She made him a coffee and took it through to the drawing room. Angrily, she snatched the glass of whisky out of his hand. 'Drink this; I want you sober; I need to talk to you.'

  'I can stay the night here,' he said.

  'No you can't.'

  'It is my house.'

  'David; we have an agreement.'

  He stared at the coffee and wrinkled his nose. God, he really looked like one of those ruddy bucolic picture-book farmers, she thought. How could anyone change so much, so quickly? Just a couple of years; or had he been changing for much longer without her noticing? He was an alien here, hopelessly uncomfortable in the surroundings; she had to concentrate hard to remember that it was he who had decorated this house, his taste, his furniture, his colours. And yet, she felt strangely safe with him here; it was like being in the presence of a great cuddly bear. She sat down on the arm of the chair beside him, trying to sort out the confusion of her thoughts, the violent swings of her emotions, and listened to the noisy slurp as he tested the coffee. She twisted the whisky glass guiltily around in her hands, then put it down gently beside him.

  'This may sound strange, David, but I think Fabian's still around.'

  He looked up at her, frowning. 'Still around?'

  'Yes.'

  'You mean you don't think he's dead?'

  Alex took out a cigarette and offered him the pack. He shook his head and pulled a tin of tobacco out of his pocket. 'I went to the morgue. I spent six bloody days in France with the body of my son - our son.'

  'But you didn't see him?'

  'No, thank God, I didn't have to; anyway, they wouldn't let me - they said he was too badly -'

  Alex shuddered. 'I know he's dead, David. But I can - I don't know � sort of feel his presence still around.'

  'You're always going to remember him � we both will, that's natural.'

  'Don't you think that dream you had when you saw him, the morning he was killed - that we both had - don't you think that was strange?'

  He prised open the lid of the tin and pulled out a cigarette paper; she looked at his grubby hands, the yellow-stained fingers, his filthy nails.

  'Coincidence. Maybe telepathy; my mother had a similar experience during the war, the day my father was killed; she swore she saw him sitting under a hedge at the end of their lane. She went to mediums, had seances in the house and claimed she spoke to him regularly.'

  'What did he say?'

  'Nothing; used to tell her it was very blue out there. That's the problem, the dead never seem to have anything very interesting to say.' He licked the gum on the paper and closed up his cigarette.

  The door suddenly moved, several inches; Alex jumped, her heart racing, and it moved again; she felt a cold chill down her neck and spun round; the curtain was billowing out. 'Did you open the window?'

  'Yes,' he said.

  She felt the relief seep through her, like warmth from a bath.

  'You're very edgy,' he said. 'You should have a holiday -go away somewhere.'

  'I can't spare the time at the moment; I've got two very important deals I have to close.'

  'Come down to Chateau Hightower � you can have your own room, come and go as you like. It's peaceful � you can do your deals over the phone.'

  'I'll be all right.'

  'If you want to come down at any time just turn up, you'll be very welcome.'

  'Thanks.' She smiled. 'Maybe.' She hesitated, leaned over, and stroked the side of the whisky glass. 'I want to show you something.'

  She led him down into her darkroom and picked the contact sheet off the table, then stared at it in disbelief; it had completely fogged into a haze of white and grey tones. She shook her head, picked up the negatives and dropped them on to the cracked light box. There was nothing there; nothing on them. Nothing at all. It was as if they had never been exposed.

  'You didn't fix them properly,' he said.

  'Don't be ridiculous. Of course I did.'

  'You must have had the solution too long - got too weak - these have all carried on developing. What were they of?'

  'That's the whole point; they were pictures a client sent me - a roll of film - he's a bit eccentric - they were pictures of some animal's genitals.'

  She saw David's probing stare and blushed.

  'He knew of my interest in photography. Anyhow, I developed them, made a contact sheet and they were fine; I put it on the drying rack, and when I came down to check it, I could see Fabian's face on every frame � it had just appeared there.'

  David looked at her, and shrugged. 'Double exposure.'

  She shook her head. 'No. No way.'

  'Did he know Fabian, this client of yours?'

  'No; he had no reason to take pictures of Fabian. Anyhow, it wasn't on the neg.'

  'You mean you hadn't noticed it on the neg.'

  'No. It wasn't on the neg.'

  'You sure you didn't imagine it?'

  She shook her head.

  'Alex, you know you are very tense at the moment �'

  'It's nothing to do with that,' she snapped. 'Jesus, what do you want to do? Commit me to a loony bin?'

  'Perhaps you should see the doctor.'

  'David, I am perfectly O.K.; I'm coping with everything; it's just there is something very strange going on. I feel that Fabian is still around, that's why his face appeared.'

  'And Fabian fogged the film?'

  She shrugged. 'Maybe.'

  'What else?'

  'Silly things.' She shook her head. 'Probably nothing. I just wonder � maybe I should go and see a medium. If I did, would you come?'

  He shook his head. 'Forget it, darling; you'll make it worse for yourself. If you went to a medium and you got in touch with Fabian � what would you say to him?'

  She stared at her husband, and then had to look away, red in the face; I know what I'd say, she thought.

  'And what would you expect him to say to you?'

  She shrugged. 'I've always been as cynical as you about that sort of thing, David, it's just �' she paused. 'Maybe you're right, maybe I should have a break. Help me get the trunk upstairs.'

  'And afterwards I'll buy you dinner; we'll go out somewhere nice, O.K.?'

  She looked at him and nodded.

  'Christ it's cold in here,' he said, as they carried the trunk into Fabian's room. 'Where do you want it?'

  'On the floor.'

  'Let's put it on the bed,' he said. 'Be easier for you. You ought to have the heating on in here, otherwise you'll get damp in.'

  'It is on. I think the floor would be �' But David had propelled them over to the bed, and they laid the trunk down on to it, with a loud clank from the springs.

  Alex watched David look around the room, lost, like a visitor trying to find his bearings in a museum. 'There's his telescope; God, I remember giving him that.'

  'He loved it.'

  David stared up at the portrait, and Alex noticed the look of discomfort on his face. He looked away. 'Still got that Brooklands poster � worth a few bob now.'

  Alex looked at the old racing car, hurtling around the banking. David walked over to it. 'I remember hanging this for him - he can't have been more than seven or eight. I made a real botch up of it - couldn't get it to the right height � had to take the bloody nail out half a dozen times.' He lifted the picture off the wall. 'Look, there they all are!' He pointed to the chipped plaster and the haphazard holes.

  'It's funny what one remembers,' said Alex, watching him carefully re-hanging it. For whom?

  She walked out into the corridor, suddenly wanting to be away from the room, wanting David away from it as well; his presence there was annoying her, poking about, moving things. Let him rest, she wanted to say, let him rest you fool!

  He came out of the room, with his head bowed and the colour gone from his cheeks, and she immediately felt angry with herself now for her feelings, angry at being so blind to his own grief. The child had meant so much to both of them, after the endless visits to the specialists, the ectopic pregnancy that had to be terminated and then finally, the last hope; and her secret.

  They walked slowly down the stairs and stopped on the landing. She felt David's arm around her, squeezing her, and she leaned into him. It was cold once more suddenly and she wanted to go down and close the window. Grief crept up around her, the cold empty room, the trunk on the bed that Fabian would never again unpack. She felt the warmth of her husband, felt his strong powerful frame, the squeeze of his large hand. She nestled into the soft brush of his face and kissed his cheek. She felt his face stir and his moist lips on her own cheek and she found herself being manoeuvred, slowly, step by step in through her bedroom door; she felt his kisses becoming passionate, moving down her neck.

  'No, David.'

  He kissed her chin, then pushed his lips on to hers. She broke her face away. 'No, David.'

  'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, we must.'

  It was Fabian's voice; she opened her eyes and saw Fabian's face. 'No,' she said, pushing him away. 'No, get out!' He came back towards her. 'Get out!' she screamed. 'Get out!'

  Fabian stared at her, frozen for an instant in shock, then became David again, and then Fabian, until she could not tell who it was.

  'Get out, get out!'

  'Alex, darling, calm down!'

  She kicked him hard, straight up between the legs, saw the wince of pain, the shock in his face, then pummelled him in the chest. She felt hands grasping her. 'Calm down,' she heard. 'Alex, calm down!'

  'I'm calm!' she yelled back. 'For Chrissake, I'm completely calm. Just get out!'

  'I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean to -'

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, filled with an inexplicable sudden hatred for him. 'Go,' she shouted, in a voice she scarcely recognized as hers. 'Go, go, I can't stand you being here.' She saw the shock in his face, saw his hands crossed between his legs. 'Please, David,' she said. 'Please go.'

  'What about dinner?' he said, bewildered.

  'I want to be on my own. I can't explain it; I just need to be on my own. I'm sorry, it was a mistake asking you to come.' She stared at him, fearful that at any moment he would turn back again into Fabian. 'I'm just not ready at the moment, not ready for anything; I've got to come to terms with this myself.'

  She followed him down the stairs. 'Will you be all right -to drive home?'

  David looked at her and shrugged. 'I drove up here.'

  'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Do you want me to call you when I get home?'

  'Call?' she said, weakly. 'Sure, if you like.'

  She closed the door, went into the drawing room and sank down in a chair. Outside, a short way off, she heard the Land Rover's engine rattle into life and the crunch of the gears.

  And then the guilt hit her.

  'David!' She ran to the front door. 'David. Wait!' She fumbled with the catch, pulled the door open, tripped out, down the steps, on to the pavement. The tail lights were disappearing down the road. She ran after them. 'David! Darling! Stop, please stop! I didn't mean to. Please stop, oh please stop.'

  She saw the amber flashing indicator getting closer as she sprinted down the road. Then it pulled away from her and vanished around the corner.

  'David!'

  She ran on after it down the King's Road. Don't get those lights; please don't get those lights!

  But they turned green and he was gone.

  She collapsed, sobbing, against a lamp post. 'David, darling. I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry.'

  Slowly, she turned, and walked back to the house. The front door was still open. She closed it behind her, then went through into the drawing room, completely drained, weeping. She lay down on the sofa and lapsed into a doze.

  She wasn't sure what woke her, whether it was the chill air in the room again, or the smell of cooking, the tantalizing smell of a fry-up.

  In spite of the cold she felt better, more peaceful. Had David really come, she wondered, or had it all been part of a terrible dream? She sniffed the rich heady smell of the frying and thought of Fabian's passion for fried eggs; sunny side up, always; there were times, as a child, when he had his moods, he would refuse to eat anything except fried eggs for days.

  It was an unusual smell for a Saturday night in Chelsea, in the heart of foodie land; she looked at her watch. Ten o'clock; the smell was growing stronger and she realized she was feeling hungry; she'd eaten nothing since the apple and a piece of toast for breakfast. She wondered which of her neighbours it was, and walked to the window. To her surprise, it was shut. She stood still, trying to work out how the smell could be so strong, and then she heard a hissing and crackling, close, so close it sounded like her own kitchen.

  She walked out into the hallway and saw the kitchen light on.

  The hissing and the crackling were coming from there.

  She sprinted the twenty feet and stood, staring at the empty hob. The smell of fried eggs was overpowering. She opened the window and leaned out, but there was nothing: the familiar night odours of the neighbourhood, of dustbins, wet grass, diesel fumes and a faint hint of curry. She closed the window.

  The smell was in here.

  She saw the vapour of her breath again, smelt the smell even more intensely, felt terror surging through her. She walked out of the kitchen, closed the door, went through into the drawing room and picked up the telephone directory.

  Mankletow. Manly. Main. Her finger was shaking uncontrollably. There were seventeen P Mains listed. She knew the road he lived in, Chalcot Road, but there was none there. She dialled Directory Enquiries, conscious of her strained, high-pitched voice. The operator was kindly, as helpful as she could be. 'Sorry, dear,' she said, 'he's ex-directory.'

  'Could you phone him and ask him to call me?' 'Can't do that, I'm sorry. He's down as "no connection". I don't even have his number myself.'

  Alex walked back into the hallway, stared fearfully at the kitchen door, felt the ice-cold air. She pulled her coat down from the rack, grabbed her keys off the table, went outside and locked the front door behind her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A drunken gaggle of businessmen wandered past Alex; in town for a conference, she judged, by the name tags some of them had forgotten to remove from their lapels.

  'Here's a bit of crumpet, Jimmy,' said a Scottish accent.

  She let herself into the office, and as she locked the door behind her, there was a roar of laughter in the street, probably at her expense, she thought.

  It was quiet inside, unnaturally quiet; the room was dark, the random streaks of harsh white light from the massage parlour across the road flickered on the walls and furniture, giving a strange chiaroscuro effect.

  She stared at the intense blackness of the staircase, pressed the light switch, and instantly it was banished and she was in her own familiar surroundings, with the soft greys of the walls and carpets, the crimson lamps and banister rail and the framed dust jackets lining the walls.

  She walked past the receptionist's dark silent switchboard and began to climb the stairs. She saw the shadow on the floor above, and for a moment was reluctant to climb further; it seemed the shadow was moving. She hesitated, but knew she had to get to the landing, to the next switch. She watched the shadow; when she moved, it moved; when she stopped, it stopped.

  Stupid, she thought, suddenly realizing it was her own shadow.

  She walked up into the dark, found the switch, pressed it with a quick nervous stab of her finger and jumped as the light came on, then walked up the next flight and on to the landing. Julie's office door was open and the room was pitch dark. She stared at it nervously, reached in and switched on the light, and again felt relieved by the normality. She stared, irritated for a moment, at the black Olivetti sitting there without its cover. Julie was always leaving it off. Why did she do that? The grey plastic cover was screwed up behind the filing tray. She straightened it out, put it on carefully, then the manuscript on the desk caught her eye. 'Lives Foreseen - My Power and Others�, with a bookmark halfway through it. She had told Julie to send it back, she thought, annoyed, picking it up and carrying it through into her office. She'd speak to her about it on Monday.

  Down in the street below, the drunks were bunched up around the doorway of the massage parlour, peering at the blanked-off windows. She let go of the blinds, walked away from the window, shivering from the cold, switched on the heater, then pulled out her address file. She dialled his number and waited, knowing that he always took a long time to answer. Relieved, she heard the click of the receiver being picked up, and was about to speak, when she realized that the phone was still ringing.

  Someone in her own building had picked up an extension.

  She stood, frozen for a moment, paralysed with fear.

  Who, she thought, who? The cleaner? No, impossible. One of her partners? No. She listened for a sound, for breathing, a cough; the phone rang on. She could feel the presence, feel the person waiting, listening. Who? Who? Who? She was shaking now, heard her own heart thumping, louder than the ringing. She felt a pain below her ear; she was banging her cheekbone with the receiver. It rang on, unanswered. Fearfully, she turned around, looked through her open doorway at the passage. The ringing echoed around her office. Something moved, at the end of the passage, or had she imagined it? Lock the door, she said to herself. Lock the door! The key was on the outside.

  Carefully, gently, she laid the receiver down on her blotter, and tiptoed over to the door. The ringing continued. She tried to pull the key out silently, but she was shaking too much, it scraped, clanked, then fell to the floor, bounced and clattered against the skirting board, with a noise like two trains colliding. 'No,' she said aloud, 'no, no.' She dived on to her knees and scrabbled her hands across the carpet after it. She closed her fingers around it, turned and stared fearfully again down the passage at the stairwell, heard the ringing continue, then flung herself back into her office, slammed the door and leaned against it. She tried to get the key in, fumbled, dropped it again. 'No,' she said. She picked it up, pushed it in, and tried to turn it. It would not move.

  She turned it so hard she could feel it bending. 'Please lock, please lock.' She pushed it in further, and suddenly it turned easily, without pressure, and the lock clicked home almost silently.