May 4th.

  Philip Main was on the line. Did she want to speak to him? Where was the man from the crematorium, she thought, suddenly. Had she finished speaking with him? How had she left it with him?

  'How are you?' he said softly.

  'O.K.'

  'Did you . . .?'

  'Yes. This evening.' She felt tears flooding into her eyes. 'They're doing a Requiem Mass. He said an exorcism would take a long time to arrange - that they wouldn't do one so soon after - Oh God, Philip, I'm so frightened.'

  'It'll be all right.'

  'I wish you could come too.'

  'You'll be all right, girl.'

  She blew her nose. 'Shall I call you afterwards?'

  'Yes, we'll have a drink.'

  She sniffed and felt good suddenly, felt good having him on the end of the phone, felt a great flood of warmth come down and through her. 'I'd like that.'

  She managed to park right outside her house. It was quarter to six. She switched off the engine and closed her eyes. She heard footsteps and looked up with a start; a man was walking past with a Labrador on a lead; he glanced admiringly through the windscreen at her. She looked away blushing, and felt strangely cheered for a moment. Normality, there was still normality; normality was possible. She clenched the steering wheel tightly with both hands and peered out at her house, like a rabbit, she thought, a frightened rabbit in its hutch.

  May 4th.

  What the hell did it mean? Why did it keep coming back into her head?

  How could she be sitting in her car like this, a few feet from her front door, and not dare to go inside? Her house? Her home? She stared at the blue front door, and the white paintwork of the walls; looking a little tatty perhaps, could do with a repaint soon. She tried to remember when it had last been painted. Five years ago at least. God, it looked so solid, so normal, would it ever be normal again? Could she ever live there again?

  She trembled. In the wing mirror she could see the curate and another man, both in black cassocks, walking down the street, lugging something between them; a brown vinyl holdall, she realized, as they came closer.

  The other man was older than Allsop, in his early forties, she guessed.

  She got out of the car.

  'Ah, good,' said Allsop, 'you've just arrived. We were worrying that we were late. You know each other of course, don't you?'

  Alex smiled politely at the older man; he had a suave dry face, the face of a career clergyman, not a pastoral one. In a suit, instead of his cassock, he could have been a high-flying lawyer. 'No,' she said.

  'Derek Matthews,' said the man in a clipped voice, holding out his hand, unsmiling. 'The Vicar of St Mary's.'

  'Ah,' she said feeling the firm shake of his hand. 'I'm afraid I've been a bit remiss in my church-going.'

  'Most people are, Mrs Hightower,' he said humourlessly.

  'I hope you didn't mind � that we didn't ask you to take the funeral service � it was a friend of my husband's � who knew my son � our son�' she shrugged. 'We thought it would be appropriate.'

  'Naturally.'

  'Shall we - ah?' said Allsop.

  'Yes.' She was unsettled by Matthews. 'Of course, please come in.' She looked down at the holdall. It looked as if it might have contained sandwiches for a picnic. 'It's a � very pretty church, St Mary's.'

  'Not to the purist,' said Matthews, tersely. 'It's an architectural disaster.'

  She closed the front door behind her. Matthews looked around, dismissively.

  'Would anyone like any � er � tea?'

  'I think we'll proceed straight away,' said Matthews, looking at his watch. 'I have a meeting I must get to.'

  She looked at Allsop and he tried too late to avoid her eyes. He blushed. 'I � er - I thought it might be helpful if Derek were present; he has had much more experience in these things than me.' His right eye twitched furiously.

  'Yes, of course.' She looked nervously at Matthews. 'Which room should we use?' she said.

  'The room in which the manifestation occurred,' said Matthews, curtly, as if he were addressing a hotel clerk.

  'The manifestation has occurred in every room,' she replied, acidly.

  'May I ask if you've been dabbling in the occult in here at all, Mrs Hightower?'

  'I don't dabble in anything.' She was conscious of the anger rising in her voice.

  'You've held no seance in here, nothing like that?'

  Look, she wanted to say, I'm not at school. But she restrained herself, and nodded. 'We held a circle here, last week.' She felt her face redden, and stared apologetically at Allsop, feeling she had let him down.

  'Then I think we should go to the room where you held it,' said Matthews, becoming increasingly impatient.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, feeling foolish and helpless.

  She led the way up the stairs; nothing was going to happen, she knew, nothing at all, and Matthews was going to think she was an even bigger fool.

  Oh, God, she thought as she opened the door, feeling her face go red hot with embarrassment at the sight of the chairs, still arranged in a circle.

  She sensed Matthews' glare and was unable to face him. She looked up at the portrait of Fabian, then at the curtains, the sticky tape still holding them tightly to the wall.

  'These practices are very dangerous, Mrs Hightower,' said Matthews.

  'I know,' she said lamely, like a schoolgirl, looking at the mortified expression on Allsop's face.

  Allsop put the holdall on the floor, and something inside made a loud clank. Matthews knelt down and unzipped it. 'We'll need a table; and we'll need some salt.'

  'Salt?' she said.

  'Just ordinary salt. Have you a salt-cellar?'

  'I'll get one.' Alex fetched a salt-cellar from the kitchen, then went up into her bedroom. The room felt chillingly cold, and she was frightened to be separated from the others even for a moment. She grabbed the small table from the end of the bed and hurried back to Fabian's room.

  �Thank you.' Matthews took the table and the salt-cellar from her as if they were toys he was confiscating from a child.

  They set about their preparations as if they had rehearsed them beforehand. Allsop pushed three of the chairs away, while Matthews began to pull objects out of the holdall and lay them out on the table.

  He carefully arranged two small candles like night-lights in the centre, then a chalice, a bottle of wine, and a silver tray. They worked silently, ignoring her, as if oblivious of her, as if, she thought uncomfortably, she did not count.

  Matthews pulled out a silver stoup, and poured a small amount of water into it from a container, mouthing a silent prayer as he did so. Then he poured some salt in. He picked up the stoup and turned, staring past Alex. 'Protect us, Oh Lord, we beseech you.' He pulled a silver aspergillum out of the bag, dipped the head into the water, then stepped past Alex, and flicked it hard at the wall. He turned and solemnly repeated the procedure at each of the other walls. Then he put the stoup and the aspergillum down, pulled a gold Dunhill from his pocket, and lit the candles.