Right now, I could do without people telling me I'm a foreigner. But she means well, and she's just made me a cup of tea, so I only smile.

Eddie says, 'I'm a foreigner too, if it comes to that.'

'Being Welsh doesn't count,' Leila says.

He mock-scowls at her through his beard. 'Try telling Owen Glendower that.' He squints at my tea and then turns back to Leila. 'And where's mine?'

'No, maybe you're right.' Leila winks at me. 'They're not like those polite English people. Always wanting something, the bloody Welsh.'

'It's easy to be polite when you've stolen everyone else's country. Now tea, woman! And make it '

The bell tinkles and Eddie stands up to peer round the bookcase into the front area. I slouch down and close my eyes behind my sunglasses, because I can't handle someone I don't know, not first thing in the morning, when I feel this rough.

Eddie says, 'Good morning. Do excuse the mess I've just had a delivery.'

'That's OK.' The voice hesitates. It's a soft, American-sounding voice. Oh, crap. I slide even further down, so I'm almost hidden behind the counter. 'Um . . . I just wanted to look around.' He clears his throat. 'It says outside, second-hand books?'

'That's right, boyo. Section through there see the doorway?' He never calls anyone boyo in real life, but he likes to make a point of it for the tourists.

Either Oliver doesn't notice me as he goes past, or he's ignoring me. I'm glad. I glance up and then force myself to turn away, because it's not as if I care what he looks like. He doesn't seem to see me.

Then he stops. He reaches sideways to the nearest bookcase and pushes against the books with his fingers in a strange, tense, distracted way, as if he's trying to keep his balance. He's looking at Eddie's half-built display. He doesn't say anything, but he's pressing so hard that the top joints of his fingers bend backwards.

Eddie looks up from his unpacking and says, 'New book. Just in. One for the tourists.' Then he adds, hastily, 'We get a very high class of tourist, you know, very educated, not just your average ' He's probably about to say your average American, because he stops. He pulls another armful of books out of the box and proclaims, 'Mapping the Sands: The Strange Inner Life of H. J. Martin. Nice cover. I mean, they all use that photo, but the blue's good, unusual normally they're sort of yellowish.'

A pause. Eddie looks from him to me, raising his eyebrows, and I shrug, knowing he can't see through my sunglasses. Finally he says, 'Well. Feel free to have a look if you want.'

Oliver takes one of the books from the display and flips through it awkwardly. His fingers slip and fumble with the pages. He stops in the middle, on a page of photos. I count to ten slowly. Then he puts the book back in the display case and looks round, as if he's seeing the H. J. Martin section for the first time. He clears his throat. 'How many you've got a lot of biographies of H. J. Martin.'

'Well, yes. That's what a lot of people come for. Bit of a pilgrimage site, Falconhurst. I do the books, Malcolm down the road is the Secretary of the H. J. Martin Society. Steeped in history, this bit of the world.' Eddie staggers to his feet with an armload of books. 'Not you, then? He was a fascinating man, though. I recommend The Owl of the Desert if you're at a loose end while you're here.' Eddie grins, pointing to the de luxe illustrated edition in the window, which costs a good thirty quid more than the paperback classic. Then his smile slips. 'Now I may be wrong, but haven't you been here before? A long time ago? I seem to remember '

'No, I don't think so. I don't remember. Possibly.' A pulse is beating in Oliver's temple. He rubs at his face with his hand, as if he's trying to hide it, or his expression.

'Oh, well.' Eddie walks past him and starts to prop the books up one by one, until there are dozens of them, all with black-and-white faces on the front. 'Great writer, H. J. Martin, interesting man . . . One of the most controversial and intriguing figures of the twentieth century.'

I know for a fact that he's quoting the blurb of The Owl of the Desert. He looks wistfully at the book in the window and back at Oliver, then sighs and gives up. He adds, more casually, 'The grave's in the churchyard. Pity the house isn't open to the public.'

'Is it? A pity?' His voice is tight, but Eddie doesn't notice.

'We've got a petition somewhere, if you fancy signing it. Thousands of names. Not that we've ever had a bloody answer. But you have to think, sooner or later '

'You're probably wasting your time.'

'I doubt the solicitors pass it on to the owner, frankly. Every month we send off the new names, get a nice little note back yes, thanks very much, all duly noted. But there's never been anything else. And the house have you seen it? It's a disgrace. I mean, even if it wasn't of historical interest it's scandalous, letting a listed building go to seed like that. Must have been worth a bomb when the old man died. It was in a decent state then, but now '

Leila comes through the door with a mug of tea. 'Eddie! Let the poor gentleman look at the books. He doesn't need a rant.'

'It's all right, I'm just browsing.' Oliver smiles at her, but it seems to take an effort. He glances at the books again and takes an odd, lurching step sideways, as if he's trying to get past the display. Unexpectedly, he catches my eye.

For a second I think he hasn't recognised me, or that he has and he's going to smile at me or say hello. Then he turns sharply on his heel and strides towards the door to the street. Eddie rocks backwards, surprised.

Suddenly, for no reason, I feel my throat constricting. It's stupid. I don't care what he thinks of me. I don't care.

I say, 'You could just give him the petition now, Eddie. Now that he's actually here. Then at least you'd know he'd seen it.'

Eddie frowns and does a kind of double take. 'Er . . . ?'

Oliver pauses, so abruptly it looks like it was involuntary, on the doorstep. I see his shoulders move as he takes a deep breath.

'He owns Tyme's End. That's him. The mysterious owner. Why don't you just hand the petition over right now?' My voice comes out hoarse and spiteful.

'Oh.' Eddie and Leila swap a glance. 'Er . . .'

'He told us last night. He's staying with us. He's going to sell it.'

'Well, that's '

'To the highest bidder. He doesn't care who gets it. So it'll probably be converted into commuter flats. Won't that be nice?'

Oliver puts the flat of his hand on the door, spreading his fingers out on the glass so that a mist grows between them like mould. Without turning round, he says, 'That's right. Won't it be nice.'

Eddie says, 'Oh. Well, maybe if I could give you Malcolm's phone number the H. J. Martin Society might '

'Tyme's End is mine. I don't want it, but that's the way it is. So ' He does turn round, then. His eyes are narrowed, shining brown-green, and he's looking straight at me. One dark lock of hair has fallen over his forehead. 'Jesus! What's your problem? Why don't you mind your own business? Just leave me alone.'

He slams the door. The bell tinkles and clinks and finally rattles into silence.

'Oh dear.' Eddie coughs. 'I can see why he wouldn't want everyone in the village to know that '

I pick up my mug with both hands and take a sip, but it doesn't taste of anything. I put it carefully back down on the counter. 'Sorry, Ed. Sorry, Leila.' My voice doesn't sound like mine.

Leila says, 'Honey, are you '

But by then I'm out of the door.

I can't go to Tyme's End, and I don't know where else to go. So I go home.

III.

I get in through the front door and Mum and Dad are talking about me.

I don't realise at first. I go through to the kitchen, because I'm hungry all of a sudden. There are some leftover sausages sitting on top of the fridge and I eat one of them in two greasy, salty bites. It makes me feel queasy, but I take the other one and eat that too. I sit down at the table and put my head on my arms. I feel like crap.

Dad's voice comes through the doorway. I didn't know they were there, so it's not like I'm eavesdropping, and anyway he's talking so quietly I only catch one word in three. 'It's only . . . no friends in the village and . . . holidays . . .'

Mum says, 'I know . . . summer job . . . but . . . miserable . . . don't know what to do . . .'

'Teenager, Meg . . . but guests . . . can't let her . . .'

Mum raises her voice. 'We don't know that's why he's leaving.'

'Oh, come on. She didn't exactly make him welcome. Jesus, Meg, it's like she's going out of her way to sabotage everything.'

'Maybe she needs more attention.'

'She already gets more than Sam, and he's oh, Christ, Meg, I'm not saying she's '

I raise my head and look at the wall in front of me. I say loudly, 'Not saying she's what?'

There's a pause. In the corner of my eye I see a blurry shape come and stand in the doorway, but I keep staring at the wall.

Mum says, 'I suppose you were listening to all of that?'

'I was having breakfast. What was I supposed to do? Put my fingers in my ears?'

Dad says, 'Our guest has decided to leave.'

'So?'

'So,' Mum says, 'we were trying to arrive at an understanding of what might have influenced his decision.'

'You mean you think I drove him away.'

'No, of course not, darling.' Her voice is soft and careful. 'He said himself that it wasn't anything to do with you.'

'Right.'

'But the fact remains,' Dad says, 'that he paid for four nights in advance. And then this morning he came and told us, very politely, that he'd changed his plans.'

'So he changed his plans. People do, you know.' I sound too aggressive, but I can't help it. They're right, and I hate them. Of course it's my fault. After what happened last night, and just now with Eddie and Leila, who wouldn't cut and run? 'Sorry you've lost all that money. Why don't you feed me on bread and water for the next week, to make up for it?'

'Don't be so stupid, Bibi '

'He wouldn't take a refund,' Mum says. 'He said that as we'd reserved the room for him '

'Great. What a perfect bloody gentleman.'

Dad hisses through his teeth and swaps a look with Mum. 'Bibi, we're trying very hard to be reasonable. The B&B pays your school fees, you know. If '

'And Sam's. And his are more than mine.'

'Yes, but Sam '

'Isn't adopted.' I spit the word at him.

'Oh, for crying out loud! Sam isn't being a complete bloody pain in the arse.'

'Having to spend your own money on someone else's kid,' I say. 'Sorry, that's rough. I can see why you're so miserly. I expect you're wishing you'd never agreed to take me in '

'Bibi,' Mum says, 'this is not the issue. Stop trying to use it as a weapon. You know we love you just as much as '

'Or would do,' Dad says, 'if you weren't being so obnoxious. I am so tired of all this. Actually, sometimes I do wish I'd never '

'Chris! Don't be so ' Mum says; but it's too late.

I look up at them both and the silence grows. I can still taste the sausages. I feel sick.

Dad takes a deep breath. 'Come on, Bibs, you know what I mean. If Sam were behaving like this, I'd wish I'd never had him.'

I stand up and walk to the door. Neither of them tries to stop me.

I say, 'I'm sorry if I made Oliver go away. I didn't mean to.' Then I turn round and walk down the hall and out of the house. I shut the front door with a cool, distant click. I make my way carefully down the street, as if it's in danger of collapsing under my feet at any moment. The sky is a high, cloudless blue. The sun blazes into my face. I tilt my head back and wrap my arms round myself, squeezing until my shoulders start to ache. But I still feel cold.

At least if Oliver has gone, it means I can go back to Tyme's End.

The High Street is full of tourists, even more than yesterday, because Saturdays are always the worst. There are already a couple of people sitting outside the Cloven Hoof with pints of real ale and OS maps. But I'm not really here; I walk steadily, slowly, and somehow everyone gets out of my way. Eddie's shop is doing good business. I see someone come out, already getting his copy of the new H. J. Martin biography out of the bag, turning it over in his hands so that the cover reflects the sun. I keep walking and he glances up and stumbles out of my path just in time.

I go past the gates to Tyme's End and round the corner. I'm still treading lightly, gliding, as if I'm trying not to touch the ground. I don't want anyone to see me, or hear me, or touch me. I pretend I don't exist.

I stand in front of the cracked wall, and for a moment it occurs to me that I could go somewhere else. I could even go home.

It isn't home, though. If anywhere is home, it's Tyme's End.

It's like someone else puts my hands on the top of the wall. I don't particularly try to move, but I find myself scrambling up and over the way I always do. I catch my finger on something and it starts to bleed, but it doesn't hurt.

I walk through the long grass and the sun beats down and I'm still cold. The strange, muffled, numb feeling stays with me all the way through the darkness of the sitting room and the corridor, up the stairs, and then I'm sitting on the groundsheet on the bed, bathed in sunlight from the window, and I pick up the corners of the groundsheet and wrap myself up like a parcel, because I'm freezing. I wonder about the whisky and Coke and whether this is an emergency, but the thought of it makes the stale taste of sausage flood on to the back of my tongue. I sit very still, as if I'm inside a blister of calm that might rupture at any moment.

It isn't that Mum and Dad are angry with me. I'd be angry with me if I were them. I am angry with me. It's not that we fight. All my school friends fight with their parents. It's not that. It's just I don't belong here. I don't belong with Mum and Dad and Sam. And no matter how much they love me, they can't change that. Leila's right I'm a foreigner. I always will be. But I don't belong anywhere else, either. None of this is mine.

That's why I like Tyme's End so much. It's shipwrecked, like me.