Allsop carefully poured the remaining water back into the container, and replaced the stoup in the holdall.

  'Shall we begin?' said Matthews.

  Alex sat facing the two clergymen.

  'You are confirmed, I take it?' said Matthews.

  Alex nodded.

  'Let us pray,' he said loudly, sternly, as if addressing a courtroom.

  The curate pressed his hands neatly together and brought them up to his face.

  It felt more like a school class than a religious service. Silently, she copied him, trembling with anger and humiliation.

  'Listen to our prayers, Lord, as we humbly beg your mercy.'

  Did they know any more these two? With their plastic bag and their ornate silverware? Did they know any more than Morgan Ford? Than Philip? Were they just a couple of well-meaning charlatans under a massive flag of convenience? Or did they carry the authority and the clout of the divine power, the power above all else? What power?

  She leaned forward and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, trying to feel the bond with the God she used to talk to when she was a little girl, the God who used to listen to her and protect her, and make everything all right.

  'Listen to our prayers, Lord, as we humbly beg your mercy, that the soul of your servant Fabian, whom you have called from this life, may be brought by you to a place of peace and light, and so be enabled to share the life of all your saints. Through Christ our Lord.'

  'Amen,' said Allsop.

  'Amen,' she echoed, quietly, self-conscious about the sound of her voice.

  'We pray you, Lord our God, to receive the soul of this your servant Fabian, for whom your blood was shed. Remember, Lord, that we are but dust and that man is like grass and the flower of the field.'

  Put some feeling into it man, she wanted to shout out, put some bloody feeling into it. She opened her eyes, and watched him through her cupped hands, angrily.

  'Lord grant him everlasting rest.' Matthews paused to look at his watch. 'And let perpetual light shine upon him. Grant to your servant Fabian, Lord, a place of rest and pardon.'

  She looked up at Fabian's portrait, then closed her eyes and covered them again with her hands. What do you think of all this darling? Do you mind? Do you understand?

  'Oh God, it is your nature to have mercy and to spare. You have called to yourself -your servant Fabian who believed in you and placed in you his hope.'

  Nothing. She could feel nothing except disbelief that this was all happening. She watched Allsop, hands piously together, eyes tightly closed. The room was feeling stuffy; she could smell the melting candlewax, and felt herself perspiring.

  'Oh God, you measure the life and times of all men. While we grieve that your servant Fabian was with us for so short a time, we humbly pray you that he may enjoy eternal � youth in the joy of your presence for ever.'

  The candles flickered, throwing their shadows over Matthews' face, as if they were throwing back the holy water in disgust.

  'Our brother was nourished by Christ's body, the bread of eternal life. May he rise again on the last day. Through Christ our Lord.'

  'Amen,' said Allsop.

  She couldn't bring herself to say anything.

  There was a long silence.

  The room was getting even hotter.

  'Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest.'

  Matthews fixed his eyes on hers.

  'Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, And forgive our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us, And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil.'

  Matthews paused, then stared up, over her head, as if the words were too important to be addressed solely to her.

  'For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.'

  He stood up silently and turned to the table. He picked up the host, and broke a piece into the chalice.

  'Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world; have mercy on us.' He turned, and stared directly at her. 'May this mingling of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring eternal life to us who receive it.' He beckoned her.

  Slowly she stood up and stepped falteringly forward.

  He signalled her to kneel, then held out a wafer.

  'Take, eat,' he said, staring past her again, as he placed the wafer in her cupped hand.

  She tasted the dry sweetness, then felt the sharp cold rim of the chalice, and the sudden heady wetness of the wine.

  �This is the blood of Christ.'

  She walked silently back to her chair, a dull metallic taste in her mouth.

  'Lord God, your Son gave us the sacrament of his Body to support us in our last journey. Grant that our brother Fabian may take his seat with Christ at his eternal banquet: who lives and reigns for ever and ever.'

  'Amen,' she whispered.

  Allsop said nothing, and Matthews glared contemptuously at her, a little girl, not concentrating, speaking out of turn. She closed her eyes.

  'Almighty God, you have destroyed death for us, through the dying of your son Jesus Christ.'

  The words began to echo in her head, like hammering.

  'Through his lying in the tomb, and his glorious resurrection from the dead, you have sanctified the grave.'

  She heard the dripping of water, sharp, fierce drips, like shots. One hit her forehead, like a punch from a fist, then another. They ran down into her eyes, salty and stinging. She put her hand up to her forehead. But there was nothing there, nothing but the slight damp of her perspiration.

  'Receive our prayers for those who have died with Christ, and been buried with him, as with heaven-sent hope they await their resurrection. Grant, we pray you, God of the living and the dead, eternal rest for Fabian. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.' He looked at his watch again.

  'Amen,' said Allsop.

  Matthews knelt down and blew out the candles, then began to pack the items away in the bag.

  Allsop opened his eyes, smiled gently at Alex, then stood up and helped him.

  She sat watching them. Is that it, she wanted to say, is that it? But she doubted whether Matthews would have even bothered to reply.

  They went down into the hallway, and she opened the front door for them. Matthews went outside, then turned to her. 'I hope you'll consider very carefully before dabbling in the occult again, Mrs Hightower.'

  She nodded, sheepishly.

  He turned away, and walked down the steps. Allsop picked up the bag and smiled at her. 'I'll call you in a couple of days, to see how you are getting on.'

  �Thank you.'

  She closed the door gently and turned around.

  Fabian was standing at the bottom of the staircase.

  She smelt petrol suddenly; the whole hallway seemed to be filled with fumes. Then Fabian began to move towards her, gliding silently, without moving his legs, until all she could see were his eyes, someone else's eyes, not her son's, cold malevolent eyes glaring hatred.

  'No!' she screamed, closing her eyes, turning to the door, scrabbling blindly with the catch. She wrenched it open and stumbled out into the street. 'Help me!'

  But no words were coming out.

  'Help me!'

  Nothing.

  'Oh God, stop, come back, please come back!' She stared after them, helplessly. 'Please help me,' she whimpered. But the two clergymen were almost at the end of the street, bobbing along in their cassocks with the bag strung out between them, like a pair of Humpty-Dumptys off to a picnic.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  She drove too fast through the gates, and hit the water-logged cart track with a thump that bottomed the suspension and jarred through the whole car. Muddy blobs of water spattered the windscreen, and she switched on the wipers, swerving to avoid a deep rut; the nose of the Mercedes dipped sharply, rose in the air, then crashed down again with a bang that deflected it sideways, almost pushing the car into the fencing.

  The wipers clawed at the windscreen, screeching like angry birds. She smelt the stench of pigs and saw a small dark object scurrying out of the dull beam of the headlights. The Mercedes bounced again and crashed down. Still she kept the accelerator hard on the floor.

  Ahead, down to the left, through the muddy streaks and the rubber talons of the wipers, she could see the lake covered in a thin canopy of mist, like a shroud, she thought, and shuddered. It always looked its most sinister at twilight.

  She saw David's Land Rover parked outside the house and pulled up beside it. She switched off the engine, closed her eyes and almost wept with relief. The engine made several loud ticking sounds, then pinged, registering its protest, the smell of hot oil overlaying the stench of pigs. It ticked again, pinged again. Somewhere in the falling dark beyond her a sheep bleated.

  She climbed out of the car and stood still, her legs trembling. There was another bleat, then the distant splash of a fish rising carried across the still air. She took a few faltering steps towards the house, then stopped, swaying, and nearly fell. She felt the crunch of mud beneath her feet, moved forward again, heard a plop and a squelching sound and felt her right shoe suddenly become very cold.

  'Blast,' she said, pulling her foot out carefully, trying not to leave her shoe behind in the puddle. The house was in darkness, but she saw a light shining behind the barn door and walked across the courtyard towards it.

  David was standing with his back to her, staring up at the gantry he had rigged from the beam. The block and tackle hung down, swinging gently just above the large new vat, which was still in the middle of the floor.

  'Hi,' he said, without turning round. 'Have a good day?'

  'No,' she said, quietly.

  'This is a bugger this; a real bugger.'

  'How did you know it was me?'

  He still didn't turn around. 'The car. Can always recognize your car � although you were driving a bit faster than usual. It's a real bugger - what do you think?'

  'About what?'

  'I'm wondering if I might leave it where it is � do you think it looks odd?'

  Alex stared at the rope. 'It looks like gallows.'

  'Gallows?' He turned around, then leaned forward, to look closer at her. 'Christ, you look terrible.'

  She lowered her head and felt the tears welling; she sniffed.

  'Come on,' he said, gently putting an arm around her. 'Let's get you a drink.'

  They sat down in the kitchen.

  'I think that's nice,' he said. 'Your own personal service.' He smiled. 'Shows the Church is having to get competitive. If the congregation won't come to the Church, send the Church out to the congregation. Go do battle with the pizzas and curries and the visiting masseuses. Dial-A-Service, eh? Communion delivered to your own home � and there's no collection box to worry about. I assume there wasn't a collection?'

  'No, there wasn't a collection.'

  'Wouldn't put it past the buggers.'

  'David,' she said sharply.

  'I'm sorry.'

  He picked his glass up by the stem and swirled the wine around. 'Getting better by the day this, you know.'

  Alex smiled and sipped her whisky. 'Good.'

  'So does this mean you'll be going back now?'

  She detected the note of sadness in his voice and held her glass tightly in her hands.

  'I thought - you know ...' he said, blushing, 'we seem to be getting on pretty well. I thought � maybe � perhaps...'

  She closed her eyes tightly, felt the tears welling again, and sat, clenched up, shaking, rocking the chair backwards and forwards. She sipped her whisky again and could taste the salt from her tears. She opened her eyes and looked at him. 'It's not over yet, David.' A single violent convulsion rippled through her body, jerking her so hard it hurt. 'It's only just beginning.'

  She felt his firm strong arm around her shoulder, his rough fingers caressing her face.

  'You're safe here, darling,' he said. 'I'll look after you, don't worry. Don't go back to London for a while � not until you � everything � has settled down.'

  She nodded; a huge single tear rolled down her cheek, just as far as his finger which stopped it, like a dam.

  She was woken by the sound of water dripping, sharp, fierce drips, like shots from an airgun. One hit her forehead, like a punch from a fist, then another. Plop. Plang. The sound echoed around the room, as if she were in a cave.

  Her feet felt like ice. There was a bitter cold draught blowing on her face. Plang, she heard. She put her hand up to wipe away the water.

  But her face was completely dry.

  She frowned, felt her heart thumping, and thought again of Fabian's pitiful cry in the circle. 'Help me, Mother.'

  And then the snarling voice: 'Don't listen to the little bastard.'

  What's happening to you, darling? Please tell me. Please.

  Plang. It stung, as hard as if she had been hit by a tennis ball; she felt the water roll down the side of her head, and again touched it with her fingers. Nothing.

  And then suddenly she understood.

  She closed her eyes, shivering. She knew what she had to do; but she did not know if she had the courage to do it.

  There were two sharp pings from the drawing room clock. She heard a slithering sound, the rustle of fabric, then a sharp intake of air. The window creaked, there was a sharp exhalation, then the sound of the curtains flapping and billowing.

  Her heart slowed down; the wind; just the wind and the curtains. That was all. She smiled in relief, and sank back into the soft pillow, felt her feet warming, her skin relaxing, the pain subsiding.

  There was a sharp, stabbing pain in her finger and her whole body convulsed. Agonising pins and needles wracked her and she convulsed again. Equally suddenly, the pain subsided and she was left tingling all over, as if she had fallen into a bed of nettles.

  Then a violent shock-wave passed through her, flinging her up in the bed, sitting her upright against the headboard. She whimpered. Something was standing in front of her, by the foot of the bed. A shadow, darker than the dark.

  'Today, Mother.'

  The voice was clear; so incredibly clear.

  'What do you mean, darling?'

  The tingling was going.

  'Darling?'

  She put her hand out towards the bedside table, scrabbling for the light switch. The light came on and she blinked, her eyes sore and stinging, blinked at the dark wardrobe at the end of the bed.

  The curtain billowed wildly out into the room, as if someone was shaking it in anger, and she heard the hissing of the wind as it gusted. She cupped her hands together and closed her eyes. 'Oh God, please help me. Please give me the strength to cope. Please protect Fabian's spirit, and bless him, and let him rest peacefully. Please, dear God, don't let him...' she paused.

  Someone was looking at her.

  She opened her eyes, but there was nothing, nothing but the furniture and the restless curtains and the sounds of the wind in the night.

  She was surprised to see David sitting in the kitchen when she came down in the morning.

  'How did you sleep?'

  'O.K.,' she said. 'I was kept awake a bit by the wind.'

  He looked out of the window. 'Seems to have blown itself out; going to be a fine day. Are you going to stay down today?'

  She nodded.

  'Good. Like some coffee?'

  'Thanks.'

  He put the kettle on the hob.

  'I thought you were usually at work by now?'

  'I'm expecting a phone call. Think I may have tied up something really good. This is the only phone that's working � I dropped the one in the office the other day and the bell doesn't ring.'

  'I'll stay in here, and call you.' She smiled. 'I can play at being your secretary.'

  'It's O.K. I have some paperwork to catch up on - I'll do it in here.'

  Damn, she thought.

  'Anyway, it's not often I'm lucky enough to have your company on a weekday.'

  Don't you understand, she thought, oh, Christ, don't you understand?

  He frowned at her, and she smiled back reassuringly; then she glanced past him to the rusty key on the hook on the wall behind him.

  'I think I'll go for a walk.'

  'It's gorgeous at this hour.� He smiled. 'One of the compensations. I'll have the coffee waiting for you. Oh � er could you keep an eye out for any sheep in the vines?'

  She nodded and looked at her watch. 'I'd better call the office when I get back.'

  'I'll do it for you. I'll tell them you're not well, won't be in for a couple of days.'

  'You always make things sound so simple,' she said, conscious of the irritated tone of her voice. She smiled at him, trying to compensate. 'Can you just walk away from your work here, for as long as you like?'

  He shook his head.

  'Nor can I.'

  �There are times when you just have to.'

  She sighed and went out into the morning air, into the stale stench of the pigs and the fresh sweet scent of wet grass. There was a chill tang in the air and a translucence in the early morning sunlight, something watery, almost ethereal.

  She walked up the track, away from the house, and forked off right towards the lake. The concrete island was visible only as a shadow through the shroud of mist which lay just above the water. Medieval pond. She shuddered, her nostrils filled with the stagnant smell. Not even the birds sang near this lake. She stopped and looked at the tiny track overgrown with brambles. She picked one stem up, carefully avoiding prickles, and it came away in her hand.

  Someone had snapped it off and replaced it.

  She stood still, frozen, and stared at it. She looked, carefully, either side of her, then stared into the undergrowth; she sensed someone behind her, and spun around, her heart racing. No one. Warily, she tested another stem; that too came away.

  Whoever it was had done a good job. The path and the dry, rotting oak door, with its concrete surround, had been very carefully camouflaged.

  She turned the handle and pushed, but it was locked. Again, she sensed someone behind her, and turned around, trembling. But there was nothing. She stood still for a long time, and listened. The only sounds were the throb of a tractor and the distant bleating of sheep.