'He looks okay to me,' Overoy replied, gently tugging at Childes' elbow. 'A little battered maybe, but he'll survive. I can always bring him back later if need be.'

'As you wish.' Poulain then spoke to Sebire in an attempt to diffuse the situation. 'Perhaps it would be all right for you to look in on Amy, as long as you're quiet and she isn't disturbed.'

The financier blinked once, twice, his face still a patchy red from fading anger, then finally tore his gaze from Childes. He nodded and Robillard released him.

'Let's go,' Overoy said to Childes, who hesitated, opened his mouth to say something to Amy's mother, but then could not find the words. He walked away, the detective at his side.

Inside the lift, Overoy pressed the G button and said, 'The officer keeping watch on the schoolgirl got word to us that you were back at the hospital. You must like the place.'

Childes leaned back against the panelled wall, his eyes closed.

'We heard you ran off the road.'

'That's right,' was all that Childes would say.

The lift glided to a stop, its door sliding open to admit a porter pushing a wheelchaired patient, a grey-haired woman who gloomily surveyed the arthritically deformed knuckles of her hands folded in her lap and who barely noticed the men, so quietly immersed in her own infirmity was she. Nobody spoke until the doors opened again at ground level. The porter backed out the wheelchair and whisked away his sombre patient, whistling cheerfully as he went.

'I've hired a car for the weekend so I'll drive us somewhere quiet where we can talk,' said Overoy, holding the doors before they could close on them. 'Even if your car were still driveable, I don't think you're capable. Hey, we're here, ground floor.'

Childes was startled. 'What?'

'This is as far as we go.'

'Sorry.'

'You sure you're okay?'

'Just tired.'

'What condition did you leave your car in?'

'Sick.'

'Terminal?'

'They'll mend it eventually.'

'So like I said, we'll take mine.'

'Can you get me home?'

'Sure. We need to talk, though.'

'We'll talk.'

They left the hospital building and found Overoy's hire-car parked in a doctor-reserved bay. They climbed in, Childes relieved to sink back into the cushioned passenger seat. Before switching on the engine, the detective said, 'You know I have to leave tomorrow evening?'

Childes nodded, his eyes closed once more.

'So if you've anything more to tell me . . .?'

'It made me crash my car.'

'How d'you mean?'

'I saw it looking at me, Overoy. I saw it in the back seat. Only it wasn't really there!'

'Easy now. You thought you saw someone in the back of your car and that's what caused you to crash?'

'It was there. It tried to choke me.'

'And Miss Sebire can verify this? She saw this person?'

'I don't know. No, she couldn't have, it was in my own mind. But I felt its hands choking me!'

'That isn't possible.'

'I can show you the marks. Dr Poulain noticed them.' He pulled at his shirt collar and Overoy flicked on the interior light.

'Can you see them?' asked Childes, almost eagerly.

'No, Jon. No scratches, no bruising.'

Childes swivelled the rear-view mirror in his direction, stretching his neck towards the glass. The detective was right: his skin was unmarked.

'Get me home,' he said wearily. 'Let's do that talking.'

It stood inside the blackness of the ancient and solitary tower, perfectly still, perfectly silent, relishing the void. The dark oblivion.

The sound of waves crashing against the lower cliffs drifted through openings, echoing around the Martello's circular walls like many whispers. The thing in the dark imagined they were the hushed voices of those lost to the sea, forever mourning in their starless limbo. The thought was amusing.

Strong stenches hung in the air inside the crumbling tower a urine, faeces, decay a the abuse of those who cared little for monuments and even less for their history; but these odours did not offend the figure lurking in the comforting blackness. The corruption was enjoyed.

Somewhere in the night a tiny creature screamed, prey to another more swift and more deadly.

It smiled.

The forces were building. The man was part of that building. Yet he did not know.

He would. Before very long.

And for him, it would be too late.

Estelle Piprelly searched the darkness, the incomplete moon consumed by thick clouds so that little was visible below her window. The lawns were still there, the trees were still there a and the sea still battered the lower cliff faces a but for all she knew there might be no existence beyond the confines of her room. So acute was her aloneness that life itself could well have been an illusion, a fantasy invented by her own mind.

Yet that could easily be borne, for loneliness was nothing new to her, despite crowded days, duty-filled hours; it was this new, threatening emptiness arousing a deeper, soul-touched, apprehension that was hard to bear. For the night's mood presaged menace.

She turned away, leaving the soft ghost of her reflection, a slight bending of her famously ramrod-straight spine appearing to change her character, render her frail. There was an aimlessness to her step as she paced the room which was part of her living quarters in the college, a listlessness in her movement. Lines frowned her face and her hands curled into tight balls inside the long, knitted cardigan she wore. Her lips were less firm, less severe than usual.

It was not just the sable bleakness of the night that haunted La Roche's principal, nor the unsettling quietness of late hours: Death had bid her a mocking hello that day. And its unholy visage had been present in the faces of a certain number of her girls. Just as many years before, when the mere child who could not understand but who could be aware had observed the imminent mortality of certain of the island's occupying forces, she had now discerned the death masks of her own pupils.

The disquiet weakened her, forcing her to sit. On the mantelshelf over an unlit fire, a dome-shaped clock, its face set in lacquered wood, counted away the moments as if they were the beats of an expiring heart. She pulled the cardigan tight around her, clutching the wool to her throat, the chill from inside her rather than the air around.

Miss Piprelly, swiftly aged and almost tremulous, pushed her thoughts outwards, wanting to a desperate to a perceive, but knowing ultimately that the strength was not within her, the faculty not that great. By no means comparable to Jonathan Childes'. How strange that he himself did not know his own potential.

The enigma of the man frightened her.

She turned as a breeze brushed against the window. Had she expected Death himself to be peering in?

Miss Piprelly wondered how secure the school was. True enough, a policeman guarded the main gate, frequently leaving his vehicle to prowl the grounds, checking doors, windows, shining his torch into surrounding shrubbery. But could a solitary policeman prevent somebody from entering one of the buildings, with their numerous access points, the irregularity of the complex itself making surveillance difficult and providing easy concealment for skulking figures. She had spoken with Inspector Robillard that very afternoon, voicing her concern (and, of course, unable to explain the reason) and he had assured her that the area in and around the college was regularly patrolled, had been since the attempt on Jeanette's life. He understood her anxiety perfectly well, yet felt it was misplaced: he doubted the attacker would return to La Roche now that the police had been alerted. The principal wished with all her heart that she could accept the policeman's calm assurances.

Her thoughts dwelt on Jonathan Childes once more a as they often had over the past few days. Reluctantly, Miss Piprelly had asked him to stay away from the college a no, she had insisted, he was not on suspension, neither was he under suspicion; but his presence at La Roche appeared to have put her girls at risk, and their welfare must always be her prime concern. She, Victor Platnauer, and several other members of the governing board had discussed the matter with Inspector Robillard and it was deemed wise, for the time being, that Childes should be kept away from the school (she had not mentioned that Victor Platnauer had insisted Childes be instantly dismissed). As there were less than two weeks left of summer term, it did not seem unreasonable that Childes should accede to their request. He had. And without hesitation.

When she had called him to her study on that Monday morning, just three days ago, his intensity had been disconcerting. He had hardly seemed to hear her words, yet had not been inattentive. His mind was grappling with inner confusions, while still acutely aware of everything around him. Of course he was distressed not only by Jeanette's terrible ordeal, but also by the injuries to Miss Sebire in the car crash on the same day, however, she felt his inward preoccupation had little to do with shock. The man was seeking a she had felt his probing inside her own head a but his searches were random, speculative. He had recognized the gift in her, although he had not spoken of it. At times she sensed a vibration all around his form, a psychic field constantly expanding and contracting. Its fluctuating levels disconcerted her, yet he appeared unaware of these invisible emanations.

Her body juddered as the terrible violence to come, a jagged, cutting thought only, pierced her brain like a heated knife. Her mind no longer lingered on the days past. Now was the real nightmare.

Some alien presence was inside the school.

With the notion, the shadows of the room pressed in, closer, the ticking of the clock grew louder, both seeking to intimidate, to influence reason.

Miss Piprelly's initial reaction was to call the island's police headquarters and she actually pushed herself from the chair a pushed herself because the pressure from the enclosing shadows and the thunderous ticking of the clock sought to smother all movement a and walked a staggered? a over to the telephone. But her hand stayed on the receiver, did not lift it.

What could she tell them? Please come, I'm alone and frightened and somebody is with me here in the school, someone who wishes us harm, and my girls are sleeping and I've seen death in their faces and they're so young, so unknowing, their lives unlived, and they have no idea of the danger . . .! Could she tell the police that?

Had she heard a break-in? they would ask. Their man had reported nothing unusual, but they would radio through, ask him to check the grounds more closely, report back to them. No need to worry, Miss Piprelly (an old spinster grown frightened of her own shadow), all was well, their man was on duty, call again later if you're still anxious.

She could lie, pretend to have heard noises. And if they arrived in force to find no sign of an intruder, what then? Raised eyebrows, condescending smiles? Mocking chuckles on the return journey?

That consideration straightened her back, set her face into firmer lines once more. She would not be belittled by the apprehensions of one night. Miss Piprelly headed for the door. She would look for herself and on finding the slightest evidence that all really was not well, she would contact police headquarters. The barest indication . . .

But her resolve faltered for an instant when she opened the door and fear touched her like a skeletal hand from the darkness.

Childes awoke.

There had been no nightmare, no chasing demons, no horror to jolt him from sleep. His eyes had merely opened and he was awake.

He lay in the darkness and listened to the night. Nothing there to disturb him. Only the wind, a breeze, a guileless whispering of air.

But still he rose from the bed, naked and quickly chilled, to sit there on the edge, unsure, uncertain of the tingling expectation that gnawed at him. The outline of the nearest window was a grey patch among the black. Mellowed patterns of ragged cloud edges shifted in the frame.

After fumbling at the bedside table for his glasses, Childes slid them on and went to the window.

His hands clutched at the sill as something cold and vicious inside his chest clamped hard.

In the distance, near the clifftops, La Roche glowed red.

Unlike before, there was no setting sun to flush the school's buildings. This time, flames coloured the walls as they fluttered upwards from windows to lick at the clouded sky.

As Estelle Piprelly descended, her footsteps unusually loud in the emptiness of the corridors and stairway, an unexpected smell wafted upwards to meet her. A smell unfamiliar only because it was not in context with the school's normal odours of age-mellowed wood, polish, and the constant but subtle taint of transient human bodies. Life itself.

This was not part of that common texture.

She paused, one hand on the thick stair-rail. Listened to a silence that was more ominous than peaceful. The aroma, still mild because its origin was not close, was faintly cloying and reminded her of an outhouse in the school grounds where garden machinery was stored. A small, ramshackle brick building full of tools, lawn-mowers, hedge cutters and the like, which always reeked of earth, oil and . . . petrol.

Now that she knew the source her disquiet increased tenfold, for the malodorous scent was a precursor, an indication that perhaps her own intuitive dread was not unjustified. The prevailing urge was to retrace her steps, climb the stairway to the top floor where her charges slept, rouse the girls and lead them from this unsafe place. But another impulse weighed against that course of action. An irresistible force lured her downwards.

Curiosity, argued her own rationalizing thoughts. A need to substantiate her suspicions so that she would not be accused of crying 'wolf'. But a tiny voice, a whisper almost, tucked somewhere deep in her consciousness, hinted otherwise. This voice alluded to a morbid compulsion to confront the ghost that had constantly haunted her in the unknowing faces of those soon to die.

She descended further.

On the last step, the hallway widening, corridors stretching from right to left, Miss Piprelly lingered once more, sniffing the air and wrinkling her nose at the now powerful fumes. The floorboards were damp with sleek liquid. Light came from the stairway behind, so that the farther reaches of the corridors were but gloomy tunnels. The large double-door entrance to the school building was directly opposite the stairway, a distance of perhaps thirty feet. A bank of light-switches was on the wall next to those doors.

Thirty feet was not too far. So why did the expanse appear so formidable? And why the graduating blackness so menacing?

Because she had become a silly old maid who would soon begin looking beneath the bed each night, she scolded herself, but knowing that was not the reason. The darkness was menacing, the distance from there to the doors was immense.

And she had no alternative but to cross. Returning upstairs would mean the spilled petrol would be lit. Turning on the lights might possibly flush out the intruder, hopefully frighten him off. At least the lights would attract the policeman on watch.

One brown, chunky-heeled shoe touched the floor. The other followed. Miss Piprelly began the long journey across the hallway.

Again, only halfway there, she halted. Had she heard something, or had she felt it? Was there someone in the corridor to her left? Was there a shadow moving among the other shadows? Miss Piprelly journeyed on, the thin layer of inflammable liquid spread over the floorboards sucking at her feet. Her pace quickened as she neared the doors.

There was someone lurking in the covering gloom, someone who wished ill on her and her school. The sense of it was overwhelming, tightening her chest so that her breaths came in short gasps. Her heart raced with her legs, her hands stretched outwards long before she was in the proximity of the switches. The presence was closer, drawing near, still unseen but undoubtedly reaching for her, soon to touch, soon to feel.

She had to get out!

She would find the policeman, call him to her, inform him of the intruder inside. He would know what to do, he would prevent the petrol from being lit! He would save her!

She was at the doors, almost crashing into them, scrabbling hurriedly for the handles, the lock, sobbing now with relief that she was there, soon to be free from the impending threat behind.

She knew it was close, but would not turn to look, sure that the prickling of her neck was due to this intruder's cold breath.

A vague wondering at why the doors were already unlocked, and then she was twisting the handles, a small cry of triumph mixed with fright escaping her. She pulled the doors inwards. Chilled air ruffled in.

And the shape, a dark blankness against the night, was standing before her on the porch steps outside, unmoving and impassable.

Miss Piprelly's legs buckled and her voice was merely a sighing moan as the shape reached for her.

Childes brought the hire-car to a lurching halt outside the tall open gates of La Roche, hands locked tight on the wheel and foot hard on the brake pedal. Despite the steadying grip, his body shot forward with a jolt, then rocked backwards with the motion of the vehicle.

His eyes widened as he stared down the long driveway, lit by the Renault's headlamps, at the college buildings.

They were darkened and impassive, the whiteness of the main building reduced to a heavy grey by the cloud-dense sky. No flames leapt from the windows, no redness scorched the interiors. There was no fire.

He hadn't heard sirens during the brief, frantic journey from his home to the school, hadn't met any other vehicles similarly racing to La Roche. The roads were deserted. And why should they be otherwise at that late hour when there really wasn't any blaze?

He shook his head, bewildered. Then saw the patrol car waiting just inside the gateway, lights and engine switched off. Childes shifted into first and gentled the Renault through the gates as if the police vehicle were some slumbering animal he had no wish to disturb. He pulled up alongside.