It rang, once, twice, please be there, three times, four times. 'Oh please be there,' she whispered.

  'Yurlo?' She listened to the grunt, filled with relief and felt warm again.

  'David?' She was whispering still.

  There was another bewildered grunt.

  'I'm sorry to wake you, David.'

  'Alex?'

  'Are you awake?'

  'Yrr.'

  'You didn't call me.'

  'Didn't call you?' He still sounded half asleep.

  'You were going to call me when you got home. I was worried.'

  'Wassertime?'

  'Half five.'

  There was a pause, and she heard the rustling of sheets.

  'I didn't think you really wanted me to.'

  She felt his voice, warm, smiling, comforting; it was like talking to a teddy bear. 'I was worried about you,' she said.

  'I'm O.K. How are you feeling?'

  'Not great. How about you?'

  'I feel bloody awful. It's so lousy. I keep thinking about that other driver, that bastard.'

  'Don't.'

  'If he'd survived, I would have killed him.'

  'Don't.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'I feel so bad about Otto and those Heathfield boys.'

  'At least Otto's alive,' he said.

  'It must be pretty difficult for him, you know, to accept that he's survived.'

  'I should never have bought Fabian that car.'

  'That's not your fault, darling; you were always so kind to him.'

  'I should have got him something slower.'

  'I don't think it would have made any difference. Listen, go back to sleep, I'm sorry I woke you.'

  'It's O.K.; I'm wide awake now.'

  'Go back to sleep. I'll call you later.'

  'I love you,' he said.

  She stared at the receiver and smiled sadly, then hung up, slowly, gently, and lay back on the pillows. She loved him too, she knew, missed his big warm body, missed his tenderness; why the hell had they parted? She felt tired, suddenly, tired and warm, and cheered up, and fell into a heavy sleep, and dreamed dreams of Fabian, light and airy, then suddenly menacing and confused; he held her hand and laughed and then taunted her like a child, except he wasn't a child any more, but a grown man, older suddenly, so old she could see wrinkles in his face. She awoke shivering, afraid to open her eyes in the dark room. Then she slept again and did not dream.

  When the alarm went at seven, she ignored it, and when she looked at the clock again, it was ten to eight. Back to normality today, she knew; it was over. There was the scattering of the ashes, but she needed time to think about that, to think where Fabian would have liked them. The last ten days had been a haze, a blur, waiting for the French bureaucracy, trying to get the body released, brought back to England. David had been over to France, taken care of all the arrangements, and had made no demands on her. He had been marvellous. Now she had to get on with her life again, try to concentrate on her work. At least she had that; staff, partners, clients. She couldn't fall apart on them, had to prove to them that she could do it, had to prove it to David; most of all had to prove it to herself.

  She toyed around with her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Fabian had always been particular about what she wore, far more so than David. The right colours, the right shape, the right names � God, he had been an unbearable clothes snob at times. She smiled, half-cheered, a damp, tearful smile, and rummaged through a drawer full of silk scarves, all of them Cornelia James, and most of them bought by Fabian. Which ones? She tried to remember, pulling various scarves out and letting them gently drop back in, like cascading waterfalls, she thought. She draped a turquoise and grey one carefully around her neck, and tied it so the Cornelia James signature was clearly showing. Are you pleased, darling, she thought? Do I look O.K.?

  She gulped down half the cup of coffee, left the rest which was too hot, grabbed her coat and hurried to the front door. The bell rang just as she reached it, and she opened it almost before the bell had stopped ringing. The woman looked up at her in surprise and stepped back, a buxom, peroxided blonde, neatly but dramatically dressed in black and white, who looked like she had come from a casting agency for film extras and spoke through tiny rosebud lips that were too small for the expanse of her face. 'Mrs Hightower?' She spoke in a definite, precise voice as if she had been having elocution lessons to shed her East London accent.

  'Yes?' Alex hesitated, on the defensive, wondering what she was trying to sell. She looked too dolled up to be a Jehovah's Witness, and anyway they normally came in pairs.

  �I�m Iris Tremayne. Sandy suggested I pop round - she said you went out early and this was the best time to catch you.'

  The woman stared straight into Alex's eyes, and she found it unsettling, found it hard to disconnect from her gaze. She wondered for a moment whether she was selling Tupperware, or Avon cosmetics; yes, cosmetics looked likely, except that she didn't have a sample case. 'Actually, I'm rather late for the office.' Alex spoke pleasantly, trying to be polite.

  'No, of course, if this isn't convenient I fully understand, but I thought I'd better come round right away. In case you wanted news about your son.'

  Alex realized suddenly who she was. 'No,' she said. 'Thank you; but I don't want any news about my son.'

  'I'm very sorry to hear about what happened.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Sandy's very worried about him.'

  'Is she?' said Alex, conscious that her tone was becoming belligerent.

  'If you'd like to have a sitting, I'd be very pleased. There'd be no charge; Sandy is a good friend.'

  'Mrs Tremayne,' said Alex, coldly, 'my son is dead. Nothing you or anyone else can do can change that; I'm afraid I'm just not a believer in -' she paused '- in whatever you call it - the spirit world.'

  'I think he wants to talk to you.'

  There was a sincerity in the woman's expression, a sincerity ingrained deep beneath the make-up, beneath the dramatic hair, a sincerity and a naivety, Alex thought. You poor deluded fool, she wanted to say, but did not. 'Thank you,' she said. 'But I have to go now.'

  Alex nodded to her receptionist, avoided catching her eye, and went upstairs to her office.

  Julie looked up from her typewriter as she walked past her office, and smiled gently. 'Good morning. I'll let you catch up with your post,' she said. 'Do you want me to cancel any of your appointments this week?'

  'No, Julie, we cancelled enough last week. The show goes on.' Alex closed her door and stared at the bewildering stack of mail on her desk. She looked at the wooden calendar which Julie adjusted every day. April 21st. The last ten days had disappeared as if she had been in a hole in time.

  She slit open a Jiffy bag and pulled out a neatly typed and bound manuscript. 'Lives Foreseen � My Powers and Others'.' She flipped open the cover and turned to the first chapter, the first page always determined whether she would read it herself, or pass it to Julie.

  'I always used to see a hand in the dark, beckoning. When I saw that hand, I knew someone would die. The first time was when I was seven, and the next day, my sister was run over by a tractor. That was the first time I became aware of my powers of clairvoyance.'

  She turned back to the cover, then buzzed Julie. 'Does an author called Stanley Hill ring a bell?'

  'No.'

  'I think we may have had something from him before.'

  'Do you want me to look it up for you?'

  'No, I'll do it.' Alex switched on her VDU screen and saw three words, clearly, in the centre, in bright green letters: HELP ME MOTHER.

  She felt as if cold water was being flushed through her tubes. The words faded and the screen became blank. The cold turned to hot, her forehead was burning and she felt sweat running down her face. She switched the unit off, then on again, but this time there was nothing but the words MENU and the list of functions.

  Fearfully, she tapped a couple of keys, the menu disappeared and was replaced by the words CLIENT FILE. She moved her shaking hands across the keyboard, tried to tap the search key, but pressed the wrong key, and the machine bleeped angrily at her.

  'Are you O.K., Alex?'

  She watched Julie put down the cup of coffee almost as if in slow motion, and she was conscious of the sound of her own words when she spoke.

  'Yes, I'm fine.'

  'You look as white as a sheet.'

  'I'm very tired. I haven't been sleeping too well.'

  'Maybe you should take some pills � you know, just until you get over the worst �'

  Alex smiled. 'I am over the worst.'

  'I think you've been very brave.'

  Alex felt her eyes watering, and squeezed them tightly shut; but the emotion welled up inside her until she could not contain it, and she felt the tears flooding out through her eyelids. She felt a hand squeeze hers and squeezed back hard, opened her eyes and saw Julie's pretty face staring kindly; she noticed that Julie had changed her hairstyle; it had been cropped short and she realized she had not commented. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I like your hair.'

  'Thanks.'

  'You needn't worry, I'm not going to crack up on you all.'

  'We know that.' Julie handed Alex a handkerchief.

  'It's O.K., I've got one.' She blew her nose. 'When people call, tell them not to ask me how I am, all right?'

  Julie nodded.

  'Tell them also not to mention Fabian; it would be much easier for me.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  Alex looked fearfully at the word-processor. She saw the imprint of the words in her mind. Clear. Unmistakable. 'I can't remember how this thing works � I want to find the name of an author - this chap.'

  Julie tapped the keyboard, and a moment later the words STANLEY HILL appeared.

  'Submitted a manuscript to us in 1982, called Star-Gazer to the Stars.'

  'A modest title,' said Alex. 'Why did we reject it?'

  Julie leaned closer to the screen. 'Not enough meat.'

  'There are dozens of other agents � why did he send us his next one?'

  'You must have written him a very nice letter.'

  'I doubt it,' said Alex.

  'Do you want me to read this one?'

  'No, send it straight back; tell him we're not interested in this sort of stuff.'

  'It sells well,' said Julie. 'Look at Doris Stokes.'

  'I don't care if it sells a million; I don't want to handle it.'

  She watched Julie take the manuscript and walk out of the room, then stared again at the screen. She switched it off. Help Me Mother. The words went round in her mind. She switched on the machine again and the words stared back at her, calmly, unflickering:

  HELP ME MOTHER.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'You look very preoccupied.'

  Alex waved away the smoke with her hand. 'You keep disappearing.'

  Philip Main pushed the Capstan cigarette through the hairs of his walrus moustache, emitted a long slow grunt which had a rasp to it like a moped racing down a distant lane, and released another explosion of smoke. 'In the cosmic sense?'

  'No,' Alex smiled. 'In the physical sense.'

  'Hrrr,' he said, thoughtfully.

  She waved her hand again. 'The smoke, you're getting worse.'

  'Ah,' he said in his soft low voice, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. 'A chap's few pleasures; still, this is only a transient inconvenience, for a few more thousand years, five, six maybe at the most � an insignificant time.'

  'Before?'

  'Before we have evolved enough to stay on our own all of the time; no need to meet; all communication will be by telepathy and unexposed film; the thrill of exposure, that will replace all of today's social contact � the pleasures and �' he held up his cigarette '� and the inconveniences.'

  She stared, smiling, at his elongated frame, shoulders hunched in his battered tweed jacket and up at his gaunt fiery face, with the moustache that hung down like a statement. In his forties, he still looked more like an overgrown student revolutionary than a scientist with three respected, if controversial, books to his name. 'How's the book coming?'

  He lowered his head and stared at her as if she was a goldfish in a bowl. 'Proof; there is proof.' He raised his wine glass, drank and lowered it again, leaving his moustache looking like a damp rug.

  'What proof?'

  'You'll see. You'll be stunned, girl, stunned.' His face changed as he spoke, becoming animated.

  'Good,' she said, feeling rather lost.

  'Irrefutable proof that Darwin was right.'

  'You've been able to recreate the origins of the universe in a repeatable laboratory experiment?'

  'There's a little bit of fine tuning, but yes, good Lord yes, I've seen it done. DNA, girl, out of two bits of dust.'

  'And where did the dust come from?'

  'Thin air, girl' he said, triumphantly. 'Thin air!'

  A waiter presented her Dover sole for inspection and then began to fillet it.

  The tone of Main's voice suddenly became gentle. 'Has your husband been around the past couple of weeks?'

  'What do you mean?' She felt herself blushing, saw the almost imperceptible motion of the waiter's head as he tuned his ears in.

  'Has he been of help?'

  'Yes, he's been a brick.'

  'Good,' he said, without enthusiasm.

  She blushed again and looked at the waiter, who was having problems with the sole.

  'Does he still want you back?'

  'I, er �' she said, and faltered. She looked at her watch and pressed the date button. 5.4 it read. She stared at it, puzzled. May 4th? 'What's the date today? It's April still, isn't it?'

  She stared at her watch again, confused.

  'Alex? Alex?' She heard the words echoing around her head, tried to work out where they were coming from; she saw the face across the table, his mouth opening, closing. 'Alex? Are you all right?'

  The face went out of focus then came back in again. 'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I'm fine.'

  'You've gone very white.'

  'I'm sorry.' She looked down at her watch again and frowned. 'What's the time?'

  'Twenty to two.'

  Her watch was correct. 'Was there a thunderstorm last night?' she said.

  Main frowned, then eyed the sole that was placed in front of him suspiciously. 'Was this in a fight?' he said to the waiter, his voice suddenly stern and loud.

  'A fight, sir?'

  'Looks like it's been in a massacre.'

  'I'm sorry, sir.' The waiter hesitated, then retreated.

  'Thunderstorm?'

  'Or an electrical storm?'

  �There may have been; it was very humid last night.'

  Alex felt liberated suddenly. 'And could that affect electrics � clocks, things like that?'

  He frowned. 'Possibly. Can cause interruptions in the power supply.'

  She was silent for a moment, thinking. 'Could it affect solar powered things too?'

  He nodded slowly. 'Possibly. Why?'

  'Oh, nothing.'

  He looked down and glared at the fish malevolently, then drank some more wine and dabbed his moustache with his napkin.

  'What's your opinion of mediums, Philip?'

  'Mediums?'

  'A friend of mine said I ought to go and see one.'

  He spooned carrots out of a partitioned dish of vegetables and looked uncomfortable. 'Have some carrots,' he said. 'They do them well here.'

  She took the bowl. 'You haven't answered.'

  'There are some people who find mediums helpful.'

  'Who? People who can't accept that someone's dead?'

  He shrugged. 'Are you a Christian?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Therefore you believe in eternal life.'

  'I'm not sure what I believe in any longer.'

  'Excellent piece of evolution, the Dover sole.' He speared a bit with his fork and lifted it. 'Used to swim upright.' He put his fork down and held up his hand, vertically. 'Didn't start swimming flat until they moved to the bottom of the sea � realized they would be less visible.'

  'Smart.'

  'They had a � problem with their eyes. One either side of their head. Fine upright, but swimming flat, one eye always looking at the sea bed, one up at the sky; one day, pop, both eyes appeared on top.'

  'What's that got to do with mediums?'

  'Can't you see? Evolution is about making nature work. We can prove God did not make man. But what about the other way round?'

  'That's an old argument.'

  'No, it's new; brand new.'

  'That man may have invented God?'

  He speared his fish and held it up in front of his mouth, examining it carefully. 'No, girl, not invented. Made! Made! If the whole animal world has evolved from two specks of dust and a bolt of electricity, why not a spiritual world too?'

  'You're bonkers.'

  'I'm smarter than this fish.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because otherwise it would be eating me.'

  She grinned. 'At least you're cheering me up.'

  'Yes, well, we all need a bit of cheering up from time to time.'

  She ate a mouthful of fish. 'It's good, even if it does look like something that survived Glencoe.'

  He put his knife and fork down, and blushed slightly. 'I - er -I was wondering � would you let me buy you dinner one evening? You know - not just yet awhile - but perhaps in a bit?'

  She shook her head. 'I like my relationships with my clients to be strictly professional.'

  He dabbed his moustache with his napkin and spoke at the same time, so that his words were muffled. 'We - er -could have a strictly professional dinner.'

  She shook her head. 'Don't, Philip. I'm not in any state to start trying to cope with a relationship.'

  'I'm just offering the hand of friendship; nothing more.'

  'O.K., thanks, I understand. Let's just keep it a lunch-time friendship.'

  'Are you free for lunch tomorrow?'

  She laughed. 'Tomorrow's Saturday.'

  'Saturday's a good day for lunch.'

  'I'm going to Cambridge tomorrow � I have to sort out Fabian's things.'

  'Maybe next week?'

  'Maybe.'

  Lunch with Philip Main had lifted her, and she was feeling considerably cheered when she got home. She thought again of the three words on the screen. The strain, she thought. It must be.