He thought for a few moments before answering. 'The awareness seems stronger then, I must admit.'

'Haven't you ever looked into it further?'

'How? Who do I go to? A doctor, a shrink?'

'A parapsychologist?'

'Oh no, no way would I jump on that particular roundabout.'

'Jon, you're obviously psychic, so why not contact someone who knows about these things?'

'If you had any idea of the crank calls and letters from so-called "psychics", not to mention those who turned up on the doorstep to torment my family three years ago, you wouldn't say that.'

'I didn't mean those kind of people. I meant a genuine parapsychologist, someone who makes a serious study of such phenomena.'

'No.'

She was surprised by the firmness in his voice.

He lay back looking at the ceiling. 'I don't want to be investigated, I don't want to probe any deeper. I want it left alone, Amy, so maybe the feelings will fade, die away.'

'Why are you so afraid?'

His tone was sombre and his eyes closed when he replied. 'Because I've got a peculiar dread a call it a sense of foreboding, if you like a that if this unknown . . . power . . . really is discovered in me, is aroused, then something terrible will happen.' His eyes opened once more, but he did not look at her. 'Something terrible and unthinkable,' he added.

Amy silently stared at him.

Later that evening, Amy cooked supper while Childes restlessly mooched around from sitting room to kitchen. The mood had changed with their earlier talk although the closeness between them remained. She was both puzzled and anxious over his remarks, but decided not to press him further. Jonathan had his problems, but Amy was confident enough in their relationship to know that when the time was right, he would unburden himself to her. In a way, she was sorry the conversation had taken place, for he had become introspective, pensive even. When they ate supper, it was she who did most of the chatting.

They made love again before she left, this time downstairs on the sofa, and with more ease, less hurriedly, both prolonging their release, savouring every moment of their shared pleasure. The bond between them had become strong and there was no element of doubt in their feelings for each other. He was tender and caring, his mood eventually reverting to its earlier relaxed state, and he loved her in a way that made her quietly weep. She told him it was joy, not sadness, that caused the tears, and he held her so tightly, so firmly, that she feared her bones might break.

When he finally drove Amy home it was in the late hours and both felt as if a warm mantle of euphoria had been drawn over them, joining, combining their spirits.

She lingeringly kissed him goodnight in the car, then left him sitting there, having to wrench herself away. He waited until she reached the front door before turning out from the drive; only when the red tail-lights disappeared did she insert the doorkey.

Before entering the house, Amy took one last look at the night, the landscape somehow magical under the flooding light of the full moon.

The old man heard the door open, but kept his eyes closed tight, pretending to be asleep. Footsteps came into the room, that curiously lumbering shuffle he had come to hate, causing him to stiffen against the restraining straps of the narrow cot. The odious smell confirmed his suspicions and he gave the game away, unable to keep his tongue still.

'Come to torment me again, have you?' he rasped. 'Can't leave me alone, can you? Can't leave me in peace.'

There was no reply.

The old man strained his neck to get a clear view. The overhead bulb, protected by a tough wire covering, burned low and was no more than a dimmed nightlight, but he could see the dark form waiting by the door.

'Ha! I knew it was you!' cried the recumbent man. 'What d'you want this time, heh? Couldn't you sleep? No, you couldn't, that's what they say about you, did you know that? Never sleeps, prowls all night. They don't like you, you know, none of them do. I don't. As a matter of fact, I detest you. But then, you've always known that!' The old man's laugh was a dry cackle.

'Why are you standing there? I don't like being stared at. That's right, close the door so no one can hear you torment me. Wouldn't want to wake the other loonies, would we? I've informed the doctors, you can be sure of that. I've told them what you do to me when we're alone. They said they'd have words with you.' He sniggered. 'No doubt you'll be got rid of, and pretty soon, I should think.'

The figure moved away from the door, towards the cot.

'Bet you thought they wouldn't listen to me,' the old man prattled. 'But they know all the lunatics aren't locked away at night. There's them that roam the corridors when others sleep, them that pretend sweetness and kindness in the day. Them whose brains are as crazy as the maniacs they guard.'

It stood over him, blocking out the dim light. It carried a bag in one hand.

'Brought me something, have you?' said the old man, squinting his eyes in an attempt to discern features in the blackness hovering over him. 'More of your nasty little tricks. You left marks on me last time. The doctors saw them.' He chuckled triumphantly. 'They believe me now! Couldn't say I hurt myself this time!' Spittle crept from the edge of his mouth, slithering down the cracked parchment of his check. He felt the weight of the bag on his frail chest, heard the metal clasp snapped open. Large hands delved inside.

'What's that you've got there?' the old man demanded. 'It's shiny. I like shiny things. I like them sharp. Is that sharp? Yes, it is, I can see it is. I didn't really tell the doctors, you know. I only pretended just now to upset you. I wouldn't, no, I really wouldn't tell them about you. I don't mind you . . .' the words came out like short gasps 'hurting . . . me. We . . . have . . . fun . . .'

He twisted against the stout straps, his wasted muscles having no effect. Strangely, the terror in his eyes gave him an expression of clarity, of saneness.

'Tell me what that is you're holding?' His words were fast now, almost strung together, rising in a whine. His shoulders and chest heaved painfully against the binding leather. The figure bent low and he could see its features. 'Please, please don't look at me like that. I hate it when you smile at me that way. No . . . don't put that across my . . . across my . . . forehead. Don't. It's . . . it's hurting. I know if I scream no one will hear me, but I'm . . . going to scream . . . any . . . anyway. Is that blood? It's in my eyes. Please, I can't see . . . please don't do that . . . it's hurting . . . it's cutting . . . I'm . . . going . . . to . . . scream . . . now . . . it's going . . . too . . . deep . . .'

The scream was just a gurgling retch, for one of the old man's bedsocks, lying close by, had been stuffed into his open mouth.

The figure crouched over the cot, its patient sawing motion regular and smooth, while both inmates and staff of the asylum slept on undisturbed.

The nightmare came to Childes that night, but he was not sleeping. It hit him as he drove towards home.

A feeling of cloying heat gripped him at first, the atmosphere becoming heavy as if thick with unpleasant fumes. His hands tightened on the steering wheel and, although clammy with dampness, the fingertips seemed to tingle. He concentrated on the moonlit road ahead, trying to ignore the building pressure inside his head. The pressure increased, a cloudy substance expanding in his brain, and his neck muscles stiffened, his arms became leaden.

The first vision flashed before him, dispersing the pressure for an instant. He could not be certain of what he had seen, the moment too soon gone, the dark heaviness quickly crowding back, causing him to swerve the car; bushes and bramble on the roadside tearing and scratching at the windows as if attempting to break in. Childes slowed down but did not stop.

He thought the vision had been of hands. Large hands. Strong.

His head now felt as if it were filled with twisting cotton wool that was steadily pushing aside his own consciousness as it grew in ill-defined shape. There was not far to go to reach home and Childes forced himself to keep a constant though reduced speed, using the centre of the narrow road, knowing there would be little other traffic that late at night. His mind saw the sharp instrument wielded by the big hands, a brilliant vision that struck like lightning and excluded all else.

He fought to keep the car straight as the manifestation just as abruptly vanished. The heaviness was less dense when it returned, although the tingling sensation in his fingers had travelled along his arms.

Not far to go now, the road leading to the cottages was just ahead. Childes eased his foot from the accelerator and began to brake. A sweat droplet from his soaked forehead trickled down to the corner of one eye and he used the back of his hand to clear his sight. The movement was slow and deliberate, almost difficult. He turned the wheel, the Mini's headlights revealing the row of small houses in the near-distance. He was aware of what was happening to him and dreaded what images were to be further unveiled. He experienced a desperate need to be safe inside his home, feeling terribly exposed, vulnerable to the luminescent night, the moon's stark glare causing the surroundings to appear frozen, the trees oddly flat as if cut from cardboard, the shadows deep and clear-edged.

Nearly there, a few more yards. Keep it steady. The car pulled up in the space before the cottage and Childes cut the engine, sagging forward, his wrists resting over the steering wheel. He drew in deep breaths, the pressure at his temples immense. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he staggered from the Mini, moonlight bathing his head and shoulders silvery white. He fumbled with the lock, finally managed to turn the key and push open the door, falling to his knees in the hallway when the full force of the vision poured into his mind.

The old man's terror-stricken features were vivid, the horror clear in his eyes. His thin, cracked lips babbled words that Childes could not hear, and spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he struggled against the straps that restrained him on the narrow bed. The tendons of his scrawny neck stretched loose skin taut as he twisted his head, and the exaggerated bump of his thyroid cartilage constantly moved up and down as if it were swallowing air. His pupils were large against their aged, creamy surrounds, and Childes saw a reflection in them, an indefinable shape that grew in size as someone moved closer to the old man.

Childes slumped back against the wall as a metal object was placed across the frightened man's forehead, and he cried out when the sawing motion began, bringing his hands up to his own eyes as if to block out the vision. Blood oozed from the wound, flowing thickly down the victim's head, washing his sparse white hair red, blinding his eyes against the horror.

Movement stopped for a moment, save for the quivering of the old man's frail body, the surgeon's small saw fixed firmly into the bone. Recognition streamed through Childes, a touching of minds; but it was the perpetrator who identified him.

And welcomed him.

'Overoy?'

'Detective Inspector Overoy, yes.'

'It's Jonathan Childes here.'

'Childes?' A few moments' pause. 'Oh yes, Jonathan Childes. It's been a long time.'

'Three years.'

'Is it? Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr Childes?'

'It's . . . it's difficult. I don't quite know how to begin.'

Overoy pushed his chair back, propping a foot up against the edge of his desk. With one hand he shook a cigarette free of its pack and grasped it with his lips. He flicked a cheap lighter and lit up, giving Childes time to find the words.

'You remember the murders?' Childes said finally.

Overoy exhaled a long stream of smoke. 'You mean the kids? How could I forget? You were a great help to us then.'

And I paid the price, Childes thought but did not say. 'I think it's happening to me again.'

'Sorry?'

Overoy was not making matters any easier for him. 'I said I think it's happening to me again. The sightings, the precognitions.'

'Wait a minute. Are you saying you've discovered more bodies?'

'No. This time I seem to be witnessing the crimes themselves.'

Overoy's foot left the desk and he pulled himself forward, reaching for a pen. If it had been anyone else on the end of the line, the policeman would have dismissed them as a crank, but he had come to take Childes' statements seriously, despite a hardbitten reluctance to do so in earlier times. 'Tell me exactly what it is you've, er, "seen", Mr Childes.'

'First I want an understanding between us.'

Overoy looked at the receiver as if it were Childes himself. 'I'm listening,' he said.

'I want whatever I tell you kept strictly between ourselves, no leaks to the media. Nothing like last time.'

'Look, that wasn't entirely my fault. The Press have a nose for anything unusual, always will have. I tried to keep them off you, but once they caught the scent it was impossible.'

'I want your guarantee, Overoy. I can't take the chance of being hounded again a it did enough damage last time. Besides, what I have to tell you may mean nothing at all.'

'I can only say I'll do my best.'

'Not good enough.'

'What d'you expect from me?'

'An assurance, for the moment at least, that you'll keep whatever I tell you between ourselves. Only if you find some verification will you take matters further, and then only to your superiors or whoever's directly involved in the particular cases.'

'Which cases are you talking about?'

'Just one for now. Another's possible.'

'I'd like to hear more.'

'Do I have your word?'

Overoy scribbled Childes' name on a piece of paper, underlining it twice. 'Since I don't have any idea of what you're talking about, fine, you've got my word.'

Still the other man hesitated, as if not trusting the detective. Overoy waited patiently.

'The boy whose grave was torn open, his body mutilated: have your investigations come up with anything yet?'

Overoy's eyebrows rose in surprise. 'As far as I know, not a thing. Do you have information?'

'I saw it happen.'

'You mean, like before? You dreamt it?'

'I wasn't physically there, but I didn't dream it, either.'

'Sorry, wrong word. You saw what happened in your mind.'

'The coffin was smashed open by a small axe of some kind, the body laid on the grass beside the grave.'

There was another silence at the end of the line. 'Go on,' Overoy said eventually.

'The corpse was split open with a knife and the organs torn out.'

'Mr Childes, I'm not saying I don't believe you, but those details were in most of the nationals. I know you had a difficult job convincing me before a I admit I thought you were just another nutter at first a but you managed to in the end. Even I couldn't dispute the facts when you showed us where the second body was. But, I need a little more to go on, you understand?'

Childes' tone was flat, without expression. 'One thing the newspapers didn't mention a certainly not the one I read anyway. The boy's heart was eaten.'

The pen Overoy had been restlessly twirling in his fingers came to a stop.

'Overoy? Did you hear me?'

'Yes, I heard. The heart wasn't actually eaten, but it had been torn open; the pathologist found teethmarks. There were other bites on the body also.'

'What manner of creature . . .?'

'We'd like to find out. What else can you tell me, Mr Childes?'

'About that a nothing. I saw what happened, but I can't describe the person who did it. It was as if I were seeing the mutilation through the eyes of whoever was responsible.'

Overoy cleared his throat. 'I understand you went to the Channel Islands after the last, er, business. Is that where you're calling from now?'

'Yes.'

'Could you let me have your address and phone number?'

'You mean you don't have it on file?'

'You'll save me time looking it up.'

Childes gave the information and then asked, 'So you're taking what I've told you seriously?'