Kelly, Isobel and Jeanette returned laden with ice-cream cones to the cheered approval of their classmates who quickly relieved them of their burdens. Childes smiled at Jeanette when she dug a hand into her dress pocket and drew out his change.

'Thank you,' he said.

'Thank you, Mr Childes,' she responded, smiling back, some of her timidity having evaporated.

'Did much of what you saw this morning make sense?' he asked her.

'Oh yes, I think so.' She paused. 'Well . . . a lot of it did.'

'It's not half so scary once you begin to understand, you know. You'll find it'll all begin to click when you've got the basics under control. You'll see,' he added reassuringly, then looked around at the others. 'Hey, who's got mine?'

'Whoops, sorry,' said Kelly, giggling. 'I wasn't going to eat it, I promise.'

The ice-cream cone was already beginning to melt, white streams oozing down the cone and over her fingers. Kelly's own, which was clutched in her other hand and already half-consumed, was dwarfed by the one she held out to Childes.

He took the ice-cream from her and her hand immediately rose to her lips to lick the white stickiness from them.

As she did so, the smell of burning came to him. A peculiar smell. Like meat being cooked. Only worse, far worse. Like flesh being incinerated.

He stared at Kelly, and the hand she held to her mouth was blackened, merely gristled tattered skin clinging to white bone. Her hand was a malformed, charred claw.

He heard laughter around him and the sound came from a long way off, even though it was the laughter of his pupils. He felt the cold stickiness on his thigh, glanced down in reaction, saw the white blob of melted ice-cream sluggishly sliding over his leg.

When he looked back, Kelly was laughing with the others while she licked clean the hand that was now unblemished.

The road was wide and quiet, traffic sparse.

All the houses were detached, with their own garages and small well-kept front gardens. The rear gardens were no doubt ample, for it was that type of neighbourhood, affluent without being wealthy. The car moved along slowly, the driver searching for a particular number, a particular house.

The vehicle drew to a smooth halt and its occupant watched that particular house.

It knew he would not be there: the little girl with the funny squeaky voice of the very young had said on the telephone that Daddy didn't live there any more, that he had moved away to an island. Of course she could remember the island's name, the squeaky voice had insisted, she was seven-and-a-half years old, wasn't she?

It waited in the car, observing and unobserved, for it was early Saturday morning, a time for the dwellings' occupants to relax from the usual weekly haste. Now that the house had been located, the driver would come back when night fell and darkness could assist.

The observer became more alert, though, when a small girl ran from behind the house chasing a black cat. A tingling thrill ran through its gross body.

The cat leapt onto the low wall bordering the garden and froze on seeing the shadowy form huddled inside the parked car. The animal's fur bristled, its tail stiffened, its yellow eyes glared. Then the cat was gone, intimidated into flight.

A little girl's face appeared in its place, peering curiously over the wall.

The figure inside the car watched for a moment longer. Then opened the car door.

Fran stretched her limbs, her mouth agape in a huge yawn. She settled back into the bed, enjoying the languor of sleep's after-moments, her appreciation voiced in a blissful moan. She turned onto her side, auburn hair spilling over her face to flood the pillow.

A weekend to herself for a change, no commitments, no client pandering-to, no meetings, no phone calls. No cajoling journalists or radio and TV producers for interviews with clients who were just as likely to veto such hard-earned concessions on a personal whim. No fending off grubby-minded business associates (or even clients a no, especially clients) who considered any healthy-looking divorce'e fair game. A chance to spend time with little neglected Gabby, the greatest kid in the world. Oh God, give me the energy to go down and cook her a decent breakfast for a change. Allow me ten more minutes in bed first, though.

Gabby had already crept in earlier to kiss her good morning and to sneak a warm, snuggly cuddle beneath the bedsheets. After promising a nice cup of tea to revive her weary Mummy, Gabby had left the bedroom, her high-pitched trilling broken only by calls for Miss Puddles.

Fran was relieved that Douglas hadn't stayed the night a not that there had been much chance anyway, with the way he protected his own marriage. Douglas Ashby was a sound business partner and a splendid, inventive lover; unfortunately for Fran, he was also a considerate husband (apart from one infidelity a herself) and never stayed away from home longer than was necessary. Well, maybe that was okay: one serious man in her life had already proved too much. She knew Gabby desperately missed Jonathan, and there had been times over the past couple of years when Fran had regretted her own uncompromising attitude towards him, but enough had been enough. They had both been forced to face up to the truth of the situation: they were not good for one another.

But oh, it would be nice to have a male body next to her right now. Funny how a glorious love-making session the night before always left her wanting more the following morning. Her muffled moan this time contained a hint of frustration. Tea, Gabby, tea. Save your mother from self-abuse.

Fran pushed herself upright, fluffing up the pillows behind her and leaning back against them. She appraised her image in the dressing-table mirror on the opposite side of the room. Still good, she told herself. Breasts firm and not too many spare inches on her body to pinch. Hair long and lush, its sheen not yet from a bottle. Mercifully her reflection was too far away to discern perfidious lines around eyes and neck. She lifted the sheet to examine her stomach. H'mn, could do with some tummy exercises before 'loose' became 'flab'. No problem with thighs, though: slim and as nicely shaped as ever. Pity such a well-toned body was so underused. Fran allowed the sheet to drop.

Her neck arched back and she studied the stippled ceiling. Must do something with Gabby today, she thought. A trip to the shops to stock up, then lunch out somewhere. She'd like that. Perhaps a movie tonight, invite Annabel along a Gabby would like that, too. Got to spend more time with Gabby, to hell with the job. Her daughter was quickly growing mature beyond her age, becoming a little too responsible for one so young. The innocent years were too precious to be brushed aside so speedily. And it was surprising, considering how rare and brief were the times she spent with her father, how like Jonathan she was becoming. Not only were they both short-sighted, but their resemblance went beyond mere physical characteristics.

Fran heard a car outside pull away, the noise of its engine fading in the distance.

She closed her eyes, but it was useless: tired though she was, sleep had absconded, her head, as usual, buzzing with thoughts, most of them trivial. Why, oh why, when she had time to relax, would her brain never let her do so? And where was Gabby with that blessed tea?

Throwing back the sheet, Fran rose from the bed and snatched her flimsy nightgown from the back of a chair; slipping it on, she made for the door. Leaning over the rail at the top of the stairs she called down, 'Gabby, I'm dying of thirst up here. How's the tea coming along?'

There was no reply.

She stirred and Childes remained still, not wishing to wake her.

One breast lay exposed, delicate curves a temptation to touch. He resisted.

But her lips, slightly parted in sleep, were too compelling not to taste.

He kissed them and Amy's eyelids fluttered open.

She smiled.

He kissed her again and this time she responded, one arm sliding around his shoulders to hold him tight. Although their lips eventually parted, their bodies clung together, each enjoying the other's warmth, the comfort of filling closeness. Her legs parted as his thigh gently pushed between them and the soft pressure caused her to sigh. She ran her fingertips slowly down the ridges of his spine.

They shifted position so that they lay side by side, each wanting to see the other's face, he fondling her nipples which stood so proud from their small, fleshy mounds, she reaching down to caress him with firm but tender motion. Their love-making was slow and easy, neither wishing to rush, all frenzy spent the night before: now was a time for leisure, a relaxed joining, a steady exhilaration.

He moistened her with his own tongue and she fought to control her rising excitement, the exquisitely sensuous stabbing movement dangerously irresistible; sensing the ebbing of her resolve he quickly entered her, the penetration so glidingly smooth that she was full with him before realizing he had changed position. Her thighs rose around him and she pulled at his lower back.

It did not take long for the tension to break, an intoxicating warmth shuddering through them in waves, only gradually depleting in strength to leave them panting breathlessly. They stayed locked together until their senses became placid once more.

Eventually they parted, both taking pleasure even in that movement, to lie side by side, waiting for their breathing to steady.

'Did you sleep last night?' Amy asked him.

'I didn't expect to, but, yes, soundly,' he replied.

'No dreams?'

'None that I can remember.'

She touched his face and he could smell their bodies on her fingertips. 'You looked so terrible yesterday,' she said.

'I was scared, Amy. I'm scared now. Why did I see Kelly's hand mutilated like that? Thank God the girls were laughing so much they didn't notice how frightened I was.' He gripped her arm. 'What if it was some kind of premonition?'

'You've told me before you're not precognitive.'

'Something's changing inside me, I can feel it happening.'

'No, Jon, you're confused and upset by this business with the moonstone. Someone's playing tricks with your mind, deliberately tormenting you a you've said as much yourself.'

'Putting these thoughts into my head?'

'Perhaps.'

'No, no, that's nonsense. Things like that don't really happen.'

'Christ!' she exploded. 'How can you say that? Why do you keep avoiding the reality of the situation?'

'You call this real?'

'It's happening, isn't it? You've got to come to terms with yourself, Jon, stop resisting something that's unnatural to others but natural to you. Accept whatever extra sense you have so that you can learn to control it! You've already admitted that some outside influence is encroaching on your thoughts, so try to understand your own power in order to defend yourself.'

'It's not that simple . . .'

'I never said it would be. But surely nobody else can determine what you choose to think or see?'

'I know you're right and I wish I could get a grip on myself, but it seems whenever I'm over one shock nowadays, another comes along to knock me rigid again. It's getting tedious. I need to think, Amy. Something you said recently has bothered me since and I need to brood on it a little while longer. There's a door waiting to be unlocked a all I need is the key.'

'Can't we work on this together?'

'Not just yet. I'm sure there's something which only I can resolve, so be patient for a bit longer.'

'If you promise not to hide any answers from either me or yourself.'

'That's an easy promise to keep.'

'We'll see.'

'You hungry?'

'You change the subject so well.'

'Is there any more to say?'

'Lots.'

'Later. What can I get you for breakfast?'

'If you don't have a horse, coffee and toast will be fine.'

'If you're that hungry I can do better than coffee and toast.'

'I'll leave it to you, but wouldn't you rather I cooked?'

'You're my guest.'

'Then I hope I haven't outstayed my welcome these last couple of days.'

'No fear of that. How's Daddy taking it?'

'Stone-faced. I need a bath, Jon.'

'Okay. You bath while I cook.'

'Prude.'

'After the last few nights?'

'Maybe not. Your tub's too small anyway.'

He left the bed and grabbed his bathrobe. 'Give me a couple of minutes,' he called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs.

Amy closed her eyes and soon a frown lined the softness of her features.

Downstairs, Childes quickly electric-shaved and washed, first turning on the bathtaps for Amy. He opened the bathroom cabinet and removed his contact lens case, inserting the soft lenses into his eyes before the mirror steamed up. He ran back up the stairs two at a time and donned faded jeans, tan sneakers and a grey sweater while Amy watched from the bed.

'You need fattening up,' she remarked.

'For which slaughter?' he answered and neither found any humour in the response.

'Your bath's about ready,' he said, running fingers through his dark tousled hair.

'I feel like a kept woman.'

'So do I once in a while, but they're hard to come by.'

'You're cheerful again.'

'It's a habit.' He realized there was a certain truth in his reply: suppression of the unfaceable, he reminded himself.

'A kiss will get me out of bed,' Amy said.

'Yeah? What will get you downstairs?'

'Come and find out.'

'The water will run over.'

'You're no fun at all sometimes.'

'And you're no schoolmarm.' He threw her the robe. 'Food in ten minutes.' Childes couldn't help moving to the bed, though, and kissing her lips, neck and breasts, before going down to the kitchen.

Later, when Amy sat opposite him at the tiny kitchen table, her wringing wet hair and his blue bathrobe transforming her from schoolteacher to schoolgirl once again, they discussed their plans for the day.

'I'll have to go home and collect some things,' she told him, tucking into bacon, eggs and grilled tomatoes with undisguised enthusiasm.