The house was quiet, peaceful, and smelt strongly of polish. It was growing dark. The clocks had gone forward. Summer Time had started, but it didn't feel much like summer.

  She stood in the hall and felt suddenly in a vacuum. The last ten days had passed in a haze and now there was a return to normality that seemed flattening. She wished she had taken up Philip's offer of dinner, or her husband's. She did not want to be alone this evening, to dwell on her thoughts. She looked up the television programmes in the Standard, but there was nothing she fancied. She dropped the paper on to a sofa and went down the narrow staircase into her darkroom.

  Photography; there was something intensely personal about photography, and it was instant, told the story without having to wade through the manuscript. Perhaps Philip was right. But there was so much to learn about it.

  She'd missed the last classes; time, there was never enough time. When David had built her the darkroom she had loved locking herself away down here; she had felt peaceful and safe with the silence and the strange smells of the chemicals. But tonight she felt uncomfortable here; the silence was oppressive.

  Philip Main's disgusting contact sheet was still on the drying rack. She unpegged it, hoping Mimsa hadn't noticed it, and was about to tear it up when something caught her eye, a mark, very small, on one of the frames. She picked up her magnifying glass, switched on the light box, and looked at the print.

  Fabian's face stored back, clearly, from the bottom right-hand comer. And then she noticed it was on every frame, in the same position.

  She dropped the magnifying glass; it hit the white perspex of the light box, cracking it badly, and she stood, shuddering, her skin prickling.

  Fabian's face had appeared on the print since she had developed it.

  The walls seemed to be closing in. She spun around; the door had moved, she was certain. She grabbed the handle, pulled it open. There was nothing there. 'Hallo,' she said. 'Hallo?' She stared through the door, but everything was quiet.

  There was a shrill rasping which seemed to shake the whole foundations of the house. She let out a small yelp of fear and clutched the door frame, fearful. The rasping ended in a series of metallic pings. Doorbell! She felt the relief surge through her. Don't go away, oh please, don't go away! She ran out of the room and up the stairs, desperate to catch whoever it was before they went away, desperate for some company, some human contact, any.

  She opened the door and stood, gasping for breath, as she stared at a young man with an earnest, scrubbed face and short curly hair. He was wearing a shabby grey suit, too old for him, probably a cast-off from someone, she thought, and a polo neck sweater. She looked down at his shoes, scuffed, shapeless black shoes that badly needed a polish. Perhaps they were cast-offs too?

  He spoke slowly in a gentle voice, carefully articulated. 'Mrs Hightower?'

  Alex nodded. He had a familiar look about him, like an old newspaper she had already read. He didn't look like a salesman, and she wondered for a moment if he was another medium sent by Sandy; she did not mind, at this moment anyone was welcome.

  'I'm John Allsop, the curate - I cover your area - er - the vicar told me of your bereavement, so I thought I would pop in and introduce myself � if it's convenient.' His right eye twitched sharply, twice.

  'Please - yes, of course.' She closed the door behind him. 'I'm afraid we didn't use the vicar for the funeral service � it was done by an old schoolfriend of my husband's - John Lambourne � he's down near Hastings. I hope the vicar didn't feel his nose put out?'

  'No, not at all; this is quite usual.'

  They went into the drawing room. 'I'm afraid we've been a little remiss about church.'

  'I wouldn't worry,' he said kindly. 'But you'd be very welcome if you'd like to come and worship at any of our churches.'

  'Thank you.'

  'And how are you coping? You look as if you are still in a great deal of shock.'

  'You don't expect to go to the funeral of your child,' she said.

  'No,' he said. 'No; to have a child taken is a terrible thing. Do you have any other - er - children?'

  She shook her head.

  'That makes it even worse, if that is possible.' He twitched again. 'I suffered a bereavement myself recently � my wife. I found it very helpful to look at photographs.'

  She stared at him wide-eyed, and thought of the face staring out from the photographs of the genitals. How? How? How had it got there? Was it some kind of macabre joke? 'I'm sorry,' she said.

  He smiled sadly and nodded. 'Thank you.'

  'Was it �?' she fumbled for words.

  'Cancer,' he said.

  Alex nodded, unsure what to say. 'Terrible.' Fabian's face stared at her again. 'Terrible.' She stood up abruptly, then wondered why she was standing up. 'I'll - er - can I get you some coffee?'

  'Oh, no, really, thank you.'

  'Do you like coffee, or would you prefer tea - or whisky or something?'

  'Nothing, really.'

  But she was already on her way to the kitchen, desperate for a moment on her own to pull herself together. She made the coffee, opened a pack of chocolate digestives and was about to take them back out, when she noticed a business card on the kitchen table. 'Iris Tremayne' it read, with an address in Earls Court. She dropped it in the bin, then pulled it out and put it on the dresser. She picked up the tray and went back into the drawing room. 'Please help yourself to milk and sugar.'

  'Thank you.'

  She was conscious of him looking at her oddly; how bad do I look, she wondered. How shocked?

  'Yes,' he twitched again. 'Photographs; bringing back the memories. It can be very therapeutic. The pain does go, in time, believe me.' He smiled and bit into a biscuit nervously, as if worried it might bite him back.

  She saw him staring at the bowl of wilting red roses.

  'Fabian gave them to me for my birthday - he always gave me red roses; he loved them.' 'Do you - er - garden?'

  'I'm hopeless, I'm afraid. My husband's the gardener.' 'Ah. You're separated, I understand?' 'Yes. My husband used to be in advertising - but wine was always his big love; he decided to jack it all in and start a vineyard. Unfortunately, country life did not agree with me.'

  'Very difficult, the country; sometimes it can be too peaceful.'

  'Yes.'

  'You're a literary agent, I believe.'

  She nodded.

  'I'm writing a book myself. Just a little one.'

  Alex felt a sense of disappointment; was this the reason why he had come round? 'Do you have a publisher?'

  'Oh, I'm a long way from finishing it � I don't know that it would be good enough.'

  'If you'd like me to look at it...'

  'Oh. no, I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. Perhaps, if I finish it, thank you.'

  'Have some more coffee.'

  'I'll have another biscuit if I may.' He leaned forward and took one from the plate. 'You might find it comforting, you know, to talk to some of your son's friends. We often know so little about those that are close to us when they are alive, and yet we can learn nice things after they have departed; it can be of great comfort.'

  'Thank you. That's good advice. But he was a bit of a loner really. He had only two close friends that I knew, and one of them was killed in the accident.'

  He shook his head. 'Some things are very difficult to understand, Mrs Hightower.'

  She nodded. 'Yes.'

  'But you look as if you are the sort who can cope.'

  'Yes,' she sighed. 'I can cope.' She smiled. 'Somehow.'

  He smiled back and stirred his coffee.

  'Do you have any -' she paused, and blushed '- any views on spiritualism?'

  She saw the frown come across his face, like a cloud.

  'I would not advise that, Mrs Hightower, I would not advise that at all. Have you -?' He hesitated.

  'No, absolutely not. But people have been suggesting it to me.'

  'I have only come across misery caused by that, never any good.' He looked uncomfortable, suddenly, as if he wanted to go.

  'I don't believe in it at all.'

  'Very sensible. If any friend suggests it to you, they are not truly a friend. Prayer, love, happy memories and time will heal; nothing can be gained by trying to summon up the departed, nothing but disappointment and �' he hesitated.

  'And?' she said.

  'There are many evil forces, Mrs Hightower. There is much evil in the world; those that dabble in the occult expose both themselves and others to it.'

  She nodded. 'I'm not about to start dabbling.' 'Good.' He smiled. 'Would you like to say a prayer together?'

  'A prayer?' She blinked, and felt herself blushing. 'Yes -er - thank you,' she said, awkwardly.

  The curate closed his eyes and they said the Lord's Prayer. He then continued into more prayers and she sat, with her eyes tightly shut; it seemed strange, just the two of them in her drawing room, but when she opened her eyes again, she felt stronger, comforted.

  'Would you like me to visit you again?' 'Please, whenever you are passing.'

  He left, almost as if he was in a hurry to get away, she thought; something had changed in him the moment she had mentioned spiritualism, some concern that she had been unable to allay.

  She closed the front door and walked back down the hallway. The light was still on down the stairs to the darkroom, and she wondered whether to go and look again at the photographs. No, she decided, she would look in the morning, in the daylight, when she was rested and her eyes were not playing tricks. She sighed; some time she would have to tackle Fabian's room, do something with his clothes, his belongings. She wondered, suddenly, if he had made a will.

  She went upstairs into his bedroom and turned on the light. The room seemed very peaceful, almost welcoming. His slippers by the bed, laid out by Mimsa; silly Mimsa, she thought with a smile. Mimsa had taken it badly; violent floods of emotion, the best way to get grief out, she knew, envious for a moment of Mimsa's simplicity, of her Latin temperament. She wished that sometimes she too could let her emotion go.

  She looked up at the stern portrait on the wall, and Fabian's cold eyes stared down; she shuddered. 'Don't look like that, darling,' she said. She closed her eyes. 'Oh, God, look after my darling Fabian; protect him wherever he is.' She opened them again and her eyes were wet. She sat down on the bed and sobbed, gently.

  Then she stood up, looked at the framed photograph of a Jaguar sports car on the wall and the huge stylized coloured posters of old cars, racing. She looked at his books, rows and rows of science fiction, astronomy. She looked at the telescope set up at the window that David had given him for his sixteenth birthday. She walked over, removed the lens cap and looked through it. She could remember Fabian patiently pointing out the stars to her, the Bear, the Plough, Uranus, Jupiter, he knew them all. She could never really be sure which was which; she even had difficulty in recognizing the Plough. She stared at the stars now. They looked huge. She wondered if Fabian was up there, somewhere, among them.

  She opened a drawer and rummaged through his socks, lurid greens, yellows, pinks; he always wore bright socks. Something caught her eye at the bottom of the drawer, and she moved the socks aside. It was a postcard depicting a long red-brick building with shops and an outdoor cafe. The Quincy Markets, Boston, Mass. There were more cards underneath, all of different scenes of Boston: the river, M.I.T., Harvard University, the harbour, 'Scene of the historic Boston Tea Party', she read. Strange, she thought, he'd never been to the States, never even talked about it; why the postcards at the bottom of the drawer, almost as if he had been hiding them?

  She slept with the light on that night, as she had done when she was a child. It would go in time; as the curate had said, the wounds would heal. She slept for a while then woke up, stared at the green glow of her clock, and lay with a sense of dread, covered in pins and needles listening to the silence of the night. She looked up at the ceiling, then across at the wall, at Fabian's room.

  She saw the words on the VDU. Fabian's face staring from the photograph.

  She closed her eyes tightly, tried to shut them out, tried to shut out everything.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was drizzling as Alex drove over the Cam, the same as it had been when she had driven Fabian up for the start of his first term. It was strange, she thought, the odd details she could remember. The car crammed full of his luggage. Their conversation. 'Had any more thoughts about what you want to do after Cambridge, darling?'

  He had stared ahead as if brooding. 'No,' he had replied, flatly, but a little too quickly.

  She realized the curate had been right; one knew very little about one's children, however much they hugged you, gave you roses and could sense your own moods. She remembered the day she had told Fabian she and David were separating. 'I've known you would for years, Mother,' he had said, walking over and kissing her, this strange tall thin son, stronger now than when he had been a child with his weak chest and his fearful rages and his strange dark brooding moods and the hours he would spend in his room with the door locked.

  She walked around the quadrangle, listening to the echo of her footsteps, up the stone staircase, along the corridor and found room 35. She was nervous, she realized suddenly, nervous of knocking on the door.

  It opened almost instantly, and she jumped.

  'Hallo, Mrs Hightower,' said Otto.

  Why did he always have to sound as if he was mocking, she wondered? She stared up at his brooding, menacing face, made all the more satanic by the cuts and bruising and his strange eyes, smiling, like a pair of conspirators, two hideous cold mocking objects. Had this really been her son's best friend?

  'Hallo, Otto, how are you?' she said, gently.

  'Oh, I'm fine, Mrs Hightower. Would you like some coffee?' She noticed the lilt of German that just took the knife-edge off his Eton accent; she could not work out whether he was trying to accentuate or obscure it.

  'Thank you.'

  He poured some coffee beans into an electric grinder, laid out the pot, the cups, the milk, as if performing a ritual.

  'This is very nice, Otto, I thought most students only knew how to make instant.' She looked around the room.

  'Most students probably do.'

  There were few clues about his personality in the battered undergraduate furniture, the bare walls, the rows of books, mostly scientific. There were piles of papers and clothes strewn untidily around. A couple of empty bottles of champagne lay by the wastepaper basket. 'How are you feeling now, Otto?'

  'Feeling?'

  She nodded. 'Emotionally.'

  He shrugged, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. 'Would you like one?'

  She shook her head. 'I hope you don't feel guilty.'

  'Guilty?'

  'Yes. That you � you know � survived.'

  'I don't feel guilty.'

  The coffee pot hissed and spat.

  'Maybe I will have one,' she said. He handed her the pack. 'I don't think it's fair that three young boys were killed by a drunk.' She leaned forward and took the light Otto held out. 'A sad drunk.'

  'Perhaps it was meant, Mrs Hightower.'

  'Meant?' She drew on the cigarette. 'Meant that they should be taken or that you should have survived?'

  He raised his eyebrows.

  'Tell me,' she said, and paused, feeling silly. 'At the funeral, when I thanked you for coming, you said that Fabian had asked you to come. What did you mean?'

  Otto leaned against the window-sill and looked down at the quadrangle.

  She stared at him, realizing what he must be going through, and said nothing; she sipped her coffee and tapped the ash off her cigarette. 'Was Fabian happy here at Cambridge, Otto?'

  'Happy? I don't know how you tell if anyone is happy?' He turned and gave a strange, leering smile.

  'I got the feeling he enjoyed it here; he liked you and Charles very much.'

  Otto shrugged.

  'I think he was very fond of Carrie too. He brought her home a couple of times; I didn't really think she was right for him. All the same, I was sorry when he ditched her. In a funny way, she was quite good for him.'

  'Ditched her?' Otto marched across the room and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. 'He didn't ditch Carrie, she ditched him. She went off to find herself in America.'

  Alex smiled wryly. 'Children never tell their parents much, do they?'

  'That depends on the parents,' said Otto.

  The tone of his voice made Alex feel uncomfortable. 'I thought Fabian and I had a close relationship.' She shrugged and stared out through the grimy window at the grey sky; the springs in the armchair were tilting her slightly over to one side, and as she moved there was a loud twang beneath her. 'He told me that he'd given her up � I suppose he was embarrassed - felt it might be bad for his ego to admit he'd been ditched; one thing he never had any problems with was girls.'

  'Why do you say that Mrs Hightower?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'He was always having problems with girls.'

  'What sort of problems?'

  'I'd rather not say.' He smiled, a curious private smile to himself. She looked at his eyes, puzzled, but they gave nothing away. 'I'll take you to his room.'

  'It's next door isn't it?'

  Otto nodded.

  'I'll go on my own first, if you don't mind. If there's anything of his that you'd like � books, whatever, please take them.'

  'Thank you.'

  She felt nothing as she walked into Fabian's room; it could have been the room of a total stranger. It was chilly, damp, and smelt of old furniture. She stared at the thin carpet with the floorboards showing through in patches, the single bar electric heater and the grill for toasting sandwiches which she had given him. She looked at the rows of decanters on the mantelpiece. One was half full; she removed the top and sniffed. There was a musty sweetness that reminded her of liquorice; port, she thought. Wine racks were piled against the wall, with dusty necks of bottles poking out here and there. Near the floor were several bottles grouped together, their necks wrapped smartly in gold foil, with orange bands around their necks. She leaned down to read the writing, Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin.