The figure beneath the tree stayed while the grave was filled.

To return again later that night.

'Thank you, Helen, I think you can clear away now.' Vivienne Sebire noted with manifest satisfaction that the meal she had so carefully and lovingly prepared earlier that afternoon, salmon mousse followed by apple and cherry duckling, served with mange-touts and broccoli, had been devoured with relish and much voiced praise. She observed, however, that Jonathan Childes had not eaten as heartily as the rest of their guests.

Grace Duxbury, sitting close to the host, Paul Sebire, who was at the head of the table, trilled, 'Marvellous, Vivienne. Now I want to know the secret of that mousse before I leave this house tonight.'

'Yes,' agreed her husband. 'Excellent first course. Why is it, Grace, that yours rarely venture beyond avocado with prawns unless we've got the caterers in?'

A remark that would be paid for later if she knew Grace, thought Vivienne, smiling at them both. 'Ah, the secret's in just how much anchovy essence you add. A little more than is recommended, but not too much.'

'Delicious,' reaffirmed George Duxbury.

Helen, a short, stoutish woman with a cheerful smile and eyebrows that tended to converge to a point above her nose, and who was the Sebires' housekeeper-cum-maid, began collecting dishes while her mistress preened herself on more praise. Amy, sitting opposite and slightly to the right of Childes, rose from her seat. 'I'll give you a hand,' she said to Helen, making eye-contact with Childes, a covert smile passing between them.

'What I'd like to know, Paul, is how a reprobate like you manages to have a beautiful and brilliant cook for a wife, and an absolute charmer for a daughter?' The good-humoured jibe was delivered by Victor Platnauer, a conseiller of the island and a member of La Roche Ladies College's governing board. His wife, Tilly, seated next to Childes, tutted reproachfully, although allowing herself to join in the chuckles of her fellow-guests.

'Quite simple, Victor,' Sebire riposted in his usual crisp manner. 'It was my darling wife's culinary expertise that coaxed me to marry her and my genes that produced our beautiful Aime'e.' He always insisted on calling his daughter by her correct name.

'No, no,' Platnauer insisted. 'Amy inherits her looks from her mother, not her father. Isn't that correct, Mr Childes a er, Jonathan?'

'She has both her parents' finer points,' Childes managed to say diplomatically, dabbing his lips with a napkin.

Score one, thought Amy, halfway through the door to the kitchen, as someone clapped and proclaimed, 'Bravo!' So far, so good. She had observed her father discreetly studying Jon throughout the evening, knowing so well that calculating appraisal usually reserved for prospective clients, colleagues or rivals. Nevertheless, he had played the perfect host, courteous and suitably inquisitive of his guest, allowing Jon as much attention as any of the others, including a business associate from Marseilles. Amy suspected that Edouard Vigiers had been invited not just because he happened to be on the island that week to discuss certain financial arrangements, but because he was young, successful, yet still thrusting, and very eligible. An ideal son-in-law in Paul Sebire's eyes. She was beginning to wonder if her father's sole motive in inviting Jon was so that she, Amy, would be presented with a direct comparison between the two, Edouard and Jon, the contrast undeniable.

She had to admit that the Frenchman was attractive as well as bright and amusing, but her father was wrong, as usual, in judging by such obvious and superficial standards. She knew Paul Sebire to be a kind man with a generous heart, despite his cutting ruthlessness in business affairs and thorniness over certain matters, and she loved him as much as any daughter could love a father; unfortunately, his self-concealed possessiveness dictated that if he were to surrender his daughter to another, then it would be someone in his own image, of his own kind, if not a younger version of himself. It was a transparently clumsy ploy, although her father probably deemed it subtle, as usual underestimating others, particularly his only child.

Amy thought dreamily of her lunch with Jon earlier that week, their first confrontation alone in his cottage after having realized just how far their relationship had journeyed, how much more deeply they cared for each other than either had understood before. There had been little time for intimacies that day, but touching, holding, caressing had been filled with a new potency, a new tenderness.

'I'd like those plates, Miss Amy, when you've finished listening at the door.' Helen's amused voice had broken into the reverie. She stood, one hand on the sink, the other clenched on her hip.

'Oh.' Amy smiled sheepishly. She carried the dishes over to the draining board. 'I wasn't eavesdropping, Helen, only day-dreaming. Just lost somewhere.'

Victor Platnauer was leaning forward over the table, looking directly at Childes. In his early sixties, Platnauer was still a well-proportioned man, with a hard ruddiness to his features and large hands that was common to many of the native islanders; there was a gravelly tone to his voice, a bluffness in his manner. By contrast, his wife Tilly was soft-spoken, almost demure, similar in appearance and demeanour to Vivienne Sebire.

'I'm pleased to hear you're to give La Roche a little more of your time,' Platnauer said.

'Only an extra afternoon,' Childes replied. 'I agreed earlier this week.'

'Yes, so Miss Piprelly informed me. Well, that's good news, but perhaps we can persuade you to spend even more time at the college. I'm aware that you also teach at Kingsley and de Montfort, but it's important to us that we extend this particular area of our curriculum. It isn't only a parental demand a I'm told the pupils have shown great keenness for computer sciences.'

'That's not true of all of them, unfortunately,' said Childes. 'The children, I mean. I think we're fooling ourselves if we imagine every kid has a natural aptitude for electronic calculation and compilation.'

Tilly Platnauer looked surprised. 'I thought we were well into the Star Wars era, with every boy and girl a microchip genius compared to their elders.'

Childes smiled. 'We're just at the beginning. And electronic games are not quite the same as the practical application of computers, although I'll admit they're a start. You see, the computer process is totally logical, but not every child has total logic.'

'Neither do many of us grown-ups,' Victor Platnauer commented drily.

'It's a double-edged sword, in a way,' Childes went on. 'The leisure industry has encouraged the consumer to think that computers are fun, and that's okay, it creates interest; it's when the public, or the kids in our case, discover hard work is involved before enjoyment through understanding begins, that the big turn-off comes.'

'Surely then, the answer is to begin the teaching at the earliest age, so it will become an everyday part of the child's life.' It was Edouard Vigiers who had spoken, his accent softening rather than distorting his words.

'Yep, you're right. But you're talking of an ideal situation where the computer is a normal household item, a regular piece of furniture like the TV or stereo unit. We're a long way off from that situation.'

'All the more reason for schools to introduce our children to the technology while their minds are still young and pliable, wouldn't you say?' asked Platnauer.

'Ideally, yes,' agreed Childes. 'But you have to understand it isn't a science that's within everybody's grasp. The unfortunate side is that microtechnology will become a way of life within the next couple of decades and a hell of a lot of companies and individuals are going to feel left behind.'

'Then we must ensure that the children of this island don't fall by the wayside,' stated Paul Sebire to Platnauer's nodded approval.

Childes hid his exasperation that his point had been missed, or at least gone unheeded: technical knowledge could be spoon- or force-fed, but it was not so easily digested if the inclination was not there.

Vigiers changed the conversation's direction. 'Do you also teach science at La Roche and these other schools, Jon?'

Sebire unexpectedly answered for him. 'Not at all. Mr Childes is a computer specialist, Edouard, something of a technical wizard, I gather.'

Childes looked sharply at Sebire and wondered how he had 'gathered'. Amy?

'Ah,' said Vigiers. 'Then I am curious to know what made you turn to the teaching of children. Isn't this a, let me see, er . . . a slow-down? Is that correct? I am sorry if my question appears impertinent, but an abrupt change of lifestyle a un brusque changement de vie we would say a is always interesting, do you not agree?' He smiled charmingly and Childes was suddenly wary.

'Sometimes you discover running on a constant treadmill isn't all it's cracked up to be,' he replied.

Vivienne Sebire enjoyed the response and added, 'Well, who could resist the peacefulness of the island, despite how much you money-men try to disrupt it?' She looked meaningfully at her husband.

The door leading to the kitchen opened and Amy and Helen came through carrying the dessert on silver trays.

'More delights!' enthused George Duxbury. 'What are you tempting us with now, Vivienne?'

'There's a choice,' she told them as the sweets were placed in the centre of the table. 'The apricot and chocolate dessert is mine and the raspberry souffle' omelet is a speciality of Amy's. You can, of course, have both if you've room.'

'I'll make room,' Duxbury assured her.

'My nutritionist would throw a fit if she could see me now.' His wife was already offering up her plate to the amusement of all. 'Apricots and chocolate, please, but don't ask me if I want cream.'

Amy sat while Helen served. Vigiers, seated next to her, leaned close and spoke confidentially. 'I shall most certainly try the souffle'; it looks delicious.'

She smiled to herself. Edouard had the kind of low voice that could sell liqueurs on television. 'Oh, Mother is a far superior chef. I only dabble, I'm afraid.'

'I am sure that whatever you do, it is well. Your father tells me you also teach at La Roche.'

'Yes, French and English. I also help out with Speech and Drama.'

'So you are fluent in my language? Your name implies that you are of French descent, yes? And if I may be permitted to say, you have a certain ambience that has an affinity with the women of my country.'

'Your own Victor Hugo once wrote that these islands were fragments of France picked up by England. And as we were once part of the Duchy of Normandy, many of us have French forebears. The patois is still spoken by a few of our older residents here, and I'm sure you've noticed we retain many of the ancient placenames.'

Grace Duxbury had overheard their conversation. 'We've always been a prized possession, Monsieur Vigiers, for more than one nation.'

'I hope my country has never caused you distress,' he responded, humour in his eyes.

'Distress?' laughed Paul Sebire. 'You've tried to invade us more than once, and your pirates never left us alone in the old days. Even Napoleon had a crack at us in later times, but I'm afraid he got a bloody nose.'

Vigiers sipped his wine, obviously amused.

'We've always appreciated our French origins, though,' Sebire continued, 'and I'm pleased to say our associations have never been relinquished.'

'I gather you do not have the same warm feelings towards the Germans.'

'Ah, different thing entirely,' Platnauer voiced gruffly. 'Their wartime occupation is recent history and with their pillboxes and damn coastal fortresses all over the place, it's hard to forget. Having said that, there's no real animosity between us now; in fact, many veterans of the occupying forces return as tourists nowadays.'

'It's rather strange how attractive this island has been to man from far, far back,' said Sebire, indicating his preference for the souffle', too. 'In Neolothic times, he made his way here to bury his dead and worship the gods. Massive granite tombs still survive and the land is practically littered with megaliths and menhirs, those standing stones they paid homage to. Aime'e, why don't you show Edouard around the island tomorrow? He returns to Marseilles on Monday and hasn't had a chance to take a really good look at the place since he's been here. What do you think, Edouard?'

'I should like that very much,' replied the Frenchman.

'Unfortunately Jon and I have made plans for tomorrow.' Amy smiled, but there was a coolness in the look she flashed her father.

'Nonsense,' Sebire persisted, conscious of her annoyance, but undeterred. 'You see each other all the time at the college, and most evenings, it seems nowadays. I'm sure Jonathan wouldn't mind releasing you for a few hours considering how little time our guest has left.' He looked amiably along the table at Childes, who had been engaged in conversation with Vivienne Sebire, but whose attention had been drawn at the mention of his name.

'I, uh, I guess it's up to Amy,' he said uncertainly.

'There you are,' Sebire said, smiling at his daughter. 'No problem.'

Embarrassed, Vigiers started to say, 'It really does not matter. If-'

'That's quite all right, Edouard,' Sebire cut in. 'Aime'e is well-used to helping entertain my business visitors. I often wish she had chosen my profession rather than teaching; she would have been a remarkable asset to the company, I'm sure of that.'

'You know I have no interest in corporate finance,' said Amy, disguising her chagrin at having little choice but to accept her imposed role as tourist guide. Jon, why didn't you help me? 'I enjoy children, I enjoy doing something useful. I'm not criticizing, but your way of making money wouldn't be fulfilling enough for me. I need to see some tangible evidence of success for my efforts, not just figures on balance sheets.'

'And you find this with your students?' asked Vigiers.

'Why, yes, with many.'

'I'm sure with most, with you as their tutor,' Sebire put forward.

'Daddy, you're being patronizing,' she warned menacingly.

The two men laughed together and Grace Duxbury said, 'Pay them no mind, Amy dear. They're both obviously of that near-extinct breed who imagine that men still rule the world. Tell me, Monsieur Vigiers, have you tried many of our restaurants during your stay? Tell me how you found them compared to some of the excellent cuisines of your own country.'

While the conversation went on, Amy glanced over at Childes. She tried to convey apology for the next day in her expression and he understood, shaking his head imperceptibly. He raised his wine glass, tilting it slightly in her direction before drinking; lifting her own glass, Amy returned the toast.

Helen had returned to the kitchen and was already loading the dishwasher with plates and cutlery from the sink. She was pleased for her mistress that the dinner party appeared to be going so well. Miss Amy was lucky to have two men in attendance and Helen wondered how she could resist the smooth, cultured Frenchman, with his French ways and his French looks and his French voice . . . irresistible.

She shivered and reached over the work surface near the sink to close the window. The night had turned chilly. And it was black out there, the moon but a thin sliver. Helen pulled the window shut.

There was laughter around the dining table as Duxbury who, as well as being a commodity importer to the island, supplying local companies with office furniture, equipment and generally whatever else they needed, also arranged sales conferences for outside organizations, regaled his fellow guests with one of his long-winded but generally funny conference-mishap stories.

Childes took a spoonful of the souffle' and made an appreciative face at Amy. She mouthed a discreet kiss in return. He had felt on edge at the beginning of the evening, unsure of Paul Sebire, aware that he would be put through some devious kind of test by him, a judgement of character and perhaps of his worth now that it was evident Amy was becoming seriously involved. Yet the financier had been more than cordial throughout, the curtness of previous meetings gone or at least held in check. Still Childes had not relaxed, gradually becoming aware that the younger Frenchman was not just another dinner guest, but introduced by Sebire as a potential rival; the Sebire-inspired outing for Amy and Vigiers the following day had confirmed his suspicions. It was both obvious and disingenuous, but Childes had to admit he did look a little shabby against Vigiers.

On the other hand, Vivienne Sebire had been gracious and attentive, genuinely welcoming him and, like the perfect hostess, making him feel a valued guest. She was the ideal counter to her husband's general brusqueness.

He joined in the laughter as Duxbury reached the climax of his story, the importer barely giving them all time to recover before launching into another. Childes reached for his wine, and as he brought it towards him, he thought he caught a glimmering in the glass. He blinked, then peered into the light liquid. He had been mistaken: it must have been a reflection. Childes sipped and was about to place the wine glass back on the table when something seemed to stir within it. He looked again, bemused rather than concerned.

No, just wine inside, nothing else, nothing that could . . . nothing that . . .

An image. But not in the glass. In his mind.

Suppressed chuckling as Duxbury continued his yarn.

The image was unreal, unfocused, like the nightmare, a shimmering blur. Childes set the wine glass down, aware that his hand was shaking. A peculiar sensation had gripped the back of his neck, like a hand, a frigid hand, clasped there. He stared into the liquid.

Amy giggled, suspecting Duxbury's story was building to a somewhat risque' ending.

The image had become images. They were slowly swimming into focus. The warmth of the room had become suffocating. Childes' other hand unconsciously went to his shirt collar as if to loosen it.

Grace Duxbury, having heard her husband's story on numerous other occasions in different company, and knowing the punchline, was already twittering with embarrassment.

Childes' vision had shifted inwards; he viewed a scenario inside his mind, an event that was beyond the confines of the room, yet within himself. He seemed to be moving closer to the ethereal activity, becoming integrated with it, a participant; but still he was only watching. Soft earth was being disturbed.

Victor Platnauer's rasping chuckle, a low rumble about to erupt, was infectious, and Vivienne Sebire found herself laughing even before the story was concluded.

Blunt, stubby fingers, covered in damp soil. Scraping against wood. The effort renewed, frantic. The wood cleared of earth so that its shape was revealed. Narrow. Rectangular. Small. Childes shuddered, spilling wine.

Vigiers had noticed, was staring across the table at Childes.

The coffin lid was smashed, splinters bursting outwards under the axe blows. Jagged segments were ripped away, the hole enlarged. The tiny body was exposed, its features unclear in the dismal light. Childes' hand tightened on the glass. The room was shifting; he could barely breathe. The invisible pressure on the nape of his neck increased, squeezing like a vice.

For a moment, the hands, seen by Childes almost as his own, paused as if the defiler had sensed something, had become aware of being observed. Sensed Childes, himself. Something deep inside his mind was coldly touched. The moment passed.

Tilly Platnauer knew she should not be enjoying the tale, but Duxbury's bluff rendition was compelling. Her shoulders were already beginning to judder with mirth.

The little corpse was torn free from the silk-lined casket and now Childes could see the tiny open eyes that had no depth, no life-force. The boy was laid on the grass beside the pit, where the night breeze ruffled his hair, blowing wisps across his pale, unlined forehead, giving an illusion of vitality. His clothes were cut free and pulled aside so that the body was naked to the night, white marble in colour and stillness.

Metal glinted in the thin moonlight. Plunging downward. Entering.

Slicing.

The glass shattered, wine mixed with blood spilling on the lace tablecloth. Someone screamed. Childes had risen, knocking over his chair, was standing over them, swaying, his eyes staring towards the ceiling, a glistening wetness to his lips, a light sheen moistening his skin.

His body shook, went rigid, even his hair appeared brittle. With a desolate cry he fell forward onto the table.

Gloatingly, it bit into the heart of the dead child.

Amy clenched her fists and closed her eyes against the reflection of her father.

They were in her bedroom, she white-faced with eyes tear-puffed and red, sitting miserably at her dressing-table, Paul Sebire agitated, angrily pacing the room behind her. She could not clear her mind from the sight of Jon when he had been led away from the house by Platnauer, the conseiller helping him into his own car, refusing to allow him to drive himself home, despite his protests: Jon's face had been so taut, so stricken.

He had refused a doctor, had insisted that he was okay, that he had just suffered a blackout, that the heat of the dining room had overcome him. They knew that the night was cool, that the house was merely warm, not too hot, but hadn't argued. He would be fine as soon as he could lie down, he had told them, as soon as he could rest; he strenuously declined Amy and Vivienne's offer of a bed for the night, saying he just needed to be on his own for a while. His distant gaze had frightened her as much as his ashen face, but it was useless to argue.