Alex rested her head against the door, relief swimming through her, her heart beating so hard it was like a fist punching her chest. She was sweating, gulping for air.

  'Hallo? Hallo?' The voice sounded tinny, as if a radio had been left on. 'Hallo? Hallo?'

  She fell on to the receiver, as if it was the first piece of food she had seen for a week. 'Hallo?'

  She heard the familiar hiss of air and tobacco smoke.

  'Alex?' said Philip Main's voice, whispering, almost incredulous.

  Suddenly, she was conscious again of the presence and did not want to speak, did not want to give herself away. 'Yes,' she found herself whispering back, softly, almost hissing.

  'Hallo?'

  'Help me,' she hissed, louder, suddenly beginning to feel vulnerable again; the door was strong, but it would not hold someone determined.

  'Is that you, Alex?'

  'Yes.' The sound came out, a strange, high-pitched squawk from deep inside her that she scarcely recognized.

  'Are you all right?' He sounded gentle, concerned.

  She didn't want to say it, did not want the other person listening to know she was afraid. Normal. Sound normal.

  For God's sake sound normal. 'I want to see a medium. I wondered if you knew anyone?' She was conscious that her voice had changed again, into a flat monotone automaton; it sounded like the voice of a complete stranger.

  'Are you sure about this?'

  Christ, don't start querying things; for God's sake don't. Not now.

  'Alex?'

  'Yes I am sure,' said the automaton.

  'You sound a little strange.'

  'I'm fine,' said the automaton.

  'I don't know about mediums. You ought to think about it very carefully.'

  'Please, Philip. I have to.'

  'I don't know. I think we should talk about it.'

  'Please, Philip, do you know any?'

  She listened, agitated, to the silence.

  'Not personally, no; good Lord, no.' He paused. 'You told me that a friend of yours had suggested this � doesn't she know any?'

  'She sent one round. She was horrible.'

  Silence again.

  'You must know someone, Philip.'

  'You could try the Yellow Pages.'

  'Please, Philip, be serious.'

  There was another silence; Alex listened hard, trying to hear something, anything. She looked around at the door, stared at the handle. It was moving, turning.

  She screamed; a dreadful, piercing scream, then stopped, as abruptly as she had started; it wasn't moving at all; it was the blinds that were moving in the air of the heater, sending shadows across the handle.

  'Alex? What's the matter?'

  'There's someone here, in the office, listening to this phone call. Please call the police; I think I'm about to be attacked.'

  She put down the phone, saw the light on the panel go out. Light. She breathed gulps of air, light; there was only one light, wasn't there? If there had been someone else listening, then another light would have come on on the panel; wouldn't it? She stared around at the door, then at the window, at the restless blinds, then something caught her eye on her desk: the calendar; she stared at it and was filled instantly with a sensation that felt like ice cold water flushing through her, filling every blood vessel in her body. The date on the calendar read Thu May 4th. 'Oh, God,' she said. 'Don't let me be mad; please don't let me be mad.' She stared again at the letters, the digits, checked the date on her Rolex. April 22nd. She looked around the room, expecting to see something, a phantom, a spectre � a � she hesitated, thinking about the smell of eggs, the rose in the windscreen. Fearfully she looked to her right, at the V D U screen that was under its cover; she wanted to lift the cover, stare at the blank screen. Then, suddenly, she felt angry. She wanted to get up, throw open the door and shout out: 'Here I am. Take me. Do what you want.' Instead she found herself pulling out the Yellow Pages.

  She heaved a wadge of pages over. Mediums. Mediums. Nothing under Mediums. What else? Psychics? She turned more pages. Again nothing. Then she tried Clairvoyants. Something, there was something. 'See Palmists and Clairvoyants.'

  The list was short. There was an Indian-sounding name, repeated twice, and only one other. She hesitated; the names didn't feel right. She stared at Stanley Hill's manuscript, 'Lives Foreseen � My Power and Others�. Reluctantly she opened it and flipped through the pages. The manuscript seemed comfortable suddenly. She was on familiar territory. Then she realized the words were blurred; she couldn't read them. She saw her hands shaking wildly, and put the manuscript down on the desk.

  A name caught her eye. Morgan Ford. She saw it again, a couple of pages later, and then again, her eyes drawn to it as if by a magnet. �Modest trance medium Morgan Ford would strenuously deny that he frequently arranges sittings for royalty in his Cornwall Gardens flat.'

  'Modest.' She liked that word. She pulled out the directory from the shelf behind her, and leafed through the pages.

  She picked up the receiver and listened to the harsh crackle, then the rasping hum; she waited for the click of the extension again, watching the panel for the tell-tale light, but nothing happened; the line was private now. She punched the number and waited.

  The tone of the man's voice surprised her. For some reason she had expected it to be kindly, warm, welcoming; instead it was cold, irritated, the Welsh accent further alienating him. She had expected him to say, 'Yes, Alex, I've been expecting you. I knew you would call, the spirits told me.' Instead he said, 'Morgan Ford, who is speaking?'

  Name. Don't give him your name. Think of a false name. 'I hope you don't mind my calling you at this hour,' she said nervously, unsure how to react, and listening, all the time listening, for the sound of the receiver being picked up below her. 'It's just � so terribly urgent.'

  'Who are you, please?'

  'I need help. I need to see a medium. I'm sorry, are you a medium?'

  'Yes,' he said, as if she was mad.

  'Is it possible to come and see you?'

  'You'd like a sitting?'

  'Yes.'

  'I have a cancellation on Monday, 10 am, if that's any good?'

  'I don't suppose there's any chance tomorrow?'

  Tomorrow?' he sounded indignant. 'Absolutely not, I'm afraid. Monday � or � otherwise it won't be until May, I'm afraid. Let me see. May 4th, I could do.'

  May 4th. She stared at the calendar again. What was it? What the hell was it?

  'No, Monday, please.' She was conscious of the sound of a car approaching fast and pulling up outside. She heard a door slam, the bark of a dog.

  'May I have your name, please?'

  'It's-' she hesitated. What name? What name? 'Shoona Johnson,' she said, wildly. She thought she could detect cynicism in his voice as he repeated it, as though he could tell somehow that she was lying, and she felt embarrassed.

  'And may I have a phone number?'

  'I'm er - staying -' Don't give a number where he could check up and find your name, give him no clues. She stared around for inspiration, read the wording 'South East Business Systems' on the base of her VDU, and gave him the number printed beneath it. 'See you Monday,' she said.

  'Goodbye.'

  She did not like the way he had sounded, as if she had been a nuisance to him, as if he had not cared whether she'd rung him or not. It was now a quarter past ten on a Saturday night, she reminded herself; she wouldn't have been too impressed if someone had rung her at this hour, asking if she'd look at a manuscript. She heard a harsh rattle. Oh, Christ, someone was trying to get in the door.

  She spun around, but there was nothing. She heard the sound again, distant, below her, and the bark of a dog again. She ran to the window and looked down. She saw a car with its wheels on the kerb, then Philip Main looking up, anxious.

  .Already? How could he be here already? She fumbled with the window lock, pushed it open, and stared down. No, he couldn't be here yet, too soon. Much too soon.

  'Alex, are you O.K.?'

  Chunks of time were disappearing. What was happening? What the hell was happening?

  'Alex? Shall I break the door down?'

  'No,' she said, weakly. 'I'll give you the keys.' She threw them down, saw him jump out of the way, heard the faint clank as they hit the pavement.

  Sighing with relief, she walked across her office. There was a growl outside her door. She opened it and saw a small black bull-terrier standing belligerently, baring its teeth, with a stream of slobber dribbling from its black gums. It gave a low rumbling growl.

  Footsteps raced up the stairs and Main appeared on the landing, puffing, dishevelled. 'Black!' he shouted. 'Leave!'

  The dog glared at Alex, hungry for action.

  'Black!'

  Reluctantly, it backed off.

  Main put his hands out and rested them on her shoulders. 'Are you all right?'

  'Yes, I'm O.K.'

  'I decided to come myself. What's the matter? What's happened?'

  Alex stared at him, then burst into tears. 'I don't know, Philip. I don't know what's happening.'

  'Oh, Lord,' he fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. 'You are in a bad state.'

  'It was the phone; I heard someone on the phone.'

  'In here?'

  She nodded and took the handkerchief.

  'Sorry, it's a bit grubby.'

  She squeezed it tightly, then dabbed her eyes with it. He led her over to the sofa and they sat down. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his cigarette. She watched the dog look around, uninterestedly, then trot out of the room.

  'Someone lifted up the receiver when I was calling you.'

  'There's no one here now, I looked as I came up; the windows are all locked, as far as I could see. Are you sure?'

  She nodded.

  'It wasn't a crossed line, outside somewhere?'

  She stared at him. 'It felt so close.'

  'What did?'

  The person, whoever it was.'

  Main offered her a cigarette. 'What are you doing here, at this hour, on a Saturday night?'

  'I -I needed your number -I didn't have it at home. I'm sorry - did I disturb you?'

  'No more than the chap from Porlock disturbed Coleridge; you may have deprived mankind of the greatest poem of all time -I was about to write it -' He smiled.

  'I'm sorry; I don't know what is happening.'

  'I'll drive you home.'

  'No,' she shook her head. 'I don't want to go home.'

  'You're not staying here, I won't let you. I think you need some rest.' He held out his lighter. 'You can come and stay at my place,' he caught her eye and stared straight back. 'In the spare room. O.K.?'

  She smiled, and nodded, then winced at the strength of the cigarette. She stood up, and took Stanley Hill's manuscript back into her secretary's office, replacing it where she had found it. 'I didn't know scientists wrote poetry,' she said, walking back into her office. 'Are you ever going to let me see any?'

  'We'll see.' He smiled, mysteriously.

  She felt better after the first whisky, curled up on the floor on the thick rugs in front of the log fire. The walls of the room were lined with books, shelves of battered, loved books that went up to the high stuccoed ceiling. There was wood and leather everywhere; fine wood panelling, solid wooden furniture, antique but simple, well restored, and leather chairs, big, thick leather chairs and a massive leather sofa.

  'I don't understand. Why are you so against it?'

  'Mumbo jumbo, it's a load of nonsense; we die and we're gone.' He clapped his hands together, suddenly, violently; it made her jump, and the dog rushed over to him, barking excitedly.

  'How can you say that?'

  'I know it; it's proven. Down, boy, down! Good Lord, you're an intelligent woman, you can't still believe in God! Darwin's proven; the game's up for the Holy Joes.' He exhaled a lungful of smoke and the sharp gaunt features of his face became hazy and soft for a moment as the smoke wafted up around him; he looked demoniac, she thought, Satanic, and for an instant she felt a tiny shudder of doubt about him.

  'If we were part-spirit, part-man, we'd have free will, girl. We don't, we're all prisoners of our genes; it's all laid out, the DN A, the computer program in your genes, from your mother and your father; the colour of your eyes, the size of your fanny.'

  She grinned, relaxing again.

  'Even the way you're going to think.'

  'We have free will, Philip.'

  'Rubbish. You and I have no more free will than a dog, than Black.'

  'I thought dogs had free will?'

  Main pointed a finger at his dog. 'Black kills cats; if he sees a cat when he's not on the lead, he'll kill it; it's in his genes, he can't help it, and he can't be stopped.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You saw how obedient he was in your office. I told him to stop and he did. He'll obey me on everything, except a cat; if he sees a cat, that's it; he'll tear its throat out.'

  'That's bad training.'

  'No, there's nothing I could do about it; there's nothing any trainer in the world could do about it; it's in his genes and it can never be removed.'

  'You said that spirits could have genes too.'

  'We've evolved God in our minds; it's our survival mechanism, dates back thousands of years, when man first tried to explain why he was here. You've met spiritualists, mediums; they're all loopy or else they're very smooth. The loopy ones think they're genuine, the smooth ones are hoods; they're good at telepathy, they pluck Uncle Harry out of your memory banks, tell you things you already knew, throw in a few others for good measure, you go "Gosh, Wow, Triff!" Then you think a bit, and you say "How is Uncle Harry?" And he says, "Fine," and you go away, and you start thinking about it, and the doubt sets in.

  Look, you think, I buried Uncle Harry last week. He's in his grave, or his ashes are in this urn, and now we're talking to each other again and you want to talk more and more and you'll find you can't, because Uncle Harry can't think of anything else to say.'

  He drew deeply on his cigarette, and smiled. 'He was a boring old fart when he was alive and you suddenly expert him to become interesting because he's dead.' He stopped, seeing the tears in her eyes. 'I'm sorry, girl, but you'll only do yourself harm up there.' He tapped his head. 'Your son was a nice lad; but you've just got to accept that he's dead.'

  She stared at him for a long time. 'I can accept it, Philip. But I'm not sure he can.'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The bright London Sunday morning unfurled through the grimy windscreen of Philip Main's Volvo; it was like trying to watch television through a frosted glass window, Alex thought. London looked different on Sundays, the sense of urgency had gone from it. There was time on Sundays, time to walk, time to think; London was a good place on Sundays.

  She felt rested, having slept well for the first time, she realized, since the news about Fabian.

  She looked down at the car's ashtray, jammed open and thick with butts, at the piles of papers, magazines, documents, cassettes lying in the floorwell around her feet. 'Thank you,' she said, 'for last night. It did me a lot of good.'

  'We managed,' he said gently.

  'Managed what?'

  'Managed.'

  'You talk in riddles sometimes.'

  'Managed to restrain ourselves.'

  She smiled and looked at him, cigarette protruding from his moustache, head hunched slightly forward, as if he was too tall for the car. 'You have quite an ego, don't you?'

  'No �just sometimes �' he trailed off.

  'Sometimes what?'

  'Sometimes �' the words trailed away and evaporated. He leaned forward, pushed a cassette into the player, and a second later Elkie Brooks sang, loud and clear, all around her. He grunted, leaned forward again and turned the volume down. 'So, the vicar told you to try to find out more about Fabian?'

  'The curate. Yes.'

  'And what have you found out so far?'

  'That he didn't ditch his girlfriend, Carrie - she ditched him.'

  'What does that tell you? That he was proud?'

  Alex laughed. 'I feel so stupid, you know, about last night.'

  'The mind plays tricks when you get tired.'

  'Have you ever heard of a medium called Morgan Ford?'

  He shook his head and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  'How can you tell a genuine one from a fake?'

  'There are no genuine ones.'

  Alex stared at him. 'You scientists can be so damned smug, you're infuriating.'

  He pressed the horn irritably at a small rented car, all four of its occupants gawping at Liberty's facade. 'No, we just state truths people don't like to hear.'

  'That's equally smug.'

  She was mildly surprised to see her Mercedes standing where she had left it, not towed away, ticketed or vandalized. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  'You're going to be all right now?'

  'Yes.'

  'I think I'll take you out to dinner tonight, just to make sure.'

  She shook her head. 'I don't really like going back to an empty house in the evening. Come round to me and I'll make some supper.'

  'About eight?'

  Alex drove off feeling cheerful, relaxed; but the pain would come back, she knew. It was all piled up in her head, waiting to avalanche; it would be worst in the late afternoon when the sunlight began to fade; the depression would come, the way it always had, late afternoon on Sundays, all her life, since she was a small child.

  She drove south over Vauxhall Bridge and down towards Streatham, not relishing the task she faced of trying to find Carrie and breaking the news to her. She didn't even have an address. All she could remember was that they had been passing an antique shop with a row of chairs out on the pavement, when Fabian had said, 'That's where Carrie lives, Mother,' and she had looked over to the right and seen the tower blocks. It was at the start of a hill, very similar to the hill she was on now; she saw an antique shop, closed, boarded up and two grey towers in the distance to the right. She turned and headed towards them, down a narrow street lined with beat-up cars and grimy vans: a tight hemmed-in street. Two black kids were playing a game on the pavement; they stopped and looked at her and she felt herself blushing, felt somehow that she had no right to be here, that she was out of her allotted territory.