15th June, Tyme's End. Got train down here, must bathe before dinner so more later, only trying to capture moment of seeing Tyme's End: gorgeous weather, house like a picture postcard, J coming out to meet me, smiling . . . Others here, Tony Morton-Smith, Edith Quincey, Dr Langdon-Down . . .

There was a noise overhead like a door opening, and I half rose to my feet, automatically, as if I didn't want to be found reading Granddad's diary when someone walked in on me. Then I caught myself, and sat down again. There was silence, as though I'd imagined the noise, but the diary had fallen to the floor, its covers spread out like wings. I picked it up and paused, looking down at it.

Part of it had been ripped out: neatly, methodically, each page torn away separately, close to the margin. I ran my thumb along the rough edges. Twenty pages? Fewer, possibly. I checked the dates. Every entry from 17th June to To 21st June.

The breeze brushed my face like a hand, pushing my hair off my forehead. I could smell the fresh evening air coming in from the window cooler now, damper and hear the cars coming and going along the road. The wind sighed in the trees and I heard a motorcycle drone past and cut off. I took a deep breath. Something was nagging at me. There was something wrong. Something I'd read . . .

21st June, Tyme's End.

I stared at the entry without seeing it. Then I blinked, and saw what I was looking at.

The date was written at the top of the page, and below it there was nothing but blank space, except for one word. It was in pencil, dug so heavily into the paper that it had almost gone through the page, and it was big, in block capitals, hardly recognisable as Granddad's handwriting.

It said, REMEMBER.

I ran my finger over the word, and even though he'd written it sixty years ago my fingertip came away grey with graphite.

And suddenly although he hadn't written it for me I did remember. A paragraph from the biography I'd been reading came into my head so clearly, word-perfect, that it was uncanny. I closed my eyes.

Anthony Morton-Smith, the last person to see Martin alive, had left only the day before. He reported that he had left Martin in 'the best of spirits, with a glint in his eye, as if he were planning something'.(9) As several biographers have commented, Morton-Smith was clearly not intending to imply that Martin's death was not only suicide, but premeditated; however, his remarks were taken as such by . . .

But Anthony Morton-Smith hadn't been the last person to see Martin alive. Not if Granddad had been at Tyme's End on the 21st of June.

And when I opened my eyes again Granddad's writing was still there, dark and deep as the carving on a gravestone.

REMEMBER.

VI.

There was someone moving around upstairs. I noticed the noise without paying much attention to it, in a quiet, still part of my mind, while I stared at Granddad's writing. REMEMBER . . .

And then, slowly, gradually, like the feeling coming back into a frozen limb, I started to be afraid.

It was hard to move. But in the end I looked up, feeling the tension in my neck, the skin on my hairline prickling. It was dark outside, but the breeze from the window was hot and heavy, not as fresh as it had been. The air smelt bitter. I thought, I shouldn't be here. What am I doing here? I shouldn't be here . . .

I stood up. I took a deep breath, trying to control my heartbeat. If I didn't make any noise, if I didn't draw attention to myself . . . But I knew it was too late for that. Tyme's End had pulled me in, opening itself to me like a trap, and now I had to get out.

I thought for a second about my rucksack. I'd left it upstairs and it had everything in it my wallet, my phone, even my jumper. But I couldn't go up there. I had to get out now. My skin was aching and itching with cold, even though the air was warm. I shouldn't be here.

I moved to the door, treading as quietly as I could, but the floorboards creaked under my feet, and the door groaned as I pushed it open. I stood for a moment in the hall, and the ceiling above me settled and grumbled. The light in here was dim and there were shadows collecting in the corners of the room like dust. In front of me were the windows that looked out on to the lawn, and the front door, and somehow I knew that once I was outside I'd be safe, that whatever I was scared of was here, in the house with me.

I swallowed and walked towards the door. I made myself do it casually, as if someone was watching and I didn't want them to know anything was wrong.

When I reached out for the handle there was a patter on the window, and I jumped. But it was only a few drops of rain. I could feel the heaviness in the air that comes before a storm, as if the world was waiting for something. I thought, Great, I'll be out in the rain in just a T-shirt and jeans, but I didn't care. I could feel my body shaking with tension, half wanting to run, half wanting to turn round. I was sure there was someone behind me: at the bottom of the stairs, watching. I took hold of the door handle and pulled.

The door didn't move. A wave of nausea rose in my throat and I swallowed. I thought, Don't panic. It did this before, remember? Just pull hard enough and it'll open. More rain spat against the window.

I dragged at the door handle until my feet slid on the floor and I almost lost my balance. I could hear myself gasping for breath, the air catching in my larynx like a hook.

A low sound rumbled overhead, as if someone was dragging something over the floor. Thunder. For a second I felt a mad rush of relief. There wasn't anyone upstairs after all . . . But I kept pulling at the door handle, my hands cold and clammy on the metal. Come on, come on! It would open sooner or later. I had to keep trying, that was all.

Then I heard footsteps behind me. They crossed the hall from the stairs to the drawing room, making a clear, precise sound.

The space between my shoulder blades flared with cold. I turned round, a kind of dread unravelling in my stomach, too cowardly not to look. But there was only the drawing-room door swinging slowly shut and I'd gone through that door a few seconds ago it might have been closing behind me or moving in the damp draught from the window. There was nothing to make me afraid. There was nothing to tell me I hadn't imagined the footsteps, the way I might have imagined that sense of being watched, the sense of a malicious, amused gaze on my back as I struggled to get the door open. The way I might have imagined the sweetish, rottenish scent in the air, and the tang of tobacco smoke.

I pulled at the door. I was hissing under my breath: prayers, swear words, and then just please, please, please. The wind was rising outside and the rain splattered the window, tapping on it like fingernails. Behind me the lights buzzed and flickered and for a second I saw my reflection in the window disappear and blackness press against the glass. When my face came back it shone white, even in the dirty yellow light from the lamps. My eyes looked desperately back at me from the other side of the glass. My expression scared me as much as the footsteps had.

And then the lights went out completely.

I froze. The wind was rushing in the trees, but inside the air was stagnant and still and every sound I made seemed to echo. I could hear my teeth chattering and my breath rasping in my throat. It was dark, but there was enough light from the window to see denser shadows around the hearth and in the doorways: shadows that I was scared to look at, in case they moved.

I took my hands away from the door handle, very slowly, even though I wasn't sure that I could find it again in the blackness.

I don't know how long I stood there, half blinded by the dark, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did, and after a while the terror that had taken me over subsided and something else grew in its place. I wasn't sure whether it was curiosity or anger, but it swelled until the fear had to give way, and the darkness took a step back, giving me room to breathe.

I wanted to go into the drawing room. I wanted to see him face to face. I wanted to be sure. In a distant, steady part of my head, I was starting to understand how he'd tricked me: setting me up, reeling me in, as if my whole life were nothing but a mechanism to draw me here. But whatever had happened here was between Martin and Granddad, not me. I clung to the thought, as if it were the only solid thing in the world. I don't belong here. This is nothing to do with me. It can't touch me, not really.

I kept saying it over and over to myself, and the little spark of bravery grew inside me until I could move back into the hall, keeping away from the hunched shadows in case something reached out for me. There was a knot of deeper dark in the hearth, like a nest. I half wanted to close my eyes, like a child trying to be invisible, but the thought of stumbling over something filled me with blank, irrational horror. Another few steps and I'd be at the door to the drawing room. And that door, I knew, would open.

It did. It swung open with the same oily smoothness as before, as if someone was pushing it from the other side at exactly the same moment. I stood motionless, straining my ears in the silence. But there was no sound except my own heartbeat and breath, and the tiny reluctant creak of the hinges. There was more light in the drawing room: an unhealthy, livid light that wasn't moonlight, but enough to see that the room was empty. It was just as I'd left it, with Granddad's exercise book still open on the sofa. REMEMBER.

The rain was harder, now, splashing against the windows like spray, and tendrils of ivy were whipping to and fro in the wind. It made me feel calmer. I could keep telling myself that the noises I'd heard in the rooms above might have been thunder, after all.

I sat down on the sofa. The fear was still there a solid, cold core that ran from my larynx to my gut but now at least there was room to think.

I knew of course I knew that the sounds I'd heard hadn't been the wind, or the rain, or the house creaking.

Something had happened to Granddad here: something so terrible that he'd ripped the pages out of his diary, something so terrible he didn't dare to forget it. And it hadn't been forgotten; it was still here, still bleeding through, like a wound that had gone rotten. Something had made the house welcome me in, wrap itself round me like a web and not let me go.

I started to shake again. I pressed my hands together to keep them still and the skin felt sore, flayed, as if they were frostbitten.

Something wanted to keep me here: something that knew who I was. Something old, and hungry.

For a moment I felt nothing but bewilderment, and a sense of betrayal so acute I could have cried. This wasn't fair. No one had told me, no one had warned me. This isn't how the world works. This just doesn't happen.

But it was happening. And in spite of myself I thought, Granddad did warn me. He knew, and he did warn me. I should have listened.

And it was too late for that anyway. I was here now and I didn't know what to do.

I bent my head and put my hands over my face. The dread weighed down my stomach like sickness. I wanted to give up; I wanted to surrender. But I didn't even know how to do that. I opened my mouth, because I'd spoken to Martin before, hadn't I? If you want me, I'm here. He'd heard me then, hadn't he? I knew, with a horrible pang of helplessness, that if I hadn't said that, hadn't offered . . .

I took a deep breath. I heard myself say, 'I haven't done anything to you.' For a moment I felt a lurch of horror at my own voice. It was creaky and dry, like the voice I'd heard, that brittle, graveyard voice . . . but I swallowed, and when I spoke again it was steadier, clearer, more human. 'I don't owe you anything. Please leave me alone.'

Then I knew that I shouldn't have spoken to him.

I felt the house suck the words into itself, feeding on them. The air filled with an impossible scent of sunlight and heat, a summer fragrance that wafted towards me from the window, as if it wasn't night-time or raining. It made me feel sick. I shut my eyes.

And there was the smell of cigarette smoke. And that was impossible too.

I drew my knees up and hugged them into my chest, hiding my face.

There was a rumble of thunder, a distant roar that cut off and skidded dully away behind me, like something crashing. Then it was silent. Dead silent. Even the wind died, and the warm air stagnated around me, making my skin creep. I felt sweat crawling on my scalp like lice. My heart was thumping so hard I thought I might black out.

I heard footsteps. There was no point, now, pretending that they were anything else. He went past me to the window, and paused there. There was the rustle of clothing, the clink of a lighter, the quiet, close sounds of someone smoking. I stayed where I was, not looking up. I didn't want to see him.

There was a pause that seemed to go on for ever. I waited.

Quietly, in that terrible desiccated voice, he said, 'Oliver?'

I only knew then that I'd been expecting it. I flinched and started to shake more than ever, but I didn't feel any shock or surprise, only misery. The darkness pressed on my eyes like a blindfold.

'Oliver. I knew you'd come back.'

The voice was clearer than before, no longer just the bare bones of a voice, but it wasn't any less horrible for that. It had an edge of malice, of triumph, that filled the air and made it hard to breathe.

I swallowed. I was afraid to try to speak in case I couldn't do it. But I had to; and I clung to my anger, trying to balance the fear. 'Leave me alone. I don't owe you anything. I'm not my grandfather. Whatever he did ' I stopped.

He laughed.

It made a nasty, crackling noise, like someone treading on an insect, or a fire just starting to take hold. It wasn't loud, but somehow the quietness made it worse. It was . . . inevitable. Merciless. There was no amusement in it, only mockery. It made me feel tiny, as if it were the past itself laughing at me, the whole weight of sixty years.

My teeth were rattling. I clenched them, biting down to stop the vibration. Then, mustering all my courage, I looked up.

There was no one there.

I heard myself make a noise like a sob. For a second I felt nothing but blazing, wordless fury. I knew he was there. Even in the dark I should have been able to see him. If he was there, I could be angry with him, I could fight.

But now I was on my own, and the flame of fury died. I could almost see it gutter and disappear; I could almost feel the cold settling on my skin again, relentless. No hope, I thought. No escape. The terror rose again, formless, seeping into my mind like fog. I was shaking so hard my body felt blurred at the edges.

A sudden fan of water hit the window, and the rain hissed and widened into a roar. I felt a fine spray of rainwater hit my face, and I licked the moisture off my lips. If only I couldn't still smell daylight, sunshine . . . I said, 'Please, please,' and I didn't know if I wanted mercy or just for it to be over quickly.

Nothing answered. There was a pause while I waited, just long enough to feel an absurd prickle of hope. I thought, He isn't here. He isn't And the room flashed into being, filled with dazzling white light. It leapt out of the shadows, bleached and unreal, clear as a photo. For a split second it hung like an apparition in front of my eyes, branding itself into my retina, so bright it hurt.

I heard myself scream.

Not because of the blinding, unearthly light; and not because of the black darkness, thick as tar, that followed it. Not because of the crack of thunder that broke over the house like a bomb, so loud it drowned out my voice.

In the flash of lightning, I'd seen a figure by the window.

A man, still as ice, who stared straight back at me. A man I'd never seen before not face to face, not in real life. But I knew him.

A man who'd been dead for sixty years.

And in his gaze a blind vicious malevolence that took my breath away, and a hunger that rooted me to the spot.

I squeezed my eyes shut. In the darkness it made no difference, but I stayed like that for what seemed like hours, shaking. The thunder faded and the rain gulped and spat at the windows. I was holding my breath. He was still there, in the dark, still with those eyes turned on me. There was nothing in my head except the unbearable press of fear. I fought it, trying to steady myself against the wordless, freezing rush of it. I held on. I held on until words began to float to the surface like wreckage after a storm. I can't move. I'm too frightened to move. And then, rising through the panic, came a smaller, steadier voice.

This is 1996. Whatever happened here has nothing to do with me. This is not my past. This is NOT MY PAST.

I opened my eyes. The darkness was thinner, like worn fabric. There was something by the window that could have been a figure. But it could have been something else too: a curve in the curtain, a shadow.

It wasn't much courage, but it was enough to make me move.

I ran, stumbling and shaking. For the first few seconds I was sure I would feel a hand catch hold of me, dragging me back. As I went through the doorway something clung and stuck to my face, and I dragged it away frantically, on the edge of hysteria. I swerved towards the front door, and then away again, because I knew that if I tried the door and it still didn't open . . . Nothing could be as terrible as that. I turned the other way, up the stairs, keeping a step ahead of the fear. The drawing room was the heart of the house. Anywhere but there.

I went into the bedroom that I'd thought of as mine a few hours ago. Mine. There were tears running down my face now, although I wasn't sure exactly why. I slammed the door and then spun round, horribly certain that he'd be waiting for me, smiling at my panic. But I was on my own, and there was enough light from the windows to see that everything was as I'd left it. I knelt down beside my rucksack and put my arms round it, burying my head in the jumper spilling out of the top. I inhaled the smell of home, the floral laundry powder Rosina insisted on using. It drowned out the odour of damp that came off the walls and the bed, and pushed the fear a little further away. London existed. 1996 existed. Rosina, and Adeel, and Granddad existed.

Granddad.

I knelt up, suddenly feeling a draught of cold air on my face. My mobile was digging into my hip. With trembling, clammy hands, I dug it out of my pocket and turned it on. The display lit up, throwing a dim green light over my hands. It was after midnight. The phone battery was down to its last bar, and the reception was flickering on and off. I fumbled at it, trying to call up the text message Granddad had sent me with the numbers of all his hotels.

The phone beeped loudly. 1 NEW MESSAGE FROM: VOICEMAIL. YOU HAVE 9 NEW MESSAGES, CALL 901 TO RETRIEVE.

I paused, struggling to think. I just wanted to talk to Granddad I didn't care about anyone else. But what if he'd phoned to tell me he'd changed his plans, or ? I dialled 901. The phone made a noise like something skittering across a polished floor the battery failing but it connected me.

'Olly, my boy, good morning, or rather good evening, congratulations on finishing your exams, I hope the History paper went well. Give me a call when you can, room 267 at the Los Angeles Hilton, I should get there tomo-'

I laughed shakily, because I wanted to cry. I skipped to the next message.

'Olly, I expect after an evening carousing with your comrades the very mention of alcohol will be anathema for at least the next day or so, but I forgot to say that I put some bottles of champagne aside for you. They're in the cupboard under the stairs. Unless of course you've already discovered them '

'Olly, Heaven forbid that I should add onerous duties to what is no doubt a hefty hangover, but according to my calculations you should be surfacing in the next couple of hours and I should be grateful if you could contact me. It's the same number as before '

'Oliver, I have tried the landline several times, and I am beginning to be really rather concerned for your well-being. I'm sure I'm being foolish, but if you could possibly put my mind at rest by phoning me '