He scrawled a quick note on a sheet of paper: I have discharged myself.

  Smiling thinly at the unintentional implication in those words, he placed the note on the pillow. It was an inadequate and discourteous response to a hospital that had nurtured and cared for him for three months of coma. But it would have to do. His gratitude could be assumed. But now, without fuss, without formality, he had to go.

  He opened the door into the corridor and stepped quietly out. Hands in the pockets of his windcheater he strolled easily towards the stairwell exit, which he knew to be well away from the nurses' night station, where a uniformed constable was also seated.

  He was just about to push open the double-doors when he realized there was someone standing on the other side of them.

  For a second he was startled. Something like a face had been peering through the glass from the almost total darkness beyond, and it had caused his heart to miss a beat, his hand to hesitate as it reached to the door.

  Simultaneously he was aware of the drifting pungency of some burnt substance, and the edge of his gaze caught a pencil thin smear on each side of the doors. He touched the marks, finding them sticky and smelly, and this unpleasant substance he rubbed on his jeans.

  There was no time for further wonder. The moment of surprise, and discomfort, had passed. He pushed through the doors and into the cold stairwell, ran to the iron bannisters and peered down six flights into the dim yellow-lit gloom.

  The figure that was drifting downwards was tenuous, smokey, quite insubstantial. It seemed dark grey, with the feeble yellow light playing on the coils and currents of the fog that formed the shape. It might have been a man, or some shambling beast. But it faded rapidly from vision, drifting downwards, swallowed by the stairwell.

  Brady remained frozen to the spot, his eyes wide, his face rigid - not with terror, but with memory . . .

  The Smokey Man! Marianna's nightmare, her wild dreams of a figure that had drifted through her room and peered down at her . . .

  Perhaps not dreams at all. Unless Brady himself was hallucinating.

  The moment of shock passed. Brady fairly flung himself down the stairs, propelling himself off walls and railings, searching the gloom, and the area below, for another glimpse of that bizarre apparition.

  He smelled something foetid . . . just briefly, the hint of a smell, like a dead cat in a gutter, or a rat, killed in the woodpile . . .

  Then that too was gone.

  He reached the heavy door to the car park and stood, breathing hard.

  Peering upwards, back towards King George Ward, he could see only darkness, inconsequential emptiness.

  Soon he began to doubt the veracity of his own vision. Perhaps, unused to being without sedation, he was inventing images from his own tortured subconscious. Perhaps the Smokey Man had always been a figment of Marianna's imagination, and just briefly had been a figment of his . . .

  Why, then, was he so certain, why was his body so certain, that what he had seen had been as real as the cold brick wall against which he leaned?

  The apparition had been an actuality. It may have been 'unreal' in the sense of not being tangible, but it had not been his imagination that had created it. Every ounce of reason that he could summon merely served to substantiate this belief.

  There would be no more rationalising away of the inexplicable.

  As he gathered his wits about him, and found his breath again, so Dan Brady felt an immediate sense of danger. With a last glance upwards, he tugged open the door to the exterior and stepped out into the freezing early Spring night.

  Doing up his windcheater as far as he was able, and hunching inside the insubstantial leather for warmth, he trotted quickly across the car park. The moon was at half full, and was clear and bright towards the south. Its brilliance illuminated the bordering trees, and the jagged edges of several small buildings. He made straight away towards the front of the hospital, where bright light spilled from the foyer onto the approach road. There was movement inside the reception area, white coated figures, a nurse or two, citizens waiting out the long night for some change in an emergency admission. Parked close by, he could see a police control car, its two occupants engaged in sleepy conversation, their attention elsewhere.

  A single taxi was perched on the rank, its 'for hire' sign bright yellow in an otherwise darkened cab. The driver was slumped backwards on his seat, mouth open, breathing loudly. Brady came close enough to hear that noisy slumber, and was on the verge of waking the man up when he realized he didn't want anyone else around him at the moment, not even so anonymous a functionary.

  He looked into the darkness. His house was ten miles from the hospital, perhaps eleven.

  He could cover the distance in three hours.

  And with a last, nervous glance around him, back towards the stairwell exit, he set off to do just that.

  He never made it.

  After two hours walking through a night which seemed colder than the coldest winter, Brady was exhausted. His legs were aching with fatigue, unused to so much exercise; his body was damp with sweat, and each time he stopped the cold air made his shirt turn to ice - or so it felt. His head began to ache; a knot of tension formed in his breast; his heart raced.

  He sat down by the side of the road and tried to think some energy back into his limbs. His breath frosted before his face, and the hands that he passed through the fog were white, numb, almost a detached part of his body.

  Thought of Brook's Corner made him feel sick. He guessed that part of his distress was because he was not yet ready to return to his home, to the house where the nightmare had occurred.

  A car passed by within fifteen minutes, an airline pilot in less than his usual hurry. He was glad to give Brady a lift, even driving half a mile out of his way so that he could deposit the obviously exhausted man at the steps of his destination.

  When Bill Suchock opened the door for the milk at seven that morning his heart nearly stopped with shock as he faced Brady's dishevelled, frozen features, and caught the body as it slumped into his arms.

  'Good God man, how long have you been standing there?'

  'Not long,' breathed Brady, as he limped into the warmth of the centrally-heated house. 'An hour perhaps . . .'

  'Why didn't you ring?'

  Brady smiled feebly. 'I did. For about ten minutes. You're heavy sleepers, Bill.'

  Suchock helped him to the lounge, called for Rosemary, and went to make coffee.

  Rosemary fussed around him, trying to make him comfortable, as he ate a breakfast large enough to have fed three, and slowly surfaced from the ice. The boy, Malcolm, stood sullenly by and watched, not communicating with Brady at all after the functional handshake and kiss. Suchock himself rang up his work and said he'd be an hour late. He sat with Brady, quietly, while Malcolm was packed off to school.

  When the boy had left, Rosemary seemed to relax, but Brady could see the tension in her face. Normally a clear skinned beauty, with her dark, wavy hair never less than perfectly groomed, Rosemary Suchock now looked harrowed, tired. . . her eyes were rimmed, and there were lines developing at the corners of her mouth; her hair was untidy, even though she had clearly combed it through. As she lit a cigarette, Brady noticed that her hand shook.

  She had not been to the hospital to visit him. Clearly this neglect was nagging at her, and she said, 'I was going to come and visit today. You jumped the gun on me.' Her voice was light, tremulous; she was terribly anxious about having Brady in the house, and Brady glanced at Suchock, who made the merest movement of his head, an unspoken, don't worry about her, she's okay really.

  'I thought you were up in Durham,' Brady said. 'Looking after the old boy . . . how is he?'

  Rosemary drew deeply on her cigarette, narrowed her eyes and nodded vigorously, 'He's fine, he's really fine. He decided not to come down after all. He sends his love . . . Will you go and see him?'

  'Soon,' said Brady. 'I have things to do ... I have to go home, first. I have to face that . . .'

  Again Rosemary made exaggerated movements of her body, a pronounced affirmation, a desperate attempt to communicate with her brother. She could hardly bear to look at him for more than a second at a time, and she smoked her cigarette as if it was her last. In her housecoat, her pale, thin legs poking through, she looked like a tiny sick child. There was something blocking her, something terrible getting in the way of her relaxation with Brady.

  Suchock must have intuited the need for brother and sister to be alone. Rosemary hadn't seen Dan since the tragedy, and clearly her husband's presence was inhibiting Rosemary from expressing that which she most needed to express to her elder kin.

  Pure, simple grief.

  So Suchock went to make a fresh pot of coffee, closing the door behind him. Brady said to the trembling woman, 'How have you been, Rosie?'

  She looked down, crushed the cigarette into an ash tray, and began to shake violently, lowering her head even more as the tears squeezed from her. Brady rose and sat beside her, and instantly Rosemary was in his arms, sobbing.

  'Oh God, Dan, I'm so sorry... so sorry for you ... for them ... for your kids. I can't imagine, can't think... Oh Christ, Dan...'

  Brady found it hard not to cry himself. He held his sister tightly, stared out the window at the grey, sombre day. 'I'm going to find them, Rosie. I'm going to search for them, and I'm going to find them . . .'

  Her sobs died away. She looked at him through bleary, red-rimmed eyes, wiped her hand across her face and sniffed. 'I'm sorry I didn't come and visit . . .'

  Brady repressed the smile he felt. Same old Rosemary: guilt rules all; self first . . .

  'As I said, I didn't expect it. You'd have come in today . . .'

  Her mind, jumping track rapidly as she acknowledged her own selfishness, homed in on what he had said just before. 'You're going to look for them? Where?'

  Where indeed?

  He said, 'Wherever impulse takes me. What else can I do, Rosie? I can't live without them; I can't function properly without them. I'm lost without them . . .'

  Rosemary climbed to her feet, straightened her housecoat, and began to potter around, gathering up the breakfast things. She had calmed down, wiped her eyes properly, and looked up as Suchock came in with the coffee.

  Bill Suchock said, 'You know you can stay here as long as you like . . .'

  He passed a cup across to Brady, who took it and acknowledged the man with a slight smile. 'Thanks, Bill. Thanks both. But I have to go up to Brook's Corner.'

  Rosemary left the room to get dressed. Suchock watched her go, then glanced at Brady. 'She's in a bad way. You'll have to excuse her.'

  'Nothing to excuse. I know my sister well enough.'

  'She's haunted. She can't really believe that what has happened has happened. And she's been badly spooked by your house. It's a haunted place, Dan. I was there yesterday and I can still feel it. I don't want to upset you or anything, but something is living there . . . take my advice and get a priest in . . .'

  'I may well do that.' Brady sipped at his cup, thinking vaguely of the house, thinking most about . . .

  He shook the images away from his mind. 'You've done the lounge up for me, then. That was good of you.'

  Suchock sat back. 'Nothing much. And there's been another fire, a bloody irritating thing . . .' he stared at Brady. 'A vagrant, or kids, or something, I don't know what. But there's a patch of burning on the new carpet. You could hide it with a settee or something, but I was bloody furious. Like someone had built a fire in the middle of the lounge. But there wasn't any ash.'

  'Don't worry about it, Bill. I'm just grateful for all your efforts.' He was slightly worried about breaking and entering, though, and added, 'Had the doors been forced?'

  'Quite expertly. The french windows were open when I arrived. I've closed them, but the lock was broken. I was going to repair it today . . .'

  'Never mind,' said Brady. 'I'll do it myself. It'll help take my mind off things.'

  Suchock stared at his hands. 'It's going to be rough.'

  'It's rough already.'

  'I heard you say to Rosie that you're going after them.'

  'I have no choice. I'll see George Campbell today, or tomorrow. . .sometime, and see if I can't get a few months severance pay. But I can't go back to work. Not yet.'

  'Are the police ... I mean, do you think they can be of help?'

  'I'm sure they can. I need to know what they know. But I'm not leaving them to search on their own.'

  Suchock stared at his brother-in-law for a long moment. 'If it gets rough, Dan, for Christ's sake don't hesitate . . .'

  'As I said, Bill, it's rough already. And I didn't hesitate. And I shan't in future. Thanks.'

  'I'll come with you to the house.'

  But Brady shook his head. It was not just that he could divine the reluctance in Suchock's voice, the fervent wish that he didn't have to go to the house, it was mostly that Brady wanted to be alone that first time. It had to be faced. He had to know how bad it was going to be . . .

  In the event it was not as uncomfortable as he had imagined.

  He stood inside the gateway and stared at the blank facade of Brook's Corner. The old lady who lived next door was pottering about in her garden, just visible through the dense stands of trees and bush, where Alison had grown her herbs, and Brady had been building a rockery and proper pond. He didn't draw attention to himself. Instead he strolled along the gravel pathway, round to the right, to where the lounge doors faced the wild garden, its lawn strewn, now, with bits and pieces of furniture, carpeting, rubbish that was left over from the furbishing of the room.

  Brady felt a pang of irritation, which he had to temper with gratitude. Bill and Rosemary had worked hard to straighten out the fire damage, he knew; but why couldn't they just have tidied up the traces?

  Perhaps it was something to do with their sudden discomfort with the house, the way they felt a haunting presence . . . People who are scared are rarely tidy.

  He found the french windows open, as Bill had warned him. Stepping inside, he was instantly aware of the smell of paint. The new furniture was shabby, but functional. The burn in the centre of the carpet was an eyesore.

  More immediately noticeable, however, was the tangible sensation of a second presence in the house.

  If Brady felt unnerved, even frightened, he suppressed those nerves. Quietly, he closed the doors behind him. He took off his jacket and flung it across the back of an armchair, reached to the grate for a brass poker . . .

  He remembered the way the fire had guttered and dimmed . . .

  Hefting the poker in his hand he looked around, just to see if there was a more practicable weapon. The paint was a colour that he found tasteless. But it was bright at least. He noticed that there was no smoke blur on the ceiling, above the singed carpet. In the fire grate were a few charred logs. Below them, among the ash, he could see a scattering of green pine needles, all that was left of the Xmas tree . . . crashing to the ground, burning, the tinsel glittering in the flaring light of the fire . . .

  Facing the french windows he stared out into the windblown garden. The door to the woodshed was banging open and shut; he noticed that one of the lower branches of the largest of the dead elms had cracked, the limb trailing limply on the ground.

  It was cold in the house. He decided to go through and set the central-heating going. And it was as he walked towards the door to the hallway that he heard the sound of someone moving quickly across the main bedroom, above his head.

  He froze. His grip on the poker tightened. He wondered, almost idly, if such a heavy weapon would be any use whatsoever against the sort of intangible apparition he had witnessed in the hospital.

  What he knew for certain was that it would be most effective against any vagrant, or squatter, who might have taken a liking to the expansive rooms of this deserted house.

  But he had been unnerved by the sound, which had died away almost as soon as he had heard it. In the air was the faintest aroma of decay, the unpleasant stink that accompanies a dead animal that has rotted, undiscovered, during a hot summer. The smell, too, passed away, but Brady was left with an uncomfortable sensation of being regarded. He glanced around the lounge, at its shadowy corners, but could see nothing. Movement upstairs caused him to raise his head and stare at the white ceiling. Wind guttered down the chimney, and blew ash into the room, just in front of the grate.

  Perhaps it was the wind causing that restless shifting upstairs. Perhaps it was his imagination that supplied the sound of footsteps.

  He jerked open the door to the passage, stepped out, walked swiftly to the stairs. Holding the poker at his side he mounted them as quietly as possible. He stepped along the landing to the main bedroom and gently opened the door wide, peering cautiously into the tidy bedroom.

  It took moments only to ascertain that the place was deserted; no vagrant, and no ghost, lurked below the bed, or in the wardrobe, or behind the heavy, red curtains.

  He walked into the children's rooms, lingering in each, remembering smiling faces, sullen expressions, tantrums, giggling; remembering . . .

  The feeling of being watched did not go away. There was a presence surrounding him that was almost tangible. He felt he could speak to it. He felt he could almost touch it. It did not seem, to him, to be hostile. It radiated at him, washing at him from the walls, from the desk in Marianna's room, from the toy box in Dominick's. Wherever he went, walking through the house, he could feel it, and it seemed to embrace him. As he descended the stairs, it followed him, like a cool breeze on his neck, a light ruffling of his hair.

  But on the ground floor he felt again that distinct sensation of unease.

  He knew there was something else in the house with him, something more tangible than ghosts. And whatever it was, he realized as he stood in the hallway, it was in his study.

  He could imagine many things, foul and fair, but there was no way that Brady could have known what lay in wait for him as he advanced on the closed door; and so he walked towards it with steady nerve, the brass poker gripped firmly in his right hand. When he reached the door he stopped and listened for a second, then he flung the door open and stepped quickly into the dark room, realizing that the curtains were pulled closed and he could hardly see a thing.