'Oliver. Please phone me. The number is the same as the one I gave you '

'Oliver, please '

'Oliver. Are you all right? Call me as soon '

'Oliver. Are you all right? Phone me.'

'Phone me.'

His voice got harsher, terser, every time, but I was almost crying with thankfulness just to hear it. It would be OK. I should have phoned him before. He'd know what to do, he'd understand. To return the call, press five. I pressed five. As the phone rang at the other end I heard the low-battery tone again.

Someone said, 'Good afternoon, Los Angeles Hilton. How may I help you?'

I said, 'Could you connect me to room 267, please? Mr Gardner?'

'Just one second, sir . . . Yes, I'm afraid Mr Gardner's reservation has been cancelled. I'm sorry about that. Is there anything else I can '

There was a noise like a marble spinning across stone tiles: the noise of the battery dying.

I said, 'Please he's there I think you've made a mistake. I need to talk to him, please, please.'

'I'm sorry, sir, his reservation was definitely cancelled. Can I help you with anyth-'

And then the phone cut out.

I stared at the screen, waiting for it to light up again. I wanted to be angry with myself for letting the battery run down; I wanted to feel disappointed, or irritated, or afraid. But all I could feel was a kind of numb disbelief, as if I was watching something die. The storm rumbled outside, a long way away. I heard a gurgle of water as a gutter overflowed, and then the steady tick of drips falling from the ceiling on to the floor. I thought, without urgency, I shouldn't be here. I need to leave.

I pressed the power button on my phone, holding it down until the pad of my thumb started to hurt. Nothing. It made me think of the door downstairs that wouldn't let me out. It was no good. Nothing would be any good.

I closed my eyes and I could see the drawing room lit up by the lightning, and Martin standing by the window. I was frightened again, and I was so tired of being frightened. I wanted to go home; and I knew, helplessly, hopelessly, that I couldn't. Maybe not ever. I was trapped.

And I wanted Granddad.

I put my arms round my rucksack again and hugged it, like a little kid. I was knackered, but I was too scared to go to sleep. It seemed important, somehow, to stay awake. If when I fell asleep, that would be the end. I knew I wasn't going to get away; whatever the debt was, I was going to pay it. It was like being on a sinking ship: the past was leaking in, swirling icily round me like seawater. But there was nowhere to go. If I'd been able to talk to Granddad . . . but I couldn't. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

And after a while I started to cry weakly. I cried because I was afraid, but for other things too: for Dad and my little half-brother or sister; for Mum, although I'd never known her properly; for Granddad. I cried because I was reduced to this, crying alone in someone else's house, and because it was my own fault. And I cried because I was giving up, because I was letting the past win.

I curled up, blind and deaf with misery and fear, like an animal. And the rotten, flowery smell of the past rose around me, until the air seemed to be thick with it. I noticed it, but there was nothing I could do except breathe it in. I went into a kind of trance, hardly knowing where I was, or who. I waited, determined to hold on for as long as I could, but only just remembering what I was holding on to.

The storm slackened until the rain was soft, blowing against the windows like a curtain. Moisture slid down my face like a hand, and I didn't move.

After a long, long time I thought I heard someone saying my name. It was loud, demanding, like someone was calling me. I froze but nothing happened.

There were footsteps downstairs. The drawing- room door opened and the steps paused, then started again. I heard my name again. It seemed to echo, so that I thought there were two voices saying it: the old, sepulchre voice that made my skin crawl, and another one. But I was too tired and cold to raise my head to listen. I kept my eyes closed and heard the silence swallow both voices.

Then, very faintly, I heard music.

It was scratchy and distorted, and it only played for a few seconds before it deepened and slowed grotesquely to a stop. But I thought I knew it, although I couldn't think of the name of the piece. It was classical we'd done it at school. It made me feel uneasy, as if there was something I should have remembered. It was a sharp, nagging feeling, so unlike the dull weight of fear that I sat up straight and stared into the dark, wondering.

I stood up, wincing at the pain as the blood came back into my hands and feet. I didn't know why, but I needed to go downstairs again. There was something . . .

I opened the door and I heard voices. A voice. Or two voices; I wasn't sure. I drew in my breath slowly, listening.

The world reeled, fizzing and boiling with black, so that I swayed in the doorway, reaching out for something anything to steady myself. The nausea rose in my throat as if I was drowning in it. I felt the floor shifting under my feet, as if I were in two places at once. The dark sucked at me, pounding in my head like a heartbeat, beating at me like wings.

And from the room below, I felt something evil seeping up through the floorboards like mould or poisonous gas. It was worse than the malevolence I'd seen in Martin's eyes, worse than anything and it was mixed with a kind of triumph that wasn't aimed at me.

For a moment I stood there disorientated, clinging to the door jamb. Such evil. I couldn't bear it. I dropped to my knees and curled over, covering my head with my arms as if I was bracing myself for a crash. I thought, No, no, no And then it was gone.

It went suddenly, cleanly. It left nothing behind except a kind of emptiness and peace.

And the darkness was nothing but darkness.

It was a cool, bright morning. I opened my eyes, and I was curled up on the floor outside the bedroom. I sat up. My body ached all over, as if I'd been beaten up. It was hard to straighten my fingers, and it took me two attempts to get to my feet.

But . . . something was different.

I could feel it in the air around me: the peace that had come so suddenly last night. The peace of a paid debt, of finished business. What Granddad would call the quietus: quits. I walked slowly down the stairs, wondering at the emptiness in the air, the way Tyme's End was . . . only a house.

The front door was open, wedged on a clump of weeds on the doorstep, and the rain had blown in and soaked the floor. The air was fresh and clean, and I stood for a moment, breathing in the moist smell. I could have gone outside then, but I knew the door would stay open; that it would never close of its own accord. I turned and opened the drawing-room door.

And maybe I already knew what I'd see.

Granddad was sitting on the sofa, looking towards the window where Martin would have been standing. He didn't move, or say anything, or even glance at me. He carried on staring across the room. He'd taken his hat off and left it on the back of a chair, and his jacket was sagging and creased from the plane journey. His lighter and cigarettes were arranged on the table next to him, as if he'd been having a conversation with a friend. And in the ashtray beside them were the last blackened margins of his exercise book.

I wanted to sit down next to him, but I couldn't. I moved to the window and looked out. My footsteps on the floorboards jerked the gramophone into a split second of life and it sputtered into a bar of the music I'd heard the night before. I glanced at it, waiting for it to grind to a halt again, and it did.

Then, slowly, I turned and looked at Granddad. He seemed to meet my eyes, but he didn't speak or blink. I waited until I was sure. Then I knelt down in front of him and touched his jacket. It was rough and dry; I'd expected it to be cold. I could smell the tobacco smoke on his clothes. I leant forward, very gently, and felt the hard solidity of his chest against my forehead.

I said, 'Granddad . . .' and heard my voice crack.

I looked down at my hand, clutching his lapel, and I couldn't remember how to make my fingers let go.

I stood up finally. I didn't know what to do. I picked up Granddad's packet of cigarettes, put them in my pocket and then picked up his lighter. I turned it over and over in my hands, watching my reflection slide across it in fragments. My mobile was in my other pocket but the battery was dead, and anyway I didn't know who to call.

I went outside and stood on the lawn where the drive curved. I thought, Tyme's End must be mine now. It made me laugh, but it hurt. It was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? I looked back at the blank windows. Granddad . . . I didn't even know if he'd gone home, before he came here. I hoped, desperately, that he hadn't that he hadn't known why I'd run away, that he hadn't seen that I'd taken those letters.

I walked away, not looking where I was going. I think I was trying to find the gap in the wall, but my mind wasn't working properly. I walked and walked, pushing through undergrowth and raising my arms to protect my face from brambles. When I looked over my shoulder Tyme's End was still behind me. I'd walked in a circle. I didn't care. I kept on going, down a slope, through trees, until I had to stop on the edge of a river. It was peaceful here: not the dead, used-up calm that had filled the house, but a clean, impersonal peace full of running water. There were midges dancing in the cool air and I could hear the swish of cars on the road.

I sat down on the riverbank and smoked a cigarette, and then another. I didn't smoke, but they were Granddad's, and I knew he wouldn't want them to go to waste. I couldn't think straight. I kept fiddling with his lighter, holding it tightly, not letting the warmth go out of the metal. After a while I felt sick, but the smell of nicotine was comforting.

I thought, I'm safe. Nothing's going to hurt me. It's over.

And after a while I felt something inside me thaw, and I put my head down on my knees, and cried.

1936.

I.

Someone said, 'Falconhurst!' and I jerked out of a sweltering half-doze, reached hurriedly for my suitcase and staggered out of the train on to the station platform. I heard someone grumble and the door slam behind me; then the rumble and hiss as the train gathered its strength to leave again. There was a whistle and the smell of steam, and the little train drew away, filling the air with a grimy fog that shimmered in the sunlight and dispersed.

I stood blinking and disorientated on the platform, and looked about me. There were the customary embraces and greetings, not to mention a young girl waving her handkerchief until long after the train had gone out of sight; but I was alone, and no one gave me a second glance. It was a hot, quiet afternoon, but a breeze was already beginning to cool the sweat that had trickled down my face and soaked my collar. I was thankful for it; in Cambridge, when I left, the heat had been unbearable, an oppressive, un-English heat that reflected off the pavements and old stone, and in the railway carriage it had been no better. Here, though, the air was softer and newer, as though it had been freshly brewed, and I felt my heart lift as I breathed it in.

'It's heavenly, isn't it?'

I didn't look round at once, presuming that whoever had spoken was addressing someone else; but when, after a few moments, I did turn my head, I found my gaze returned by an auburn-haired woman who seemed not to notice my confusion. She said, 'You can simply smell the countryside. Isn't it gorgeous? London is so dreary in this heat.'

'Yes, I'm sure you're right,' I said. She was standing in front of me, and I hesitated, wondering whether she had mistaken me for someone else.

Her eyes narrowed, and it was as if she had read my thoughts. She said, 'I suppose you are Mr Gardner? Only it would be too typical of me to fasten on to a perfect stranger. You mustn't be too polite to tell me, you know.'

'Yes, I am, but I ' I hesitated. 'I wasn't expecting '

'I know. Jack said there was absolutely no need for anyone to lame-duck you. But I thought it was such a lovely afternoon for a walk. And to tell you the truth I was rather curious to meet you.' She gave me a frank, direct gaze that made me suddenly conscious of my sweaty collar and rumpled hair.

'Oh, I see,' I said, and ignored a jab of disappointment that Jack hadn't come to meet me himself. 'Well. Thank you.'

She smiled, revealing straight, shiny teeth, and held out her hand. 'Edie Quincey. How do you do?'

'How do you do?' I said. 'Oliver Gardner.' Both our palms were wet; when she released her grip I had to check an impulse to wipe my hand on my trousers.

'Let's go, then. Have you all your luggage?' She glanced at my suitcase.

'Yes, thank you. This is all I have. That is . . .' I followed her gaze and wished abruptly that my case were not quite so shabby, and that I had had more belongings with which to fill it. I straightened my arm, imperceptibly, so as to give the impression that it was heavier than it was. 'Most of my things are in my trunk. Jack said there was no need to bring very much only clothes, and so on.'

'Of course,' she said, and gave me a bright, undeceived smile. 'You must be a man after his own heart, travelling so light.'

'I hope so.'

She looked away thoughtfully. Then, without a word, she jerked her head, like someone summoning a dog, and walked off. I followed her through the fuggy warmth of the ticket office and out of the station. We made our way down the High Street, past several shops and a public house, and although I had never been here before I knew, with a flicker of irritation, that I could have found my way perfectly well from Jack's instructions. I had read his letter so many times I had it practically by heart, and I had imagined myself arriving alone, cool and collected, greeting him with a casual handshake; but now I could see that I would be shepherded into his presence like a child. I glanced sideways at Edie, trying to stifle my resentment. I noticed, for the first time, that she was dressed in an eccentric, boyish fashion, and was walking with her hands pushed deeply into the pockets of her slacks. Her hair was in a dishevelled marcel wave, but strands were blowing across her face in the breeze, and the general effect was incongruously masculine. As I looked, she caught my eye and smiled; but it was a smile which made it clear that she had noticed and thought the worse of me for my curiosity.

She said, suddenly, 'Your first time here, is it?'

'At Tyme's End? Yes. I've only known Jack a few months.'

'He thinks very well of you.'

I looked aside so that she wouldn't see me smile, and said, 'I hoped I could deduce as much from his invitation.'

'And you think well of him.'

'Naturally,' I said. 'If I didn't, I should hardly have accepted it.'

She opened her mouth as though to question me further, but seemed to think better of it. Instead she inhaled deeply, flinging her arms out in a clumsy, histrionic gesture. 'I should have come anyway,' she said. 'I don't have your scruples. Isn't it divine?'

To my relief, she didn't seem to expect a response. She took a few more loud breaths, her bosom heaving, then dug in her pockets, producing a box of cigarettes with one hand and a box of matches with the other. 'Cigarette?'

'No, thank you. I don't smoke.'

'Oh, you will. Jack makes everyone smoke. It's his particular form of tyranny. One of them, at least.' She paused, cupping her hand around the match to protect the little flame. 'Who was it said that a cigarette is a perfect type of a perfect pleasure, it is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied?'

I said, 'St Paul, wasn't it?'

She grinned unexpectedly, as if I'd finally said something that met with her approval. 'Actually, it was Oscar Wilde.'

'Well, I was close, then.'

Her grin faded, and she gave me a sideways look, blowing the smoke upwards from the corner of her mouth like a street urchin. 'How old are you?'

'Nineteen.'

'Ah.' She frowned, as if it were an intriguing and rather disquieting answer, and went on, in a thoughtful tone, 'You're too polite to ask, naturally, but I'm thirty-two. Anthony I think Jack said you hadn't met Anthony Morton-Smith before is forty. Philip but of course you know him, he's your tutor at Cambridge, isn't he? is fifty-three. Jack is nearly forty-five.'

I had the disconcerting sensation that she was speaking another language. I said, 'I'm sorry, I I'm not sure I see your point.'