SYMPHONIE FANTASTIQUE

a novel by

Philip Gillett

chapter 1

The clouds on the horizon glow red. It is like the reflection of a fire which is too far away to see and whose warmth does not reach a countryside gripped by frost. The young man stares at this new threat, trying to assimilate its implications. It must be a massive fire, consuming everything. He will have to retreat if it comes any closer. Even the animals will be running from it, as they escape a forest fire. Perhaps it is a forest fire. Even the radiance of the moon palls before it. The hoarfrost glittering on the meadow is tinged pink. He looks back, surprised by the erratic trail of footprints behind him.
'Yes, they're yours,' the voice tells him. 'You've come all this way.'
‘I couldn’t have done.’
‘You have.’
‘Well, well.’ He gazes at the track, marvelling. It seems as though he has crouched on the frozen earth for hours, hands thrust between his thighs for warmth. How he came to be there is missing from his memory. He starts as a bird shatters the silence with an endless skein of melody.
'It might be a trick,' the voice warns. 'It might be your enemies signalling to each other before they close in.'
The young man scans the hedges and the bare trees, cocking his head like a dog in an effort to pinpoint the sound, but the bird remains elusive, seeming always to inhabit another tree from the one on which he focuses. A second bird takes up the song, compounding his confusion. Upon this is superimposed one strand of melody after another until a cacophony fills the countryside. The young man abandons his search. He presses his elbows to his sides, shivering, leaning forward as he tries to capture a pocket of warmed air between his chest and his tee-shirt. His clothing is scanty for such a morning – cotton jacket with elasticated wrists, the crumpled tee-shirt and trousers so short that the legs of pyjamas underneath show around his ankles. His feet are numb. He looks around wonderingly, overwhelmed by the noise and the images.
‘There’s something nasty happening all right,’ he mutters, knowing that it is beyond his control.
At last a grey dawn quells the fire in the clouds. The young man feels calmer now the threat of fire has gone. As if at a signal he clambers to his feet and stumbles towards the gathering light, the rubber slippers on his bare feet flapping with every step. Cold air stings his face. Breath bursts from his mouth like steam, rhythmically at first, but more urgently and irregularly as he tires. He stumbles, his slippers slithering over the grass and leaving green marks in the rime. It is as though he is pushed by an invisible hand which nudges him as he almost regains his balance, sending him staggering sideways again. When he falls, he clambers to his feet with the over-careful movements of a child who does not understand what has occurred and is afraid of being scolded. When nothing happens, he runs on, his head lolling as his energy drains. His pace slackens in a delicious moment of relaxation as he nears his goal. He glances back again, trying to make out where he started from, but the marks disappear into the half-light. Mystified he turns back to confront the next challenge. 
The gate rests on the ground, its upper hinge broken so that only a rusting chain and the brambles hold it upright. The young man hesitates, scanning the orchard before him and seeing no cover among the stunted, wizened trees. He is visible to anybody watching from the cottage on the far side. He hesitates, uneasy at being exposed to any casual observer, yet not knowing what else to do if he is to slake his thirst.
'Your decision,' the voice says. 'You can't expect me to help you all the time.'
‘All the time? You haven’t helped me at all.’
A blackbird rises from a nearby branch, calling in alarm and making his heart beat faster. He tries to concentrate on the intricacies of its song, seeking any hidden message it might contain. Watching as it disappears into the gathering dawn, unsure whether he has missed some vital instruction. When he is alone again, he turns back to the task in hand. Climbing the gate. It sways as he swings one leg over the topmost rail. Brambles tear at his clothes. The effort of tugging himself free makes him lose his balance again. He topples, instinctively putting out his hands to protect himself as he is tossed into the long grass of the orchard. The breath is forced from his lungs as he hits the ground. He remains motionless in spite of the cold. The fall has  shocked and disoriented him. He is afraid of what he might have done to himself and bemused by the insect's view of the world. Blades of grass assume the dimensions of tree trunks in a forest which is frightening in its vastness. The damp, fresh smell of the ground assails his nostrils. From close by he can see droplets of water clinging to the blades as though the surface is waxed. He guesses that he has fallen into a wonderland.
The coldness makes him get to his feet. He rubs the elbow which bore the brunt of his fall. His gaze takes in the orchard. Fruit-growing has not proved successful in this inhospitable clime. An attempt at clearing the land has been abandoned. The piled branches resemble deer antlers heaped after a shoot. Like the stumps still rearing from the ground they are green with moss. No birds inhabit the orchard. A harrow resembling a medieval mantrap rusts in the long grass. Only when the young man begins walking does he discover that the grass also conceals hollows which can twist his ankle and jar his body. He draws back sharply as his foot lights on something hard. Parting the grass with his foot reveals an abandoned spade. Grass is already reclaiming a square of raw earth. The sod which was lifted lies upturned, held intact by the tangle of roots. It is dusted with hoarfrost. The presence of such obstacles makes the young man walk carefully. As the movement makes feeling return to his feet, every stone can be felt through the thin soles of the slippers. The sensation reminds him of walking on a beach. He imagines crossing a cove where the beach is strewn with rocks. He is trailing a long strip of seaweed which creates a furrow in the sand... Except that there is no beach, just  an erratic trail in the frost. He probes at something soft with his foot, pushing the grass aside to reveal an apple, half rotted away. The remaining flesh is brown and speckled with mould. The sight makes him shiver, resurrecting another childhood memory, this time of biting into an apple and finding a maggot. He screamed till his mother came running to see what was the matter. She bent him forward as he spat everything from his mouth, yet still he could not rid himself of the taste, or the fear that maggots were growing inside him.
  No fence divides the orchard from the vegetable plot. A smell of decay rises from a heap of cabbages and potato plants, their foliage limp and crumpled in death and covered in a shroud of frost. Only brussels sprouts still thrive in the weed-infested soil. The young man skirts the ground already dug for spring. He moves cautiously now that he is close to the cottage. Once it was a farm cottage, but renovation has put it beyond the realms of any farm worker. Yellow blinds are pulled halfway down the windows. The stone walls are mellow with lichens, contrasting with the raw reconstituted stone of the double garage. The young man skirts the lawn, where his steps will show in the frost. He half expects to hear somebody from the cottage rapping angrily on the patio doors. As he nears the back door, a steady gurgle of running water sounds from the waste pipe serving the bathroom overhead. The door is not locked. Once inside he is enveloped by the warmth and by the smells of food. The kitchen gives the same impression of affluence as the exterior of the house. In the centre is a table cluttered with the debris of breakfast. Bleached oak units line the walls. A subdued roar comes from the central heating boiler. Beside the door, a pair of Wellingtons stands on a page from The Guardian – green Wellingtons, of course. That makes him grin. He moves around the table. Through a half-open door he glimpses the hall and staircase with their flecked, beige carpet. He in about to pick up the opened bottle of milk when the sound of a flushing lavatory checks his movements. Steps on the bathroom floor overhead become incessant, like those of an animal pacing its cage. A door opens. The sounds from the bathroom are replaced by the slap of flip-flops on the landing carpet. The woman sings to herself as she comes downstairs. The young man holds his breath, wanting to escape, but numbed by indecision. He faces the hall door, convinced that like himself the woman is a player in some great construct of which she is only dimly aware. Counting the seconds till she appears.
Somebody's wife. Around thirty. Wrapped in a towel, her shoulders pink from rubbing. Strands of brown hair hanging dankly around her face. Hazel eyes growing huge as she stares at her visitor. Full lips which must be good to kiss, though now her mouth gapes in astonishment.
Clutching the towel more tightly in a gesture which only emphasises the curves of her body and does nothing to conceal the slimness of her legs. The young man breathes the scents of soap and shampoo. When she asks what he wants, her voice is strained. Her breasts rise and fall rapidly. That gives him a feeling of power.
'What's your name?' he counters, trying to speak in the authoritative manner of policemen in television serials. He surprises himself by remembering what he has seen on television. All his past life must be hidden in the shadows of his mind. It is a disturbing thought – all those dramas locked in his mind, which can spill out at any time.
'I'm not alone. My husband's upstairs.'
The words break into his thoughts. He cannot stop the muscles of his stomach from growing tense at the sound of the voice shrill with fear, though he is not certain whether her words are true. He knows that he should escape, yet he is fascinated by her breasts inadequately concealed by the towel. He hears himself saying, `There's no need to be afraid.' There is eagerness in his voice. He wants to ask whether he might drink the milk, but some desperate emotion brightens her eyes. She glances towards something hidden from him in the hall. He wonders whether he has guessed wrongly and her husband is edging downstairs, weapon in hand. 
A sound from beneath the table makes them both jump. Scornful green eyes meet his own as a cat emerges, its tail erect. While he is distracted, the woman seizes her opportunity. He glimpses the movement from the corner of his eye. He knows that everything must be explained to her before a terrible course of events is set in train. His inactivity is broken. He starts forward, intent on averting the disaster. The cat screeches as he trips over it. Claws gouge his ankle. He leans on the table to steady himself, his foot stinging, beads of blood welling along the scratch. With tail waving triumphantly the cat turns its back on him and slithers into the alcove beside the boiler, to glower at its enemy who limps into the hall. The front door is open. Cold air fans his face. He sees the woman in the driveway. She screams. He knows that he must stop her, yet he cannot relate her alarm to his predicament. Her presence is remote. It could be the sound of somebody calling from a mountain top. He cries, 'Don't run away,' but his voice will not carry. He knows that if she escapes, his life is at risk. She has already reached the gate.
'Please,' he calls, fascinated despite his fear as she hitches up the towel so that the fabric rides taut over her buttocks. The pleading and the reasoning are superfluous. The words he wants to utter stay in his throat. She glances back, her face gaunt with fear. That disconcerts him, but before he can reassure her, she has dodged into the lane, to be concealed by the hedge. Her screams rend the dawn. He knows that somebody must hear. She will tell of the man who frightened her. All his dreams; she has taken all his dreams. He wants a place where nobody will find him, where he can rest till the pain and the upset are no more. He breaks into the familiar shuffling run, forcing his legs to respond now that stiffness sets in. Reaching the lane. Running away from the woman, the cold chilling his sweat. Remembering such incidental details as how her wedding ring gleamed incongruous against her nakedness. There was no opportunity to explain his purpose. Like a small boy who knows that he must account for his actions, he marshals excuses for when the voice questions him. All he wanted was some milk – milk and some food. If she had not come downstairs at that moment, if she had spent another five minutes in the bath, he would have taken what he wanted and left. With the milk bottle on its side, she would have assumed that the cat knocked it over and licked up the milk. She should not notice that a handful of cereal was missing. He never intended to hurt her.
The lane is narrow. The banks on either side are surmounted by walls, so that he feels like a sheep being herded along a pen. The memory of woman's face as she glanced back will not leave him – her huge eyes with their fevered brightness merging in his mind with the glow of the wedding ring, both images spiralling beyond reach.
  As his body passes beyond fatigue, running becomes easier. There is a moment when he feels as free as a hare. He wants to run for ever, to bound over hedges and ditches so that nobody will catch him. When people search, he will emulate the hare and go to earth in woods and thickets. The woman's eyes stay with him, growing ever larger in the spiral of golden brightness. He wants to laugh at the grotesque image filling his mind. He is panting, aware of the pounding in his head as though it threatens to explode. The steps thudding on the metalled lane sound laboured and unsteady, belying his belief that he is making good progress. Though this puzzles him, he cannot let it detract from his primary concern which is getting away from the woman. He will know that he is safe when her screams no longer reach him, but he finds it difficult to be sure whether the noises he hears are real, or whether his mind is playing tricks. The spiral which has her eyes at its centre has vanished. Instead he confronts her face as she first glimpsed him, her mouth sagging open like a fish. The picture is frozen before him like a penance which he must always carry– 
Something is hurtling towards him and instinctively puts up his hands to protect himself, knowing already that his gesture is in vain. Screeching brakes. Blaring horn. His legs will not support him. His body crumples. The surface of the road rises to meet him with unimaginable hardness. He closes his eyes. The image of the woman's face stays with him through the noise of breaking glass and crumpling metal. She comes closer, turning, turning, thrusting from the darkness, her smile transformed into a grimace. He is engulfed by her eyes which erupt like volcanoes. He is falling into the fires deep inside them. And the screams go on– 
'What the hell's the matter with you?'
Fighting to keep the image of her– 
'Are you drunk or something?'
Imagine that the towel has fallen. She is so unimaginably beautiful– 
'Can you get up?'
How he wants to be closer– 
'I didn't even hit you!'
Words impinging on his consciousness. He does not move. Too much is happening for him to comprehend. He wants to be left alone, but hands grasp his jacket and pull him upright. He keeps his eyes tightly closed. This is all he can do to shut out what is happening around him. His captor is shouting, 'Look at my car – look at it!' and shaking him, forcing the breath from his body, yet still he clings to the image of the woman, knowing that she is important. Remembers her singing as she came downstairs, unaware of his presence. So soft a voice. So intimate. If only her mood had not changed. 
With an effort he draws his thoughts to the present, trying to summon the strength to shrug himself free of the driver. His effort is fruitless. That deflates him. He fails in everything. The very thought makes him want to weep.
'I'll land you one in a minute.'
The anger is unmistakable, making the young man open his eyes. His captor wears glasses. For a moment he wants to laugh at the unexpectedness of this discovery, but the grip is not weakening. Although bespectacled, his captor is powerfully built. His clothes are mud-spattered, as if he has come from a farm or a building site.
'What were you running down the middle of the road like a fucking loony for?'
The young man says sharply, 'Don't call me that.' The laughter which he felt has disappeared. Even the driver is made cautious by this outburst of anger. The grip lessens.
'Look at it.' Pointing to the car. The young man looks. One wing is crumpled against the bank. Fragments of glass glitter on the road.
'I'm not paying for that lot.'
'I can't pay.'
'You're paying right enough. I'm not losing my no claims bonus because you don't look where you're fucking going. You ought to thank me you're not under the wheels. Now what's your name and address?'
'No...'
'Name and address – come on. I’ve had enough of you messing me about.'
'I don't know.' Looking at the driver and all the time seeing the woman's eyes. He wants to explain what has happened, but even through his confusion he cannot mistake the menace in his captor’s expression.
'You think you're a fucking comedian. I'm not laughing, am I?’
Remembering a machine in a museum – put in a penny and the sailor laughed and laughed. 
'I'll lay into you in a minute. Now what's your name?'
'Robin. My name's Robin.'
The sky is bright now. He marvels at the change which has taken place without his noticing.
'Robin what? What's your other name?'
'Leave me alone. Please. You don't understand.'
'You're right – I don't understand. You know what we're doing? You and me are going to find the nearest telephone and we're getting the police to sort this out.'
Words resonating in Robin's head, driving away other concerns. The police will take his freedom. He must escape. He should have kept to the fields – he sees that clearly. And the woman – is she still running from him? How many people have been alerted by her screams? Have they banded together to look for him? She will be conscious of her nakedness now. The men who are neighbours will watch her covertly, never seeing her in the same way again.
The driver no longer holds him. It is scarcely credible. Robin fights the urge to laugh at this good fortune as he watches the man retrieving something from the glove compartment. Now is the moment to escape, while the driver's attention is distracted.
Robin's steps seem so slow that capture is only a matter of time. He tries to move faster, but his legs will not respond. The realisation dawns that he is heading towards the cottage and the vigilantes summoned by the woman's screams, yet if he slows any more, his pursuer is sure to catch him. The lane is a trap. The only escape is to scramble up the bank and climb the wall which looks so formidable. He imagines the driver dragging him back to the road as he tries to cling to the stones; imagines the woman making her statement at a police station. 
'You've got yourself in a pretty pickle,' the voice says. 'I'm not going to help you this time.'
The pain in his feet and calves becomes more insistent. The effort of curling his toes to stop the slippers from falling off does not help. Nausea makes him gulp for air. Rounding a bend; praying that he will not come face to face with another car. His breathing grows laboured and uneven again. He longs to be in the fields again, where the grass is soft and he is in command of everything which happens to him. He can hear the driver shouting. The sound seems to come from far behind him. His pace slows as he stares up at the wall. The decision is made. He will climb the bank.
No more running. No more curling his toes. Relaxation eases the pain. For a few seconds Robin summons his reserves of energy as he assesses the new challenge. No time for delay. Climbing. His feet sliding on the earth, fingers closing on stones above him. If he falls, he will surely be caught. Edges of stone tear at his bare skin. Imagine he is a soldier leaving a trench, unable to turn back under threat of death. When the earth falls away beneath his feet. he clings all the more desperately, praying that the tufts of grass will not give way. People in films haul themselves up by their arms, but he is not strong enough to hold him. 
Now the bank is negotiated, the larger stones of the wall can serve as steps. Hauling himself upwards, his feet digging into crevices till he can feel the roughness through the rubber slippers. Spreadeagled against the wall as he catches his breath, fearful of the delay and knowing that he must go on. Panting as much as when he was running. Sweating.
'He's coming, he's coming,' the voice says gleefully. 'And you're a sitting duck.'
Suddenly his body feels possessed of a great sensitivity. Every touch of the stone sears him. He takes a deep breath. Not far now. Taking chances with the footholds. Astride the wall. The coping stones are like blades which tear  his clothes. And then launching himself forwards. Falling, his body jarring.
His forehead aches. He opens his eyes to see the field sloping downwards to trees. At least he did not fall backwards into the lane. Birds chatter close by. The thought that his pursuer might be close makes him rise to his feet and begin running again. Going downhill is easy. Cows break off from grazing to watch his progress. Rooks caw their approval from high, leafless branches. Not far now. Faster and faster, grunting as his body jolts over dips in the ground. His head lolls forward. In seconds rather than minutes he will have reached the shelter of the trees– 
He is tossed forward as though strong hands push him. Arms flail as he strives to regain his balance, but he cannot stop himself from falling. His body is jarred again as he pitches on the ground. Rolling over and over with the momentum of running. When he grasps at something to stop himself, it is something prickly. 
Catching his left ankle in a hole arrests his fall. His face contorts. He clutches at the grass, almost hoping that prickles will distract his mind from the pain. Whining sounds come from his throat. A nightmare takes his thoughts – of people coming for him when he is unable to escape and of hands lifting him roughly. He has a hazy memory of something similar happening before – of people telling him that they were helping him. Theirs was a world of swinging doors, polished floors, disinfectant smells and echoing voices. They said they would be gentle, but they deceived him.
'You've got yourself in a right state now,' the voice says. 'It's your own fault. You'd better think of a way out of it if you don't want to be caught.'
As the pain eases, Robin becomes still. His breathing is easier. Frozen ground sucks from his body all the heat generated by exercise. He shivers. His feet sting from the scratches. The coldness and dampness dispel the optimism which made him escape. Flight no longer seems such a good idea. It has thrust him in an unknown and frightening world instead of giving him the freedom which he imagined.
When he opens his eyes, the faces of the cattle are all around him. Steam rises from their nostrils. Dozens of brown eyes watch with detached curiosity. The legs are matted with mud and sturdy as prison bars. The huge bodies bring a darkness to where he lies, allowing only glimpses of the sky. He looks with awe at the huge udders, wondering whether the cows have mistaken him for a calf. He imagines nuzzling against the warm udders in search of milk. The thought reminds him of the thirst which drove him into the cottage. He looks into the faces again, suddenly annoyed by their vacant expressions.
'Don't you know it's rude to stare? Haven't you been taught common courtesy?'
Then he smiles at his own silliness. The animals gaze back solemnly. He  shouts, 'You're stupid – all of you,' but his words are deadened by the circle of bodies. The rooks in the tall trees pursue their wordless chorus, indifferent now. Unsettled by his outburst the cows move away.
'What are you going for?' he calls. I haven't finished yet.' 
But the cows pay no heed. He leans on one arm, watching them lumber to the far side of the field. Coldness numbs his hands, taking away the pain of the fall. When the cattle are so far away that he knows they will not return, he pulls at the grass.
'I hadn't finished,' he complains, but there is nobody to listen. He rises cautiously, putting the weight of his body on his right leg. In spite of the lancing pain his left leg does not give way. He hobbles towards the trees. They no longer seem so attractive a goal. First the women turned away from him; now it is the cows. He tells himself that it does not matter. It is all in the past. He opens his mouth and expels the breath slowly so that it rises like a veil before his face, obscuring the world. The effect only lasts a few moments.
What looked like a copse from the distance proves to be no more than a  few straggling trees along the banks of the stream. The rising ground beyond marks the far side of the valley. Twigs snap beneath his feet. He stumbles on a root hidden in the blanket of leaves. A further spasm of pain through his ankle makes him grimace. At least he feels less conspicuous than he did in the middle of the field. When the pain eases, he looks back to the lane. Nobody in sight. No sound of disturbance. At last he is free to rest for a short while. He sinks to the ground, cradling his ankle. Even the rooks pay no attention.
The woman must be back in her cottage. The police will have already arrived to take her statement. Perhaps the driver called at the very same cottage to summon them. Robin shudders.
The spiders’ webs are strung between the branches above his head. Moisture clings to the strands. They resemble the traceried roof of a cathedral. He begins to understand that he has been led there to pray. All the events have been for this. It is something he has never done before. The impulse mystifies him, but it cannot be dismissed as a passing whim. He stares at the webs, suspicious of the spiders’ power over him.
'Confess,' the voice intones. 'Confess and I'll grant you absolution.’ 
Robin kneels, his head bent low till his hair touches the dying leaves and the smell of decay is all-pervasive. The words do not come now that he is ready. Half-suspecting that some trick is being played upon him, he tries to remember passages from the Bible heard as a child. What he clearly recalls is a scene from a television serial watched while he was doing his homework – the neatly-dressed boy in Sunday school effortlessly reciting verse after verse, the camera playing over the gaudy, sentimental images of Jesus and his disciples pinned to the walls of the church hall. Jesus always looked taller and more imposing than his fellows.
'God – please help me, God. Let me get away. I don't want to be chased any more. Everything has been a mistake...' 
Words coming more easily once the prayer is begun, though Robin knows them to be banal.
'No good talking to God when you're a sinner,' the voice chides. 'No forgiveness for all the things you've done.'
A zephyr makes the webs tremble, disturbing a spider which appears from nowhere to scuttle to the centre of its universe. There it hangs motionless, aware of everything. Robin watches, fascinated. Again the web is shaken. This time the spider scuttles back to its secret place.
When Robin tries to pray again, the words do not come. Still kneeling on the damp leaves he stares at the rooks in the topmost branches. How he envies such freedom. 
He is not sure how far he has travelled. His journey began in darkness, when time had no meaning. Minutes and hours were like children's building blocks, to be piled upon each other and then knocked down again with any passing whim. All he knows is that his previous life is so remote that it could belong to another century – or another universe. Perhaps that is what has happened. He has been put into another universe by mistake – or on purpose. The latter thought is alarming. It means that somebody is controlling him. Perhaps he has travelled further than he knows. He might be from another planet, or another galaxy. At any moment his masters might call him back. The problem is how he can hide from them. Or are they observing him and  recording his reactions? The thought makes him shiver. There might be electrodes implanted in his brain, picking up his thoughts and transmitting them to his masters. They will know that he has realised what is happening. 
One image is vivid – he cannot understand that, unless they have programmed memories into him. He was sitting up in bed and not knowing where he was. The room was dimly lit. Around him were recumbent figures. His first thought was to escape. Moving carefully. Nobody stirred as he searched for his clothes in the cupboards. Then he found that he had forgotten how to dress. It took him a long time. He smiles at the recollection. The only sound around him was the snoring. He can remember peeping into a brightly-lit and empty corridor with crazed white tiles extending halfway up the walls. There was a smell of polish and disinfectant. He could hear muffled talking. Somebody was laughing. He crept from the noise, through swing doors which led to a landing. They sprang closed behind him. There was nobody to stop him. Ahead was the staircase describing its endless spiral. On the stairs he was afraid that somebody would appear. Glimpsing the outside world through the windows. Afraid that this was a trick and that the staircase led to another cell. Instead it ended in a lobby. So easy to push open the emergency doors. He was in the outside world which he had glimpsed so tantalisingly. He wanted to laugh at his cleverness in outwitting all the people who sought to imprison him. After that the voice told him what to do. He is not clear what happened. He relied on the voice.
If only he was able to bear the cold. Winter must be part of the great construct which has been arranged for him. The voice guides him. He wonders whether it is leading him to death by exposure, but he suppresses the thought quickly – it is not safe to speculate about somebody who can see into his mind. Instead he tries to recall happy occasions, but the people from his past are like figures seen through a telescope – remote and curious in their foibles. He cannot be certain that they are really people he knows, or whether another trick is being played upon him. His gaze turns to the ground where the hoarfrost is patterned with his stumbling steps, like a drunkard’s steps. Cows graze on the far side of the field unconcerned by his presence. He wants the voice to tell him what to do, but it is silent. Perhaps contact has been lost and they are no longer controlling him. The thought gives him a sense of release, but also of apprehension. He might be free, but he does not know where he is, or what to do. His gaze focuses on his feet. The slippers are torn and unrecognisable with their covering of mud. He picks at them, wanting to make them pristine again, but not knowing how. There will be other cottages, other women – he accepts that. He will go far away. He will find a church. He will live like a monk, shrouded in darkness and mystery.
'How silly you are,' says the voice. 'You don't need their superstitions any more. I'm guiding you.'
Not sure whether to be pleased or dispirited by the voice. It is a relief to know that he is not alone.  He wants to remind the voice that it told him to pray, but he dare not show confusion. He rises, steadying himself against a branch. When he glances back, nobody is following.
He kneels where the cattle drink, cupping his hands to draw water. His body is like a dry sponge, absorbing all the liquid he can drink. The cold water is like a lance forced down his throat. He shudders. At least his thirst is assuaged. Afterwards he limps from the drinking place, dampness chilling his lips.
'Why didn't you listen to me all along?' the voice is saying. 'Trust me and nothing can go wrong.'
The morning is bright now, the light revealing every detail of the landscape. Robin’s fear of being seen comes back, making him stay close to the meagre shelter offered by the trees. He tries to run, till his ankle gives way and he is forced to limp at a snail's pace. The mud by the stream pulls at his slippers.
Society requires that each individual shall contribute to the well-being and prosperity of the community. Where did he hear those words? Many strange phrases steal into his thoughts. He suspects that the voice puts them there. If so, there is a good reason. He must trust the voice. As he walks, he makes a circle with his mouth and blows through it, pretending to exhale a ring of tobacco smoke. The effect gives him childish pleasure. People are beginning work for the day who know nothing of his plight. He has evaded all his captors. He glances back. The cows are returning to the stream. The rooks still caw. No other living things visible, though he knows that many tiny creatures must be waiting for him to move away. He stoops, examining with the objective curiosity of a naturalist the fragile spiders’ webs strung between blades of grass. He is saddened by the realisation that he cannot know their world, though it is so close. The desire to pray has gone, as though it was never more than an aberration. He walks on, more than ever aware of his solitude. Hours must have passed since the woman's screams filled his ears. Now the only sound is the singing of birds.
An improvised bridge of wooden sleepers. Several times Robin’s slippers stick in the mud leading to it. The mud coats his feet as well as his slippers and is caked on the legs of his pyjama trousers. The mud on the other side of the bridge is just as bad. He wishes that he had not gone that way, but it is too late to change his mind.
'Run,' the voice urges when he is free. 
Obediently he shuffles along the narrow field occupying the valley. Once more his ankle gives way after a few steps. 
'Run,' voice insists, brooking no argument. Three times Robin tries and on each occasion his ankle forces him to give up. How relieved he is to reach the barbed wire fence where he has an excuse to pause before crawling underneath. He expects more orders from the voice, but nothing happens.
Beside the field and parallel to the stream is an unmade lane, rendered almost invisible from a distance by bushes and trees. Tyre tracks mark the passage of a tractor. The dank smell belongs to a place which is never fully exposed to the sun. Robin feels safer than he did in the lane bordered by walls. Here no cars can disturb him. Nobody is following him. For all the world cares, he is invisible. If a tractor did come, it makes so much noise that he could escape long before he was discovered. 
He picks his way along the crest of the ruts. No attempt at running now. In places pools almost cover the lane, forcing him to edge along the bank to avoid them, clinging to the branches to prevent himself from toppling into the stagnant, foul-smelling water. Those moments make him feel uncomfortable. He wishes that he had kept to the fields.
What is it like to live in a cottage with country on every side, where the nights are quiet and no one is close? He wonders what wives feel when they are left alone. No chance to ask now. He will not be able to go into another cottage.
The lane descends imperceptibly, away from the course of the stream. The fields are left behind. Trees tower on either side, roots protruding from the bare earth of the banks. The incessant barking of a dog means that a habitation cannot be far away. As if to emphasise this, there comes the distant whine of a motorcycle changing through gears. Paradoxically the wood becomes thicker. He walks with a steady, bobbing gait, the pain in his ankle kept tolerable by holding his leg stiff. The musty smell of the wood is not unpleasant. As the sounds of an outside world recede, he has to quell the unreasoning fear that the wood will go on for ever. His steps cease. Listening to the songs of birds and the wind moving the branches. The worm of anxiety in his mind is magnified into desperation – he does not want to spend all his life in that place, in spite his desire to avoid contact with people. The prospect of sleeping among trees fills him with dread. Animals will call to each other, telling of the stranger. They will come to smell his scent and feel his warmth. He remembers the animals seen in zoos. Now he is trapped in their world. The prospect makes him shiver.
Walking. Willing the dog to bark, to take away the irrational fear that the world of wild animals is the only world. What he cannot understand is how he came to be in the country. He remembers the joy of freedom once he escaped into the night. After that there is nothing until he found himself in the field. 
Two stout wooden posts flank a gap in the fence; the rusting straps of hinges indicate that there was once a gate. Robin's pace becomes faster now he leaves the lane. He has a destination in view – his eyes are set on the open sky which must surely mark the boundary of the wood. His steps slow as he discovers that what he thought was open country is no more than a cricket ground in a clearing. Judging by the height of the grass and the luxuriance of the weeds, no cricket has been played there for many seasons. A trail of beaten-down vegetation leads to the pavilion on the far side. The frost is thawing now. Robin can feel the blades of grass brushing his ankles. His trousers and pyjamas are sodden.
Trees overhang the pavilion, turning its roof green. Loose wooden shingles and yellowing leaves clog the gutter – starlings bathe in the water. Rain from the overflowing gutter has spilled down the boarded walls, saturating the wood.
Planks creak as Robin steps on the verandah facing the pitch. One plank is missing. Weeds grow through the space. Some of the windows facing the pitch have been boarded over. As though the dust-covered glass in the others is not sufficient to hide the interior from prying eyes, squares of curtain are pinned inside. No two squares have the same pattern. The colours have faded. Condensation has left brown stains. Robin hesitates. A starling watches from the handrail. From the surrounding trees birds form a noisy chorus of spectators. 
Seconds stretch into minutes before he dares to go forward. His movement startles the starling, which flies back to the gutter to chatter its warning. His weight makes the rotting planks sag, so that he fears they will collapse. He hesitates by the door. The paint around the handle is shiny with use. He almost hopes that the door will be locked. Instead it swings open as he turns the handle.
The enveloping heat startles him. Fumes catch his throat, making him cough. The red glow from an oil heater illuminates a rug made from scraps of rag. As his eyes become accustomed to the gloom, Robin makes out a heap of blankets on a camp bed. Running the length of the rear wall is a wooden bench where cricketers changed into flannels. Now it is piled with kettles and blackened saucepans. Mingling with the stench of half-burnt paraffin is the smell of cats. 
The old woman watches as the starling did – motionless, suspicious of the intruder. She is hunched in an armchair – a tiny creature lost in coats and blankets. The red glow of the fire reflects on her scalp with its remaining wisps of hair. She clutches a tabby cat. Like its mistress it glares at the intruder. The draught from the door makes the heater hiss, a yellow flame curling fussily around the red element. 
The old woman's mouth moves as though she is trying to speak. Her slowness irritates Robin. He clenches his hands as he waits for the words to come. 
'Where is this?' he asks when his patience is exhausted. His voice is strained. The wood all around adds resonance to his tone so that even he is impressed by its majesty. He waits for her answer. The only sounds are the old woman's laboured breathing and the hissing of the heater. His gaze passes over the racks of lockers behind her, their doors broken. In the corner is a cardboard box overflowing with clothes, as though ready for a children's fancy dress party.
'Say something,' he urges more gently.
No answer.
'Is there a town nearby?'
Still she does not reply.
'Who are you?' he asks, perplexed. Deep inside him is the desire to confide his adventures, for he knows she has nobody to tell. He searches her face, wanting to be reassured of her accumulated wisdom, unwilling to believe that age can have taught her nothing.
'I ain't done nothing wrong,' she whines. 'I ain't touched nothing. It's all in there.' Pointing to the lockers behind her. 'I minds me own business.'
His hopes die.
'So you stay here and mind your own business,' he sums up, keeping his voice stern.
'I ain't touched nothing.'
Such a long silence as he wonders what to do.
'You came in here because it wasn't locked and you stayed,' he accuses, mimicking the tones of an officious bus inspector remembered from his childhood. This sudden revelation of his past surprises him. He wants to search his mind for more memories of his earlier life, but the old woman is talking.
'It's cold,' she complains. 'Can't you close the door?'
'This place stinks.'
'It's cold,' she murmurs as though forgetting his presence. Her chair rocks backwards and forwards, squeaking faintly. He stares into her face, hoping to inspire terror, but his power is compromised by his hesitation. It stirs his anger that she should puncture his veneer of power so easily. Somehow he must force her to take notice of him. He kicks the door closed, willing his ferocity to communicate itself to her. At least the chair stops rocking. The draught makes the flame splutter noisily. Magnified by the curved reflector, its image flickers over the ceiling. He wants time to think, but that is not allowed. The cat grows bored and wriggles free from the old woman's grasp. With tail erect it stalks across the floor to slide into the darkness under the bench. 
'Right,' Robin says. 'Now we're going to sort this out.' He speaks loudly, trying to inject menace in his tone. His ankle throbs. He straightens his back. That makes the old woman seem frail and insignificant as he towers over her. He sneers, 'I didn't expect to find a geriatric squatter here.'
She stares, not answering. Perhaps she has not heard. He sees her legs, shapeless in woollen stockings, and he tries to imagine a time when she was beautiful, when men watched her covetously. Now he cannot bear to touch her. 
'Living in a pavilion,' he muses. ‘Strange. I wonder why you do that.' When there is no response he continues more loudly, 'I wonder why you do that. I think I shall have to tell the cricket team about this.'
She opens her mouth.
'I can't hear you,' he booms.
Lisping, `There isn't one now. There isn't a cricket team.' Her voice is vibrant with fear.
Encouraged, he goes closer. Her hands tremble.
'Hurt her,' the voice urges, startling him. 'Show her real pain.'
But still Robin cannot bring himself to touch her. As he looks at her hands, the skin barely covering the structures beneath, he is reminded of the yellow, scrawny feet of a chicken. He scratches his chin and muses out loud, 'I don't know what we're going to do about this.'
The old woman quivers as though somebody is shaking her chair. Even her voice is unsteady as she croaks, 'I can't hear you.'
'I don't know what we're going to do about this,' Robin booms, enjoying the way his words reverberate around the pavilion. 'I wasn't going to come here in the first place, but now I can't leave things as they are.'
He waits for the implications of his words to sink in, but the old woman is not listening. Her knuckles grow white from the pressure of gripping the chair. Her wedding ring catches the light. He marvels at the thought of her as a girl, excited by the presence of her beau.
'So what are we going to do?' he muses, leaning closer.
She shrinks from him. He is close enough to hear her laboured breathing. 'This place is a health hazard,' he announces, straightening so that he towers over her again. Her eyes are hidden in the hollows of her face as she turns away.
'We could set fire to it – get rid of the filth that way,' he suggests, 'but what are we going to do with you?'
‘Let her die in the pyre,' the voice urges. 'That's what she wants – dying with her cat.'
'Is that what you want?' he asks.
No answer.
The voice is saying, 'Can't you hear the crackling flames destroying the filth?'
'It's no way of life, this,' Robin tells her, his gesture taking in the whole pavilion. 'You can't live in a changing room.'
Her fear and her lack of response boost his courage.
'You're causing me a lot of problems,' he confides. 'One answer would be locking you away – what do you think of that?'
'Burn, burn,' the voice chants.
'I don't have to bother what happens to you,' Robin says with authority. 'I'm trying to be kind.' He stares into her face, trying to tease out her emotions, wanting her to know the full import of what he is saying. Grasping her arm in spite of his revulsion. Feeling blood vessels like old, brittle cables and bones thinned with age, like those of a chicken. The warmth of the oil heater almost burns his leg. He is close enough to be aware of her rank smell now he is used to the stench of paraffin and of the cat. He looks into dim, bleary eyes, the lids red and sagging. This is what bodies come to. He lets go her arm. His hand feels soiled. He steps back in distaste. She watches – a wounded animal watching a wolf. His gaze travels around the pavilion as he tries to discover the essence of her life. Wood stained the colour of treacle. Crudely-darned clothes on a line sagging over the heater. On a card table with a stained baize top are packets and tins of food beside a rusting paraffin cooking stove. The green-painted wicker commode has no lid. He looks away in distaste.
'How can you live like this?' he marvels, trying to imagine the pavilion at night when the only sound is the wind, buffeting the trees and tearing at the singles on the roof. Each night will be the same for the rest of her life. 
'Aren't you afraid?' he asks.
'Eh?'
'Doesn't it make you afraid?' he shouts, injecting anger in his voice. She seems mesmerised. He enjoys that.
'You're the big man now,' the voice says. 'You can do anything.'
'Why don't you answer?' Robin hisses, bending close to shake a response from the old woman. She is mumbling. He cannot understand what she is saying. That angers him all the more. He steps back, exasperated. The hot metal of the fireguard sears his leg through the thin fabric. He stumbles, his arms flailing as he tries to recover his balance. The incident is over before he realises what has happened. The smell of unburnt paraffin becomes pervasive. He stares at the heater lying on its side. Yellow flames lap the metal. Blue flames creep across the floor towards him as the escaping paraffin ignites. He backs away. The inrush of air as he opens the door makes the flames burn more eagerly, their roar mingling with the cries of the old woman. He starts to run, the boards of the verandah bouncing beneath his steps, his breath rising like clouds of steam before his face. The morning is welcoming in its brightness. His body jars as he leaps down to the grass, but the damage to his ankle is forgotten as he runs across the cricket pitch, his lungs pervaded with the smells of paraffin and smoke. Only when the cries no longer reach him does he look back. Black smoke billows from the doorway of the pavilion. Behind the curtains is the fevered yellow glow of the flames. Suddenly his body has no strength. He has to force himself to keep moving. There is safety in the wood, if he can only reach it. His eyes water from the smoke. He knows that the old woman will not escape. Perhaps it is part of the great construct that he should be the instrument of her death. He is only obeying the voice. He shivers. The abandoned cricket field is a fitting place for a funeral pyre.
A colourless sky glimpsed through branches. An unmade lane. A smell of dampness. No sounds except the shrill cries of birds and the roar of the fire. He had stopped moving. A blackbird hops across Robin's path and rises into the trees. Sometimes he suspects that he is being spied upon. He wonders how far he is from the nearest town. The old woman never did tell him. 
Time to make his way back.
'You did a good job,' the voice encourages. 'Turn and have a look.'
He glances back at the billowing smoke, feeling no emotion. Tiredness steals over him, slowing his pace. His legs ache from the running. His twisted ankle is red and swollen, the skin crisscrossed with scratches. His trousers and pyjama bottoms cling to his legs. All night he has been on the move, running, climbing walls and forcing his way through hedges. He has fallen countless times. He wants the chance to rest. What he cannot understand is why a cricket pitch should be built in such a remote place and why after so much effort, it should be abandoned. Once the pavilion rang with the voices and laughter of rival teams. That will not happen again.
  The smoke will be seen for miles. Somebody will be curious, but will he think it is a bonfire or will he remember the old pavilion? If the alarm is raised, Robin knows that it will arrive too late to help the old woman.
Only then does he remember the cat. The voice told him nothing about letting the animal die. Its fate worries him more than that of the woman. Was it faithful to its mistress till the end, or did self-preservation compel it to escape? He knows little about the instincts of cats. Strange creatures live in forests. Both magic and evil are there. Robin stops to listen. Birds mock his futile attempts to escape. Laughter echoes between the trees. He looks all around, but nobody is in sight. Putting his hands over his ears does not blot out the sound. He runs further into the wood, but fatigue and the pain shooting through his ankle soon check his progress. When he stops, the laughter goes on and on. His ears face and his ears sting from the cold. He thinks the devil will never leave him.

chapter 2

Silence. Robin opens his eyes. The light is dim. He can make out the  elaborate cornice of a high ceiling. From a long flex hangs an unlit bulb in a tinted glass shade. The bed is comfortable. The crisp sheets rustle as he moves. He moves his head cautiously, taking in his surroundings. It is an enormous room. Light seeps around green velvet curtains extending from floor to ceiling. Two windows. On the low table between them is a green glass vase filled with dried flowers. A further shift of his head reveals a wardrobe and dressing table of pale oak. The bedside table has a tumbler and a water jug on its glass-covered surface. Everything about the room is elegant and clean. Even the brass door handle gleams. No smell of disinfectant here – that is something which lingers in his memory. He stares at the ceiling again, puzzled but grateful for the warmth and the peace. His feet do not reach the bottom of the bed. The sensation of cotton sheets against his skin is  enjoyable, though not wearing pyjamas makes him feel vulnerable in that strange place. He cranes his neck sideways till he can look down to where the thick green carpet is overlain by a white rug. From the corner of his eye he glimpses a cord hanging from the ceiling, the pull dangling near the headboard. Curiosity tempts him to pull it, except that the result might be a bell ringing somewhere else in the house rather than the light going on. He rolls over, impatient now that sleep is out of the question. In some way he cannot understand, he suspects that a joke is being played on him. The room has the unreal look of a place where nobody lives. He can imagine it to be a stage set, with technicians already waiting to dismantle the flimsy walls to dismantle them when his scene has been played–
A movement of the door handle attracts his attention. The door opens slowly. A girl in her late teens peeps into the room. Blonde hair hangs around her face. She grins when she sees that he is awake. The door opens wider as caution is abandoned. With increasing anticipation and interest Robin watches her advancing upon him. The firm breasts outlined under the clinging white sweater fascinate him. Tight denim jeans emphasise the shapeliness of her hips which she swings enticingly with each step. Her fine-boned face is on the edge of laughter. Her eyes are striking – blue and alive – which makes him suspect that discovering their secrets will be exciting. Robin finds them disturbing. Her cloying perfume makes him breathe deeply, so that he can saturate himself with her scent.
'I hoped you'd be awake this time.' 
Her simple statement sounds charged with innuendo. Uneasily Robin settles deeper in the bed.
'How are you feeling?' she enquires.
'All right.'
'That's good.'
'I looked in earlier.'
He raises his eyebrows at the news, uneasy in the face of such a knowing smile from a stranger.
'I had to undress you,' she confides.
He wonders whether to thank her, or whether that will make her break into laughter. Questions crowd his mind – like what she has done with his clothes. He watches helplessly.
'And I washed you,' she adds. 'That was strange. I've never washed anybody else before. Made me feel like a nurse.'
He raises his eyebrows.
'We've never had a guest like you before,' she reveals.
He tries to answer, but his throat is so dry that no words come. That amuses her. She leans close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body. With exaggerated enunciation she asks, 'Are you English? Can you understand me?'
He nods, overwhelmed by her closeness.
'I'll have to be careful what I say in that case, won't I?'
He gazes at her in adoration.
'What shall we call you?' she asks.
He wants to answer if only to please her. His lips try to form his name, but her scent paralyses him. She knows the effect she is having on him, because she has difficulty suppressing her laughter. That changes everything. It makes him wonder whether she is really a temptress. The possibility fills him with frustration directed both at her and at his helplessness. 
As though a switch has been thrown, his paralysis is broken. He clenches his hands under the bedclothes.
'What shall we call you?' she repeats more loudly.
'Piss off.'
'You're Mr Pissoff are you? I've never heard that name before.'
He avoids looking directly at her, torn between the desire to admire her body and the knowledge that the ecstasy her presence first brought is irretrievably lost.
'I'll get mummy,' she announces in businesslike tones, turning her back on him abruptly. Instinctively he watches the tilting of her buttocks as she goes to the door. Something of the excitement is rekindled, but at one remove, as though he is watching a film. As she leaves, she calls, 'Don't go away,' in that mischievous tone which he thought was gone. That confuses him all the more. 
He tries to relax when the door closes behind her, but the visit has unsettled him. All the questions he should have asked remain unspoken. As a distraction he makes an effort to recall the sequence of events after running across the overgrown cricket pitch to escape the fire, hoping this will provide a clue to how he came to be in bed. His mind remains obstinately blank. He presses his fists against the mattress in mute frustration. The knowledge should be locked in his mind, but he suspects that the girl has raided his thoughts, searching out the vital information to render him helpless. It is disconcerting how easily people can enter his mind. The tension eases gradually, till only the lingering perfume is left to prove that the girl did not belong in a dream. Robin gazes at the ceiling once more, trying to decide on his next course of action. Even his watch has disappeared. Suddenly it becomes important to know the time. Muffled voices come from beyond the door. He strains without success to hear what is being said. When the door opens, he anticipates seeing the girl again. Instead a heavily-built woman limps into the room. Her hair is laced with grey. The stern look of a headmistress resurrects the stirrings of apprehension from some long-buried childhood memory. With each step she seems intent on boring her stick into the carpet. Her acolyte has the same high cheekbones as the first girl. She is more reticent, but just as beautiful – a slender creature with enormous grey eyes which look troubled. She plays nervously with the ends of her hair, which curls over her shoulders and her back.
'Feeling better?' the older woman wants to know. Robin recognises the bluff tones of authority which does not expect to be contradicted.
'Not so bad,' he responds, trying to sound enthusiastic. His main concern is to avoid staring at the girl.
'That's what I like to hear.' The woman leans forward on her stick to study him as she might a horse that has been off colour. 'Getting over the aches and pains, eh?'
He agrees that they are not troubling him too much.
'How's the appetite?'
'Fine,' he assures her, considering the matter for the first time. He does not feel off his food. Nor did he feel hungry until she raised the matter.
'You can have something to eat soon. And we'll look in from time to time to see whether you want anything.'
'Fine,' he murmurs again.
A spasm of pain crosses the woman's face as she turns. It passes quickly. She glares at her companion. 'Don't play with your hair, Natasha.'
  The girl assumes the woebegone look of a schoolgirl caught misbehaving. She lets go her hair immediately and hurries from the room without speaking. The older woman follows at a more stately pace, not bothering to look back. With the door closed behind her, Robin relaxes as much as he dare. The fullness of his bladder reminds him of the need to get up, but the warmth and comfort of his bed seduce him into delaying the inevitable. His eyes close. Visions of beautiful girls drift into his mind, providing an additional incentive not to move. When he hears the door opening again, he does not bother to open his eyes. He listens. The absence of any further sound makes him think that he was mistaken. Still the niggling doubt remains. Surely his ears are not playing tricks? To be certain, he opens his eyes, despising himself for his lack of conviction. His first visitor grins at him from the doorway.
'I thought you'd gone to sleep again.'
'With all these interruptions?'
'I hope you're going to be nice to me this time.'
He grunts noncommittally.
'I waited till mummy had been to see you. Did she say anything about me?'
'No.'
The grin broadens. 'In that case I'll have to tell you, won't I?'
'There was a girl with her.'
'Natasha – my sister.'
Whenever she speaks, her eyes sparkle. It makes the resemblance between the girls marked. Their eyes express as much as words.
'I'm Serena,' she announces.
'Nice name.'
'Do you think so?'
She comes to him, exaggerating the tilt of her hips as she walks. She must have guessed how he watched her. She stands over him, pressing her legs against the edge of the bed.
'And what do I call you – or do you like to be known as Mr Pissoff?'
'Robin.'
'Do you like the room, Robin?'
Before he can reply, she settles on the edge of the bed. He feels her weight tilting the mattress and pulling the bedclothes taut. When she smiles, he smiles back.
'You haven't told me whether you like it,' she prompts.
'What?'
'The room. What do you think I meant?'
'It's fine.'
'It used to be mine.'
He tries to look surprised.
'I slept in this very bed,' she recalls, a note of nostalgia creeping into her voice. She leans across the cover towards him. Robin stares at her hands, seeing the smooth flesh pulled taut over her bones. He remembers the hands of the old woman in the cricket pavilion as she gripped the chair. He shivers. 
'Can you imagine that?' Serena asks, oblivious of his discomfiture.
'What?'
'Me sleeping in the very place where you are.'
He can imagine it all too easily. He asks eagerly, 'When was this?'
'When I was twelve.' She grins at his disappointment. 'It was during the school holidays. I was at boarding school, so I didn't spend much time here, fortunately. It gets horrendously boring.'
He tries to think of her as a gawky schoolgirl, but the image is difficult to sustain.
'I was advanced for my age,' she confides. 'Even then I had boyfriends.' A faraway look comes into her eyes. 'I brought them here sometimes. We had great times.'
Robin raises his eyebrows to show that he understands what she means.
'This is a proper bed. I couldn't stand those narrow ones we had at school.'
Easy to imagine her undressing to go to bed.
'Do you want the curtains pulled?' Without waiting for an answer, she crosses to the windows. Robin watches, grateful for the chance to savour those easy movements again. She tugs at the cord, flooding the room with light so that he has to screw up his eyes. Her silhouette against the brightness is like an angel. He wonders whether this is what religion means. 
'That's better, isn't it?' she is saying. 'Now we can see each other properly.' She advances slowly and provocatively to stand beside the bed. Lazily her fingers run through her hair. Her eyes do not leave him. 'Do you like me?' 
He admits that he does.
'You think I'm beautiful?'
'Very.'
She laughs, tossing back her hair so that it shimmers like molten gold.
'That's good,' she says.
He watches her drift to the window.
'It's a lovely day,' she calls, looking back at him. 'Come and see.'
Robin grips the bedclothes more tightly.
'Don't you want to?'
'Not just at the moment.'
'Why not?' she asks with feigned innocence.
'Because I haven't got anything on.'
She giggles, pirouetting towards him again. 
'Do you think there are crowds of people on the lawn, all hoping to catch a quick flash?'
'No – but I'd rather not.'
'Only Serena's going to see.'
He watches without answering as she pirouettes by the foot of the bed.
'You don't mind me seeing you, do you? You can't be shy of Serena.' 
She turns her face from him in mock hurt. Robin does not now how to reply. There is a long wait before she faces him again.
'You are shy of me,' she declares.
'A bit,' he mutters.
'But you think I'm beautiful?'
'Yes.'
'Then you mustn't be shy.' She comes close, sitting on the bed again and leaning over him so that he can see the tiny fair hairs glinting on her face. Her scent suffuses him, taking away his reason. When she touches him, his skin tingles as though she carries an electric charge.
'Now you don't mind, do you?'
'No,' he grunts unwillingly.
'Aren't you going to kiss me?'
She puts her lips together, letting them hover close to his own. He lifts his head to meet them. His eyes close. One kiss and he settles back. As though satisfied for the moment she draws back, smiling down on him as she might show her warmth for a favourite nephew. 
'You liked that, didn't you?'
He pulls the bedclothes around him again without replying. 
'I knew a young man called Paul,' she recalls. rising from the bed. While she is turned away, Robin takes the opportunity to gaze on her body.
'Nineteen, and he thought he was a man of the world,' she continues. 'Whatever you said, he had a view on it. He wore glasses so he could whip them off when he wanted to say something intellectual. He thought that was clever.'
Robin raises his eyebrows in response, though Serena does not see.
'I met him at a party. He was the only interesting guy there.'
She has roamed back to the window. Something outside fascinates her. The sight of her captivates Robin. He wishes she could remain framed in sunlight for ever.
'I brought him here once.' She straightens the net curtains. 'He came for the weekend. I wanted to see what he was like away from his friends. On the Sunday morning we went for a walk in the woods. We hung our clothes on the bushes. It was like something you see in films. There hadn't been rain for weeks, so when we lay on the ground, the leaves crackled beneath us.' She giggles. 'It was like lying on poppadums.' The laughter fades, crowded out by memories. 'Then I found he was useless.' A hint of petulance enters her tone. 'That really pissed me off, you know? Everything was show with him.'
'Did you see him again?' Robin has to ask in spite of his fear that she is talking about him.
'He expected us to, but I said no.' Serena drifts to the dressing table to examine herself in the mirror. 'Anyway, I'd met Dave by that time.' She gurgles with pleasure at the recollection. 'He'd take me to his flat and cook me these wonderful meals. Then we'd make love. He had this incredibly narrow bed. I think his landlady's idea was that it would stop any naughty business. All it meant was we had to lie on the rug in front of the electric fire. I kept wishing it was a real fire. I like the scent of burning wood and the way you hear logs settling in the grate as they burn.' She sighs. 'He had so much energy. I could hardly believe it when he was asleep. I think that was the only time I ever saw him when he was still.'
Robin is not sure whether to reply. Serena moves closer to the bed again.
'You said you liked me, didn't you?' she prompts. 'Did you mean it?'
He has to clear his throat before he can agree.
'I know that men like me. I'm not being conceited. You keep looking at my bum, don't you?' She grins at his discomfiture. All trace of sadness has gone. 'What are you blushing for? There's no need to be ashamed. And you're clinging to the blankets. What are you doing that for?'
'I'm not sure,' he mumbles, clinging more tightly.
'You're ashamed. That's it, isn't it? You're ashamed!'
'No–'
'What don't you want Serena to see?'
'It's not that.'
'There – you're watching Serena now!' she exclaims, bouncing on the edge of the bed.
He cannot deny the fact.
'Which bit of me do you like best?' she asks.
'I don't know.'
'I think it must be my bum.'
He tries not to look, but suddenly gazing at her is the most important thing in the world.
'You want me to come closer?' She wriggles closer. She is laughing. He sees saliva glistening on her teeth. How he longs to kiss her again.
'That's better, isn't it?' she is saying. 'Now will you show Serena?'
His eyes are on the seat of her jeans.
'You're not different from other men, are you?' she asks, wriggling so that the mattress shakes. She shows no sign of listening as he mumbles that he is not. With one hand across her breast she asks in dramatic tones, 'Do you want me? Do you desire me?'
He looks away, confused.
'Wasn't the kiss lovely?' she croons, her lips hovering inches from his face. 'Wouldn't you like us to kiss again? Wouldn't you like it to go on and on?'
How can he deny his instincts?
'Wouldn't you like to make love to me?' she breathes in his ear. She takes his silence as an assent because she snuggles against him, head cradled against his shoulder so that he can feel the softness of her hair. She murmurs, 'You like Serena now, don't you?'
'Is there a loo round here?'
That makes her pause. She stares at him. Her face is difficult to read. She heaves herself into a sitting position so she can watch him more comfortably. Mischief has returned to her features.
'I can't help it, can I?' he defends himself.
'Of course not,' she agrees, trying to control the giggling which threatens to convulse her.
'I can't help it.'
'Of course you can't,' she manages to say before exploding into laughter.
'Why is it so funny?' he snaps.
'Because it is,' she tells him, her body shaking.
'I'm glad you think so.' He waits as patiently as he is able till she controls her laughter. 'So where's the loo?' he asks more irritably this time.
'Suppose I don't tell you?' She sits back to watch the effect of her words. 'What would you do then? You couldn't wet the bed. Too embarrassing at your age, especially as you're a guest.'
He wants to know more about how he came to be there, but he keeps his attention on more pressing matters and asks, 'You have got a loo, I take it?'
'We are human.'
'Where is it then?'
She rises from the bed. Robin watches her going to the windows, apparently deep in thought.
'I'm just wondering what we could do,' she muses. 'What about this?' She puts her hand on the top of the vase. 'You could use this. Don't feel embarrassed because I'm here. Imagine you're in hospital and I'm a nurse. You wouldn't have any choice then, would you?'
He is silent.
'Let's pretend we're playing hospitals, shall we? It might be fun.' She saunters back to him, making the mattress bounce as she drops on the bed. She kisses him – a lingering kiss, her lips stroking his face, overcoming his resistance. He pulls her to him and she responds eagerly. How he embraces her, frustrated only by his ineffectual attempts to loosen her clothes.
'Don't get so excited,' she whispers, taking his hands away as his efforts grow more frenzied. 'It's easier if I do it. There – that's what you wanted, isn't it?'
Then he experiences joy, releasing all the pent-up feelings of the life which is hidden from him. Afterwards she sighs contentedly.
'You will come to my party, won't you?'
Those eyes are turned on him, hypnotising him. He can only agree.
'I love giving parties,' she confides, resting against him so that he can feel the words vibrating through her body. 'It’s in the old barn when the sun goes down. Do you know the barn?'
He shakes his head.
'You'll like it there. It's hot, crowded and noisy, but we can always find a corner to be alone. You'll want that, won't you?'
'Yes, yes,' he groans, wanting her to be close for ever. 
She pulls away suddenly. Only then does he notice that the door has opened.
'I thought you were here!' The voice of the older woman is thick with anger. 
'Why shouldn't I be?' Serena demands, sitting up, the sheet held against her. Colour has come to her cheeks.
'Our guest doesn't want disturbing.'
'I should have thought that's up to him.'
They face each other, mother and daughter – the girl taller yet the mother more dominant. 
'He needs rest,' the older woman insists.
'He needs cheering up.'
'I wish you wouldn't always think you know best, Serena.'
'Of course – mummy knows best. I'd forgotten that.'
'Our guest doesn't want to hear all this.'
'No – he wants to rest, doesn't he? In that case we'd both better go.'
'Perhaps you should get dressed first.' The older woman turns away, her head still held high. Resentfully the girl complies, Arching her body as she pulls up her jeans, not caring that Robin watches. After donning her sweater and pulling her hair free, she strides to the door, not looking back. This time Robin tries not to watch her bum. 
'What are you waiting for?' she asks, facing her mother.
'I want to talk to our guest.'
'You'll be sure not to tire him, won't you? I'll leave you to get on with your talk.' She slams the door. Her mother shakes her head sadly.
'I hope Serena hasn't been disturbing you.'
Robin watches warily as the speaker limps closer to the bed.
'I must apologise – she's an exuberant child.'
He murmurs his agreement.
'She's still very young. I daresay she'll change.'
He suspects that Serena is not quite so young as her mother imagines. He longs for her never to change.
'How are you?' the older woman asks.
'All right,' he responds cautiously. She is smiling at him and he does not like her smile. It reminds him of the way large fish look at little fish.
'Perhaps in a few days you'll be able to get up.'
He nods, envisaging how much exploring he has to do. He waits for her to break the growing silence. 
'We don't often have guests,' she confides. 'We're not really prepared.'
'I don't want to put you out.'
'We have to help if somebody's in trouble.' She hesitates. 'Since my husband died, I haven't had much company, apart from the girls.'
He grunts noncommitally.
'They're really schoolgirls,' she explains. 'I can't talk to them.'
'Where's the loo?'
'Just along the corridor.' She looks around as though seeing her surroundings anew. 'This is such a pleasant room, don't you think?'
He nods.
'I hoped you'd like it. You'll be able to look out over the garden when you get up.'
'It's very pleasant,' he murmurs, trying to avoid her gaze. He detects in it something more than fondness. There is a yearning to recapture youth. More recent memories fill Robin's mind. He imagines feeling Serena's soft blonde hair tickling his skin and hearing her little sighs of pleasure. Natasha's image is less vivid. He wishes he could see her again to get a clearer impression. He drags his thoughts back to the present. The girls' mother is watching him strangely, as though he is a figment of a dream.
'I slept in this room,' she tells him.
Robin composes himself in an expression which he hopes combines surprise and interest.
'For three months,' she adds, drawing closer. 'You are feeling better, aren't you?'
'Much better,' he assures her. 'Still a bit weak though.'
'It was while my husband was ill.'
Robin looks at her blankly.
'When I was here,' she explains. 'I slept here when my husband was ill. He had a nurse, you see. He required constant attention, so she stayed with him throughout the night.'
'I see.'
'It was only two years ago.'
Such sadness in her tone.
'I'm sorry.' He is aware of the inadequacy of his words.
'You get over these things – you have to when you've house to run and a family to look after.'
'I suppose so.'
She watches intently, searching out feelings deep inside him. 'We don't have many people to stay these days,' she explains. ‘Once there used to be a party here every week. You can't imagine that, can you?'
Robin raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is a look of surprise.
'I couldn't cope these days,' she confesses. 'Not with this.' She taps her right leg. 'Fell off a horse,' she explains. 'Damned nuisance, but there we are.'
He wonders what it must be like to ride a horse. He can imagine Serena riding.
'Still, no use crying about it,' her mother tells him brusquely. 
He cannot imagine her crying.
'Can't get about much now,’ she continues. ‘Serena has friends to stay, but they don't want to bother with a has-been like me.'
'You're hardly that.'
'You don't have any illusions when you get to my age.'
Robin tries to imagine being old and being forced to watch with mingled envy and disapproval the antics of a younger generation rather than to look ahead.
'Is there anything you want?'
He fancies her voice has become unsteady.
'Everything's fine,' he assures her, trying not to focus on her face.
'Splendid.'
She is looking past him, remembering happier times. In the course of a few moments she has grown smaller and more frail. She shuffles to the door. When she leaves, she does not look back.
Robin puzzles over the procession of events. He does so with the lingering fear that the voice will tune in to his thoughts. He does not want to share his fantasies. Serena is special. He longs for her to come back. He lies still. Expectation makes his body tingle as though an electric charge passes through it. At any moment he expects the door to open. He can feel the warmth of her skin against him. He smiles, settling deeper in the bed to enjoy his memories. Perversely it is Natasha's image which insinuates his thoughts, as though she is the seductive one. Then he is aware of Serena and Natasha, both naked, on either side of him. Four soft breasts press against him. A smile comes to his lips as he savours the fantasy. 
The pressure in his bladder brings his attention back to his immediate predicament. He wonders whether he dare venture beyond the door. The thought of being caught naked by Serena bothers him less than the prospect of meeting her mother. And there is Natasha. In his mind he revels in her confusion on encountering him, not wanting the scenario to end as she is torn between turning on her heel and acknowledging his presence.
The consequence of his eagerness is that the image fades. One certain thing is the fullness of his bladder. It cannot be ignored for long. He eyes the glass vase speculatively, but at that moment his attention is distracted by the creak of a board outside the door. Serena. In expectation he raises himself on one elbow. He is gripping the bedclothes around him as the door handle turns.
'Who are you?' He cannot keep the disappointment from his voice. The woman who looks at him is old, her face so wrinkled that it reminds him of an apple left in the dish for too long. She closes the door carefully behind her. Bloodshot eyes give her a baleful appearance. Clasped to her scrawny chest is what looks like a bible. His heart thumps as he fears that the ghost of the crone in the cricket pavilion has come to haunt him. The voice neglected to mention that. 
'You need saving – that's the only thing wrong with you,' she pronounces in the surprisingly firm voice of one used to giving orders. This is assuredly no ghost. She will not be intimidated by him. Robin feels a little reassured. He settles back, waiting for further revelations, but none is forthcoming. She continues to glare at him.
'What do you want?' he asks, growing bored. When no reply is forthcoming, his eyes stray towards the windows. His heart is steadier now. The day looks invitingly bright. He wants to decide whether he would prefer to be with Natasha or Serena. If only the old woman would go away, he could concentrate on his fantasy.
'You have evil thoughts.'
The voice recaptures his attention. He turns guiltily to his visitor, wondering whether she is somebody else who can read his thoughts. He tries to purge his mind of extraneous images by absorbing every detail of her appearance. She comes from another age. Her dark blue cotton dress belongs to a time when her body was more ample. She still wears the dress proudly, though her spine is bent. The loops of fabric hanging around her bosom are drawn together by a peacock-shaped brooch whose stones glitter as she moves. He stares at the claw-like, yellow hands. Those are what reminded him of the old woman in the pavilion.
'Evil thoughts,' she squawks, as if there has been no break in their conversation. 'We shall read together.'
The book is placed reverently before Robin on the bed and opened at the marker. A bible, as he predicted. 
'God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto fathers by the prophets hath in these last days spoken unto us by his son, whom he hath appointed heir to all things, by whom also he made the worlds...'
She does not look at the text. Her incantation is rapid, like a child's recitation of oft-repeated poetry. Robin tries to quell the suspicion that she knows the whole of the bible by heart.
'You've got to read with me,' she urges before sweeping on, '...who being the brightness of his glory, and the express image of his person, and upholding all things by the word of his power, when he had by himself purged our sins, sat down on the right hand of the majesty on high...'
Robin glances at the door, hoping that it will open and Serena – or anybody – will lead away this least ingratiating of his visitors.
'...being so much better than the angels, as he hath by inheritance obtained a more excellent name than they...'
Why is he listening to an eccentric old woman?
'...for unto which of the angels said he at any time "Thou art my Son, this day I have begotten thee. And again, I will be to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son?"'
Before she can draw breath, he closes the bible with a bang. They stare at each other.
'You must be saved,' she commands. 'You have to seek the true way.'
He looks despairingly towards the window. Birds squabble under the eaves. How he envies them their uncomplicated lives which are so different from his own. He decides that if Serena or Natasha rescued him, he might be ready to believe in God.
'I want you to know Jesus Christ.'
Robin tries to focus on what his unwelcome visitor is saying.
'He can lead you to everlasting happiness. Follow Jesus and you'll find the kingdom of heaven.'
In spite of Robin’s best intentions, the words wash over him. His gaze strays to the windows again. If he leans sideways, he glimpses the branches of a tree. From the quiet expensiveness of the room, he guesses that the garden will be large. He might be in a stately home. Alas, his interest in the outside world is all too evident. The old woman hobbles to the window and tugs at the cord. 
'So you can concentrate on our Lord,' she explains as the room is submerged in shadow again. 'The Lord said, "Get thee behind me, Satan."'
'I shan't be able to read the bible,' he points out.
'Pull the cord by the bed.'
Robin fumbles for the cord he noticed earlier. When he pulls it, a pool of light illuminates him. He takes the opportunity to slide further under the bedclothes.
'This used to be my room,' the old woman explains, an uncharacteristic note of nostalgia creeping into her voice. Robin tries to hide his smile, but perhaps she notices for she does not continue in this vein. She retrieves her bible.
'Renounce your sins!' she commands with renewed vigour, bringing her head so close that he cannot avoid looking at her. The smell of face powder makes him want to sneeze. Brown stains show on her scalp through the thinning hair. In each iris is a ring of silver which fascinates him.
'Do you want to be cleansed?' She watches eagerly, disappointed that he does not reply. 'Do you want to feel the Lord's power?'
'Perhaps I could go to the toilet first.'
'Let the Lord enter your soul.'
His more immediate concern is wetting the bed, but he does not like to mention it. 
'Why don't you try converting your family?' he asks irritably.
'When did you last go to church?' 
Her glare makes him feel like a recalcitrant servant.
'I'm not sure,' he answers truthfully.
'You must attend regularly.'
'When I'm up and about, perhaps.'
'Then you'll understand what the power of Jesus means – what it can do for you. He gives you the strength to overcome all evils. He sustains you in your journey and gives you hope.’ 
Robin turns away in vexation. Too many problems crowd his mind – like sex, his bladder and why he is lying in a strange bed.
'Read the bible,' the old woman urges, thrusting it towards him. 'Read it and you'll know the power of Jesus.'
He brings one hand from beneath the sheet to finger the soft leather binding, enjoying its feel. He wonders whether agreeing will be the easiest way to gain peace. To catch her out, he asks, 'What about dying?'
'Believe in the Lord and you shall not fear death,' she intones. 'Believe and He will give you eternal life.'
The way her eyes sparkle, he almost believes her. 
'Heaven, you mean?' he queries, thinking of the old woman in the cricket pavilion and whether she has gone to heaven, but his companion draws his attention from such musings. She is getting down on her knees – a procedure which entails leaning on the edge of the bed and lowering herself with much swaying and grunting. He watches the perilous descent with the fascination due to any manoeuvre fraught with danger. When she is in position, she looks up triumphantly.
'Now you can kneel with me and pray,' she orders.
He shakes his head.
'O Lord have mercy on thy servants,' she begins. 'Have mercy on those who have not found the goodness and bounteousness of thy ways. Help them to know thy infinite wisdom. Forgive them the sin they have committed without knowledge of thy name. Receive into thy kingdom all those who truly seek repentance. O Lord, grant that in thy name they will find life everlasting. Amen.' After a reverential pause she glares at Robin. 'You should be on your knees for the Lord.'
'I haven't got any clothes on.'
'You won't find greater happiness. He'll forgive you your sins and lead you to his kingdom.'
Robin shakes his head. The bible has slipped from his hands. He stares at the old woman, imagining age treating Serena like this. So much for God's goodness. He closes his eyes, smelling the burning pavilion again.
'Give yourself up to God,' she urges. 
'There isn't a God,' he murmurs so softly that she might not hear.
'He's testing you.'
'How could he let the fire happen?'
'O merciful God, have pity upon this thy lost sheep. Help him to know thy infinite grace and wisdom and to follow always in thy ways.'
Robin stares at the old woman. She is crouched by the bed, her hands clasped and her eyes closed.
'I'm not religious,' he explains.
'Be patient and you'll believe.'
'I don't want to.'
Thrusting the bible towards him, she urges, 'Read the good book. There's nothing it won't tell you.'
He hesitates. As he looks into her face, he glimpses Serena's features.
'Let it give you comfort and strength,' she tells him.
He sweeps the bible from the bed. The pages crumple as the covers fall open on the rug. The old woman's stare makes Robin wonder whether he has gone too far.
'You spurn the word of the Lord,' she marvels.
'Leave me alone,' Robin moans, turning away.
'I shall pray for you, boy. I shall pray that you find God.'
The grunts and shuffles show that she is intent on retrieving the bible. Robin makes a point of not watching. The task takes an inordinate time. He is aware of her laboured breathing as she clings to the edge of the bed to lever herself up.
'I want to help you. I want to show you how to love the Lord.'
Robin shakes his head.
'You won't find peace until you know him.'
'Tell the others.'
'It's all in here.' She pushes the bible towards him again.
'What happened when you told Serena about God?' he asks, intrigued by the thought of the girl's response to such hectoring.
'When the day of judgement comes, the Lord is going to wreak his vengeance on us.'
The bitterness in the tone makes Robin stare. The old woman is shaking. The only hope left to her is finding heaven. He marvels that this can be the sum of a lifetime's experience.
'I'll read,' he tells her. As he suspects, that calms her. He hauls himself to a sitting position and takes the bible she holds like a talisman.
'Every time you want comfort or strength, read the good book,' she tells him.
'I'll do that,' he assures her.
Natasha enters quietly, watching from the doorway. The old woman does not hear. She does not turn until she sees that something has distracted Robin's attention.
'You mustn't disturb our guest,' Natasha says gently. It is the first time he has heard her voice. He loves its intimacy, as though there is wonderment in everything she sees. If Natasha urged him to follow her on the path to heaven, he would surely obey.
'He hasn't been well,' she explains, taking the old woman's arm. 'We've got to let him rest.'
'Let him rest now he's seen the path to the Lord,' the old woman agrees, allowing herself to be led to the door.
Robin marvels at Natasha's gentleness. She smiles back as she guides her grandmother into the corridor. That fills him with pleasure. He settles back comfortably, a beatific expression on his face, convinced that Natasha is an angel. Time stretches unconscionably as he waits for her to return. He is sure that she will return. He considers going to look for her, but in unknown surroundings and without any clothes on, that might be tempting providence. In his imagination she is calming the old woman, wishing all the time that she could come back to him. His ears strain for any sound of her approach. All the time he tries to imagine what will happen when they are alone.
Tiredness comes suddenly, making his head loll sideways and his eyelids droop. An image steals unbidden into his mind – of flames dancing around him, devouring the dry wood in a roar of triumph, devouring the old woman. He is paralysed, fascination and repulsion rending him as he watches her being consumed. A smell of burning flesh. The drumbeat puzzles him, until he realises that it is his heart. 
'What's the matter?'
Natasha's voice, soft and concerned. Hands touching him. He tries to wake up. He is calling, 'Don't let the flames reach me. Please help me.'
'You're all right.'
Feeling the mattress pulled sideways as she sits on the edge of the bed. He is telling her, 'I thought I was going to be burnt.'
'You're safe now.'
He opens his eyes. Natasha is gazing down at him with such concern that a wave of hope surges through him. He tells her, 'I think there's something wrong with my mind. I don't know what's real and what isn't.' He is weeping, repeating again and again, 'My poor mind.'
'It's all right.'
'I was afraid you wouldn't come back.'
'I didn't want you being disturbed.'
'What's going to happen to me?'
'We don't know yet.'
'Hold my hand.'
Imagining that he holds hands with an angel. Not daring to look at her face. That is eternity.

chapter 3

A sky coloured like paints freshly mixed by an artist – clouds flecked with grey massing on the horizon and streaked across the blue painted sky. The fitful sun does not dispel the cold. Sheep graze the ridge, searching for grass among the straggly bushes. A place where wind would sting the face on the warmest of days. Natasha confides, 'This must be about my favourite place. I'm always coming here.'
'It's beautiful,' Robin agrees.
They walk slowly, drawing apart on the roughest ground where the path is narrow. Robin pants, abandoning any attempt to conceal that he is out of condition. What surprises him is that he managed to run so far from the cricket field. He is glad when Natasha halts, gazing across the chequerboard of fields towards distant moorland streaked with snow. His fatigue forgotten, he watches covertly as she makes ineffectual attempts to stop her hair from streaming in the wind. He can believe in a benevolent fate which has ordained the whole sequence of events so that he might savour the present moment. He should be grateful to the voice for what has been arranged, though at the back of his mind is the thought that this is the great construct.
'Tell me about yourself,' he invites.
'What?' Her eyes are turned on him. She is smiling. He feels fresh energy surging through him.
'Anything.'
'There's not much to tell. I'm ordinary.'
'Having a family of women living in a mansion doesn't seem ordinary to me.'
'It's hardly a mansion.'
'That's what I'd call it.'
'I don't know what to say then.'
'Did you go to school?'
'Of course – everybody does.'
'Silly question.'
'What made you ask?'
He searches for words which will not upset her by revealing her innocence. He is uncomfortably aware that she is studying him.
'Come on,' she urges. 'Tell me.'
'I don't know. I thought you might have had a governess.'
She looks amused. 'Why a governess?'
'You don't act like you've mixed with a lot of other girls.'
Her grin reminds him of her sister. He wonders what has happened to Serena, but this does not seem an appropriate moment to ask.
'I went to school all right,' Natasha assures him.
'Didn't you like it?'
'Not much.'
He wills her to explain, but she does not continue. 
'Did something happen?' he ventures.
'It was lots of little things. I didn't like being away from here and I didn't get on with the teachers.' She turns away. He knows that there is something she is not telling him and that he will not be allowed to enter this mystery.
'Sometimes in summer I spend hours here, walking or lying in the sun and thinking,' she continues, her face brightening again.
'All on your own?'
'Mm.' She nods vigorously and then fixes her eyes on him, smiling an intimate smile which makes him wonder whether she really is so much more innocent than her sister.
'You're the only person I've ever brought here,' she reveals.
'I'm honoured.'
A sudden rustling makes them turn. A sheep previously hidden by a thicket runs from them. 
'Once I came here in the depths of winter,’ she continues. ‘The clouds were weighed down with snow. I thought they were going to crash against the ridge and carry me away. I know that sounds silly.'
He wants to tell her that nothing she has to say is silly.
'This place has its own rules,' she assures him. 'Anything can happen up here.'
Robin imagines the picturesque countryside grown angry and turning against visitors. The possibility is easy to jure on such a day. He shivers.
'Are you sure you're all right?' Natasha asks.
'I'm fine.'
They begin walking again, along the crest of the ridge. Below them the scarp tumbles in a profusion of trees, bushes and rocks to where the river wanders aimlessly. Before them, rocks the size of cars litter the crest like dice thrown by a giant hand. Robin watches Natasha as she walks ahead of him. Even through her outdoor clothes, the sinuous quality of her movements is evident. As if aware of his thoughts, she looks back, grinning. Excitement breaks over him like a wave, carrying him along. He feels that he could walk for hours, savouring her closeness. Their intimacy will grow. There will be no secrets any more. The recent past will assume its rightful place – an unfortunate episode destined to lose its significance now that he can see it in its proper perspective. They will stray far from the mansion. He looks forward to nightfall and to finding a hotel. His excitement grows at the thought of sharing a room with Natasha. Fantasies come unbidden of marvelling at her beauty as she undresses. They are fuelled each time he looks at her.
'You can't get here when there's a blizzard,' Natasha is saying. 'The wind whips the snow into drifts and all the paths are blocked. The worst thing is when sheep crowd into the hollows for shelter and the farmers can't find them because the hollows fill with snow. Every time there's a bad winter we get sheep dying.'
'It hasn't put you off coming here.'
'I like it. In summer it can be crowded with tourists. This time of year's better – when it's empty and you can think without being disturbed. You can believe there's been a new ice age coming and you're the only person left. I know it sounds silly.'
'Why not be silly?' he asks. He longs to say why not do anything or imagine anything, however silly, so long as it brings her pleasure.
'I'm too romantic for my own good,' she confesses. 'That's what mummy says.'
Her smile elates him, though he does not like talk of her mother. Other people should not exist in his fantasy.
'Did you come here when you were little?' he asks, suspecting that he already knows the answer.
'Lots of times. We had a nanny, Serena and myself. She was the one who first brought us here on a picnic. Climbing up here was terrible, but when we got here, I thought it was the most marvellous place in the world. I looked across the vale and I thought the whole world had been laid out for me. I was only a little girl, so I didn't know any better. I tried to work out how long it would take to walk to the moors over there.' She points to the hills in the distance. 'I thought that was a foreign country – Norway or somewhere.' A faraway look comes to her face as childhood memories flood back. 'Our nurse told us the pixies lived here. We believed her, of course. Serena wanted to look for them, but I wouldn't join in. I was afraid they might put a spell on us if we found them.' She nestles inside her anorak. 'I couldn't get this place out of my mind – those huge stones ready to topple into the river down there. Whenever there's a gale, I still expect to hear them rumbling down the hillside. As soon as I was old enough, I came here on my own without telling anybody. I shouldn't have done really. It was scarey being alone up here when the wind was howling.' She grins. 'I came because I thought it was magical and instead I found I was afraid of being blown away.’ She shakes her head. ‘Anyway, that was a long time ago. I keep coming back – hoping to see the pixies.’
'And have you?’ 
'I always hope.’ The sadness in her tone could be a quirk of his imagination. As she faces him, her features are bright. Wind has reddened her cheeks. She smiles. 'Don't take any notice of me prattling on.'
'I'm interested.'
'I'm not used to being here with anybody else, so this is different for me.' She closes her eyes. Her face is beatific, like that of a nun given radiance by some inner vision. Such vulnerability makes Robin hold his breath. His princess. What dreams she gives him – dreams he cannot voice. 
As if aware of the feelings she stirs in him, Natasha opens her eyes so see him looking at her. That makes him feel guilty. He turns away quickly.
'What are you thinking?' she asks.
'That I've destroyed all the magic for you.' 
'It’s difficult to hold on to,' she tells him solemnly, convincing him that his presence has taken her dreams. Before he can decide how to put things right, she walks on.
They stand by the foot of a boulder. He stares at the weathered stone looming above him, mute sentinel over the vale. 'You can imagine bronze age men being in awe of them.'
'Are they natural?'
'They must be – too irregular for anything else.' He speaks confidently, but he is not absolutely sure.
She is saying, 'Once when I was younger, I pretended they were gods.'
Her words disconcert him. They are too close to his own thoughts. He is afraid that she has found a way into his mind.
'I put flowers on them and danced around them,' she confesses. 'It sounds silly now.'
'They're definitely natural,' he assures her with a conviction which he does not feel.
'I wish people wouldn't scratch their initials on them.'
'Making their bid for eternity.'
'It's vandalism.'
'We all want to be eternal, don't we?'
Natasha looks uncertain.
'Don't take any notice of me,' he tells her. 'Do you ever come here at night?'
She shakes her head. She is frowning. 
'I just wondered what it's like when there's a full moon – what the moors look like by moonlight.'
'I know on a summer day you get a heat haze. Then it looks as though everything's under water.' She stares across the vale. All her whimsy suddenly dissipates, so she looks like a small girl. 'I thought coming here might help you.'
'How do you mean?'
'It's somewhere that's important to me. I thought you might feel the same. Now I'm not sure if I've done the right thing.'
'You couldn’t have done anything better.'
Her face is that of a child who has been praised.
'It's great here,' he adds.
'I thought it was somewhere we could talk if you wanted without anybody disturbing us.'
'Meaning anybody like your grandmother?'
Natasha smiles. 'She means well.'
'What did you want to talk about?'
'I thought you wanted to.’ 
'Not really.’ 
She turns away. 'Let's forget it.'
'I can't remember much about what happened, if that's what you're interested in.'
She faces him again. 'It's only if you wanted to tell me things.'
'Things?'
'Anything.'
Robin stares into her face, not understanding.
'It's up to you,' she says disarmingly.
He searches for things to say which might interest her. Natasha watches like a child waiting for a story. 
'I'm twenty-two,' he begins.
Her expectancy does not waver.
'Twenty-two,' he repeats, so awed by the immensity of the figure that he forgets his listener. 'And I feel as if I haven’t done anything with my life.'
'You're older than me. I'm eighteen, before you ask.'
'What do you do with yourself?' When her brow furrows at his question, he explains, 'I wondered if you were a student.'
'No.'
'I was.' He hesitates, trying to find some order in the chaos of his mind.
'Go on.'
'I don't know what else there is to say.'
She watches, not daring to break his train of thought.
'I suppose I still am – I just remember being a student,' he finishes, venturing a glance at her to see whether she is laughing.
'You'll soon get your memory back,' she assures him.
'It's not just my memory,' he begins. Then he stops. So many thoughts are going around in his head. He assumed that every event of his life was there if only he can grasp it; now he is no longer sure.
'Your family are rich, aren't they?' he asks to deflect attention from himself.
'Fairly.'
'By my standards they are. I mean you don't have to work.'
'I did work in a store last Christmas. We were rushed off our feet, but I enjoyed every minute of it.'
'That's different.'
'Why?'
'It's not something you had to do.'
'I wanted some extra money of my own. Mummy wasn't very keen.'
'But she’d have given you more money. It's not like having to go to a factory every day, eight-thirty to five-thirty, with three weeks off in the summer, not forgetting bank holidays.'
Her features cloud. 'What are you getting at?’ 
'That's life for a lot of people.'
She smiles uncomprehendingly. He is alarmed by his ability to upset her, but he cannot stop himself.
'That's what my father does,' he explains. 'He works in a factory. I can remember all about my childhood.'
'I'm not sure why you're telling me.'
'I'm saying that all he's got to look forward to is working in a factory till he's sixty-five – or being made redundant and getting pushed on the dole. You have to be happy with your lot when you've got that sort of life, because if you're not, you’d be so full of anger.'
She stares, her smile dying.
'That's the world I come from. You live in a council house, everybody you know does, and your mum and dad spend their evenings watching tele.'
'We watch television quite a lot.'
'If you were living in Dagenham, you might be a typist if you were lucky, or more likely a checkout operator or assembly line worker. That's assuming you managed to get a job at all.'
Natasha tries to smile. 'I don’t know why you’re telling me.’ 
'I thought you wanted to know about me.'
'I think you're making your life sound worse than it is.'
'I haven't told you about the blokes yet – the ones I went to school with. You won't have had much to do with people like them. Most of them are out of work. The ones that have got jobs are on assembly lines, in warehouses or on building sites. They've all got one ambition. As soon as you can afford the down payment, you get a car – the more powerful the better, because that's how you show you're macho. Work's a way of paying for your car. If you're not working, you have to put up with second best, or else you rebuild one yourself. Some of those guys are amazingly good mechanics, even though they were written off at school. Then in the evening, after a session in the pub with your mates, you drive around to impress the birds. It's like a pheasant displaying its tail. What you look for is a stretch of road where you can have a really good burnup.'
Natasha looks disbelieving.
'That would be a really good night out, especially if you can get a bird away from her pals and into your car.'
'Did you hate it?'
'I never felt part of it. I kept on the fringes – safer than trying to be different.'
Natasha wrinkles her brow. 
'Like at school,' Robin explains. 'You get picked on if you're not one of the crowd, so you make sure that whoever stands out, it's not you. And when they pick on some poor bugger, you go along with it to show you're on the right side.'
Natasha stares.
'Perhaps it was different at your school,’ Robin continues, enjoying her consternation. ‘Where I was, either you were one of the crowd, or you were fair game. And if you were fair game, you prayed for the holidays so you didn't have to run the gauntlet going to school and coming home.' He is surprised by his own vehemence. 'And then I became a student and it was all left behind. That caused an upheaval at home – people like us don't go to university,' he sums up, his voice assuming a more gentle tone. Natasha looks subdued by his outburst. He feels guilty at shocking her.
'Didn't your parents want you to go?'
'They weren't against it – they were just uncertain about it. Mum thought I'd be better off in an office than getting qualifications. University wasn't for the likes of us – that was her view.'
'She said that?'
'"You do what you like, but you're throwing away your opportunities." That was what she said. It was like announcing I was going to be a bank robber. In fact she might have preferred me to be a bank robber. At least it would have impressed the neighbours.'
'I don't believe you.'
'It's true. Gives you lots of kudos in Dagenham, being a bank robber.'
Natasha looks unconvinced.
'Having me working in an office was the pinnacle for mum. Being a student was like being at school – you were putting off going into the real world. A boy down the road who'd been in my class got a job with an estate agent. You saw him getting into his leased Cavalier in the morning, designer braces hooked over his white shirt, clutching his mobile phone. That was really getting on in mum's eyes.'
'What did your dad think?'
'He's easy-going, so he didn't mind what I did. Like I said – what you work in a factory, you have to take everything as it comes, or you get full of anger.'
'They should have been proud of you.'
'They'd seem proud if anybody asked, but secretly they thought I was getting above myself.'
'What about when you go home in the holidays?'
Robin hesitates. Recent events are not clear.
'You do go back?' Natasha prompts.
'I don't know.'
'Don't you get on with your parents?'
'Not really.'
'It's sad when that happens.'
'Difficult to avoid when you get used to living your own life.'
'I suppose so.'
'I remember the first year. I lived at home and worked in an electrical wholesalers for the vacation – selling things like light fittings and cable to shops and electricians.' He gathers old memories, wondering what part they play in the great construct. 
'Go on,' Natasha urges.
Then the memories come flooding back, surprising him by their vividness. ‘The flex and the cable were in reels,’ he recalls. ‘They were supposed to be on rails, but the reels always ended up piled on the floor. When they got knocked over, they rolled everywhere so you tripped over the flex. The times I did that. You couldn't see the walls for shelving. All the things we sold a lot of like light switches were at chest height. Big things like electric heaters were down on the ground. On the top shelves were cartons thick with dust – all the things nobody wanted.' The words evoke the smell of the warehouse – a mingling of dust and plastic which he has not thought about since he worked there. 
'There were two of us making up loads for the drivers. Norman had been there thirty years. A thin little man, like the henpecked husband in those old films. I don't know whether he was henpecked – he never talked about his home life. Anyway, we got on well enough. He was like a king in his own little empire. He could make up a load much more quickly than me and it never looked like he was hurrying because he knew where everything was. He had two khaki coats. Every Saturday he took one home for his wife to wash and on the Monday he'd bring the other one to work, all neatly ironed. At first I treated it as a joke, but you needed overalls because of the dust. Even your hair got filthy when you had to pull things off the top shelves.
‘There was a girl worked in the office – she hated coming in the warehouse because of the dust. She'd get out as quickly as she could, especially if any of the drivers were there – they always whistled at her. The clicking sound of her heels on the concrete steps to the office was like bones being knocked together. I told Norman that. He thought I was trying to make a joke and he didn't know what to say. When we heard her coming with an order, we'd both look up as though we hadn't seen a girl for months. I don't suppose Norman knew he was doing it. He'd never talk about her or anything like that. If he did mention anything that wasn't to do with work, he'd lower his voice as though he didn't want to be caught wasting the firm's time. In my last week, he sidled up to me like he always did when he had something confidential to say. He did his usual trick of looking around to make sure nobody was listening. I thought he was going to ask me out for a farewell drink or something. Instead of that he asked me whether I'd like to stay on. Good prospects, he said –  he'd be retiring soon, so I'd be able to take over his job. I thought he was joking at first. I was going to laugh, till I saw his face. He really thought I'd want to spend all my working life there.’ 
'I think I understand,' Natasha says cautiously. 
'Do you think we could sit down?'
The concern shows on her face. 'I shouldn't have brought you this far. Do you want to go back?'
'Let’s sit down for a while.'
'Don’t get cold.' 
They sit on a stone. Natasha watches her charge anxiously. He enjoys her attention. In the distance a dog barks, reviving memories of how he stumbled upon the cricket field in the clearing. The sound of crying alarms him. With a jolt he realises that it is his chest which is shuddering, his eyes which are spilling tears. He feels Natasha's arm around him. He sobs, 'This is silly.'
'It's not silly at all,' she croons, holding him gently and rocking him till her warmth reaches him through their clothes.
'I didn't mean this to happen.'
'Don't worry.'
As he recovers his composure, he enjoys her closeness. She seems to sense the change and to become uneasy. It makes her draw back and he is annoyed with himself for letting his feelings show. Now the pleasure of their outing has gone. The desolation of the distant moors makes him shiver. He searches for words which will bring Natasha close again, but they elude him. He ventures a sidelong glance.  She stares resolutely ahead. Her lack of response makes him fear that there will be no more closeness. Suddenly the loss is the most important thing in the world. He turns away, despairing. He cannot bear the silence. His instinct is to go on his knees before her, to explain that his remarks were innocent, but now his every action may be misconstrued. Treading on eggshells, he tells himself. Keep looking at the scenery. Do not think of her. He can go his own way again. No need of people. But Natasha does not go away. The sense of what he has lost will not leave him. Tension is returning to his body, paralysing every muscle. He can imagine being carried like a plank of wood from the ridge. His stomach is knotted, making his retch. He holds his breath, fearing that the air is poisoned. His hands are clenched. He counts. If he can count to a hundred without moving, everything might be all right. That is part of the construct. But fate is no longer kind to him. He has to exhale. Helplessly he watches the breath escaping like steam as his body craves for air. If he had never agreed to the walk, everything would have been well. Now anything might happen. He fights to maintain a calm exterior. The girl beside him remains unaware of his turmoil. He wonders how far they should move to be safe. There must be a way of neutralising the poison, but that has not been shown to him. He wants to save Natasha. He tells her, 'You've got to count to a hundred.'
She looks puzzled. 
'Count,' he urges.
'What for?'
'It's our only hope.'
She begins hesitantly: ‘One, two, three, four...’
'Louder,' he instructs. 
Voices in unison, though he knows it is too late.
'Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...'
They might be able to dilute the poison. That sometimes works.
'Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven...'
So long as they are heard. He ought to take account of the wind speed and direction. He knows there must be a formula.
'Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five...'
Trouble may occur with one of the magic numbers.
'Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two...'
Too soon to tell whether their efforts are having any effect.
'Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine...'
Later they may have to go to six hundred if things are really serious.
'Seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four...'
He scans the vale – cars like toys move on a distant road. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpses Natasha's legs.
'Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven...'
Her voice rises as she is caught up in the urgency.
'Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred.'
He holds his breath again, hoping that this will help. Birds are singing. On the slopes below, the trees are buffeted by wind. A pneumatic drill chatters beyond the river.
'Everything looks as if it's going to be all right,' he announces. 'You can't be quite sure, of course – not for half an hour.'
Natasha raises her eyebrows. Sitting on the edge of a stone and hunched in her anorak, she looks smaller and more vulnerable than before. Wisps of hair fly around her face; she makes no attempt to put them in place. He is pleased that she does not argue – on such occasions there is no opportunity for explanations.
'What do you want to do?' he asks.
When she looks at him, there is a dullness in her eyes as though she has woken from a dream.
'Will you be able to get down to the car?' she asks.
'I'll have to, won't I?'
'It was stupid bringing you up here.'
'It was a good idea.'
She shakes her head.
'Blows away the cobwebs,' he says.
'It's so isolated. If you collapsed, I couldn't get you back.'
'Is the mansion some sort of convalescent home?'
'Why do you say that?'
'I just wondered.'
She asks, 'Do you really not know how you got here?'
'You know more than I do.'
'All I know is that we found you.'
'Where?'
'By the road. We thought you'd been knocked over at first–'
'Who's we?'
'Mummy, Serena and me. We were going for one of our walks.'
He can imagine a walk organised by mummy, with Natasha solicitous beside her and Serena sulking in the rear. 
'Mummy thought you were drunk. She's seen a lot of people like that. She wanted to leave you there.'
'So why didn't she?'
'Serena thought we ought to take you back – in case you really did get run over.'
'Good for Serena.'
'Mummy wasn't sure at first, but we persuaded her.'
'So you wanted to take me back as well?'
'I didn't like to think of you lying there.'
'So I've got you and Serena to thank?'
'I suppose so.'
'My good Samaritans.'
She shivers. 'It's cold.'
'Do you want to walk?'
'How are you feeling?'
'I'll survive.'
'We can sit here a bit longer if you like.'
'I don't mind.'
'I don't want you collapsing.'
'I don't know why I'm so weak.'
'It's natural after being in bed a long time.'
He wants to ask how long, but it seems a silly question. Better to let that emerge in conversation.
'Why is it we like going to high places?' he muses. 'I've never wanted to climb mountains or anything like that. I don't even like heights, but we still come struggling up here.'
'You come for the view. You get a better view when you're high up.'
'Perhaps we like to see our enemies coming.'
Natasha frowns. 'Have you got enemies?'
'I meant generally – primaeval man looking out for raiders from other tribes. I suppose that's what they must have done when they came here thousands of years ago. There's a folk memory of it locked in our genes.'
'Can't you just enjoy the view?'
'I am. You certainly don't get anything like this in Dagenham. I was just thinking how people must have seen it in the past. You come up here for the sense of peace it gives you – they came looking for a safety.'
Natasha sits impassively, staring across the Yorkshire countryside. As smoke curls from a bonfire at the foot of the scarp, she reminds Robin of an American Indian reading smoke signals. She turns to him suddenly. 
'What was the last thing you remember before all this happened?'
He screws up his face in concentration. 'I remember running. It seemed like for hours, but I couldn't have been.' He wonders whether to tell her about the cricket pavilion.
'Had you been drinking?'
'Not that I know of, but it's a bit of a blur.'
'I've never had a blackout.'
'It's frightening. You wonder if you've going out of your mind. There's just this blackness – like somebody's taken your mind.'
'It must be frightening.'
No hostility in her tone. Robin is relieved. He considers telling her about the voice, but he fears that this may be tempting providence. In such an exposed place, the signals from his mind might easily be picked up, especially if the stones act as giant transmitters. He is surprised that she has not realised this.
'I used to count the churches from here,' she is saying. 'I had this idea that a thousand years ago, a bishop came here and pointed to where they should be built. Then one of his servants had to run down and knock in a pole to mark the position.'
'It might have happened like that. Who knows?'
'I expect people just settled here and when there were enough in the area, they decided to build a church.'
'Ask your grandmother.'
Natasha pulls a face. 'Did she quote the bible to you?'
'I take it that's a habit of hers.'
'She doesn't mean any harm by it. You have to try to distract her attention.'
'She wasn't in any mood to be distracted.'
'She doesn't often have a captive audience.'
'So I was unlucky?'
''Fraid so.'
'Great.'
Companionably they stare across the patchwork of fields. Robin tries to count the churches, but gives up.
'Let's get going,' he decides, seeing Natasha shivering. He stumbles as he rises. Natasha takes his arm.
'Are you okay?'
'Fine. Don't worry.'
'You're still recovering. I shouldn't have brought you this far.'
'I'm fine. Going for a walk makes me feel fairly normal again.'
'You're not cold?'
'I'm more concerned about you being cold.'
Following a path along the ridge. Natasha leads, frequently looking back like a sheepdog watching its charge.
Robin confesses, 'I always wanted to live in the country.' It seems the right thing to say. He is not sure that he even believes it.
'Why don't you?'
'It's not as easy as that.' He hesitates, trying to think of reasons. Fortunately Natasha does not press the matter. Instead he explains, 'It's great after Dagenham. Mind you, anything's great after Dagenham.'
'You really hate being home, don't you?'
'Not so much being home and seeing my family. It's being in Dagenham.'
'You're not living there, are you?'
'No – not now,' he answers carefully, certain that this is the right answer. He has another life.
'How about when you go back?'
'It was worse than I remembered.' He tries to put into words the image in his mind. 'More wrecks of cars in the side roads, more boarded-up shops, more lorries thundering through on the way to Tilbury Docks. I didn't stay long.'
'Your parents must have been upset.'
Not sure what his parents thought. Strange how some images are vivid and some elude him. He can see his father's face clearly and remember his voice, but this is an inconsequential memory from childhood. It is not what Natasha wants to know. 
'What did they say?' she is asking.
'They couldn't do anything about it. I've got my own life now.'
'You like being a student?'
'I liked getting away from that place.’ 
'I sometimes wish I’d gone to university. Trouble is I’m not very academic. I don't know whether I’d cope with the work.'
'You manage,' he says airily. 'Everybody does. It's the social side that's just as important.' He wonders why he is making such pronouncements when he cannot remember his own social life. His suspicion is that it was important to him. He hears himself saying, 'I like that side and everything, but at the back of your mind you know you're on borrowed time. You're trying to get ready for finals and you've got to worry about what's going to happen afterwards – how you're going to get a job.'
'I hadn't thought of it like that.'
'You can understand why some students stay put after they've graduated.'
'Do they?'
'The ideal is getting onto a postgraduate course, so you can carry on being a student. Otherwise you just hang around the student bars and pretend. It's better than going back to live in somewhere like Dagenham.'
'Dagenham again.'
'Obviously made an impression on me.' He grins. 
'So have you graduated?’ 
His smile dies. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I even took the exams.'
'After all that work?'
'What work?'
The sharpness in his tone makes her turn to him, confused. 'I meant all the studying you must have done.’ 
He tries to remember. His student life which suddenly assumed such importance is slipping away. Fatigue steals over him inexorably. He wants to lie down.
'Where is it you study?' she asks. 
'Ah.'
Her tone is less friendly as she says, 'You don't have to tell me.'
He wants to assure her that he is not trying to hide things from her, but he cannot find the right words.
'How did you get here?' she presses. 
'I hitched a lift,' he responds, pleased that another memory is restored. 'There were miles and miles of street lights flashing past.' He hesitates, recalling how the lights of a town straddling the far-off moors twinkled like orange Christmas tree lights strung in the darkness. A man who must have been the driver talked to him. The words are drawn into the spiral of images which he cannot control. Lost words. He thinks they might have been his instructions for the great construct. 
'Where did you get a lift from?' Natasha is repeating. 
'I don’t know.’ 
'Where were you living – can you remember?'
He tries, but he thinks more about her tone of voice than his address. She is bombarding him with questions. They make him suspicious. Supposing she is not so innocent? Supposing she has been instructed to question him? His perspicacity pleases him. Evidently his faculties are not impaired by illness if he can see through her deception. He smiles. Now he has realised what is happening, he can be on his guard.
'What's the matter?' she asks, watching him. All her pretence at concern is abandoned now. He knows that she is spying. 
'Robin, what's the matter?'
He does not reply. He can hear the voice laughing at his naivety. It has been there all the time, tapping into his thoughts. He should have known that he could not escape. 
'I think we'd better go home,' Natasha is saying. She sounds uneasy now.
'You'd like that, wouldn't you?'
'I don't want to tire you.'
'Can't have the patient getting tired, can we? You wouldn't get all the information you want.'
She stares. She is saying, 'I don't know what you mean.'
So disingenuous.
'You wouldn't,' he laughs. 'So where do we go from here?'
'Do you want to go back?'
'I didn't mean that.'
She stares at him, uncomfortable now her guilt is exposed.
'Tell me then,' he urges. 'Where do we go?'
'I don't understand you. We can go home.'
He laughs. The sound rings across the vale. Goes on and on. The voice laughs with him. When he recovers, Natasha is backing away.
'That's it – frighten her,' says the voice. 'That's what she deserves.'
'Come to your Uncle Robin,' he goads. 'Then we can go for a walk and look at the lovely scenery. Visit all your special places. That'll be nice, won't it? We can have a long talk. I'm sure you didn't get all the information you wanted.'
'I wasn't after information.'
'Of course not. It was just concern, wasn't it? Friendly concern.'
She does not answer.
'It's going to happen again,' the voice says. Robin knows what this means. He tries to close his mind to the implications. 
'It's going to happen again,' the voice insists. 'There's no other way.'
Part of Robin hopes that Natasha will hear and that she will seize the opportunity to escape.
'This isn't a good spot,' the voice cautions. 'Too exposed. Why don't you go into the bushes? Better to be safe than sorry.'
That was what his mother used to say as she made him take his raincoat to school. Better to be safe than sorry. Yet all the time the tiny boy who is inside Robin holds back from the task.
'Do it with your hands this time,' the voice encourages. 'Much better. Hands on experience!'
Still Natasha does not move. Robin stares, willing her to run away. Time stretches to infinity as they look at each other, both trying to understand. There is gentleness in her features, like a trusting animal. He pities her.
And then he runs. The strength which emotion gives him is soon dissipated. His limbs are like jelly. He gasps for breath. Natasha is calling him. He knows that he must be so far away that he can no longer hear, but his body will not obey.
'Don't let her follow me,' he is pleading, but the voice has gone.

chapter 4

Lichen encrusts the headstone on which the inscription has been rendered indecipherable by time and weather. Flakes of stone break away under Robin's fingers as he presses against it. He is panting. Blood pounds so violently in his ears that he fears they will burst.
It is a relief to be alone, to be beholden to nobody. Gradually the pounding subsides, so that he becomes aware of other sounds. Natasha's cries have long since died. Birds sing on the church roof. A tractor chugs two fields away. A train clatters in the distance.
The church is modest – built for a rural community long gone. The dressed stone is ageless. Robin pushes through the wet, uncut grass to look in at one of the dusty windows. He glimpses wooden chairs arranged in rows. There is little to show that the building is still used. He turns away. A blackbird which has been observing him from one of the newer headstones is frightened by the sudden movement and rises, calling shrilly. He goes to the incongruous white marble and crouches beside it, his fingers playing over the icy surface. Weather has not yet dulled the polish. The words will remain clear for many years. Ellen Gladys Stockbridge who died in her forty-ninth year. One winter's day twenty years ago her body was committed to the earth, a clergyman intoning the familiar words as her grieving family watched. The empty vase and the blades of grass brushing the stone proclaim that the memory soon faded. He wonders where the funeral of the old woman from the cricket pavilion will take place. It might be in that very churchyard. He looks around for newly-dug soil, seeing none. His attention settles on the headstone again. He cannot imagine anybody mourning the old woman, or putting up a stone for her. She was some thirty years older than Ellen Gladys Stockbridge.
He rises, leaning against the headstone to steady himself. His legs ache from the exercise. Fatigue has taken hold of his body with eagerness. His limbs are leaden. If anybody came after him, he would be incapable of running away. Habit makes him scan the countryside beyond the churchyard. Squares of pasture grazed by sheep give way to moorland. The hillsides are divided by walls. It is a desolate and oppressive landscape, like the setting for a John Buchan adventure in which he is the hunted man. Few trees survive on such meagre soil. There is no sign of Natasha. 
The hinges of the church door creak as it is opened. The interior is surprisingly bright, unlike the churches of his childhood. The faint smell of dampness and old paper is familiar. A simple place – the altar a table covered by a white cloth and adorned with a vase of flowers. Beside it the organ with its tiny keyboard is like a child's toy, yet it must be played at every service. It might have provided music at the funeral of Ellen Gladys Stockbridge. Robin goes closer, the isolation of the place making him succumb to the temptation to play. No sound as he touches the keys, which comes as both a disappointment and a relief. He sits before the keyboard, pulling the stool closer and adjusting his cuffs in the manner of a concert pianist of old. He assumes an expression of aristocratic disdain. His hands are poised over the keyboard. Bringing them down in the opening chords, the keys mercifully respond with nothing more than a few clicks. His fingers skim the keyboard as he displays his virtuosity to an admiring audience.
A sound from behind him makes him freeze. He lifts his hands from the keyboard in slow motion and turns, afraid of what he might see, but nobody is there. He relaxes, smiling at how his imagination plays tricks, but when he turns back to the organ, the whimsy which inspired him to play has evaporated. As he pushes back the stool, the noise echoes in the roof space. He gets to his feet, gripping the edge of the keyboard to steady himself. Like a child looking for a new toy, he casts around the church. This time his gaze alights on the altar. It is almost close enough to touch, yet to do so would be to deprive himself of potential pleasure. Altars need to be approached. He must process towards it. With eyes closed he retraces his steps along the central aisle, moving carefully to avoid spoiling the illusion by walking into the chairs. Six steps before he turns and opens his eyes. Now he is a priest about to lead members of the congregation in a service. The silence signifies their rapt attention. He goes forward with elaborate slowness to emphasise the ritual of the occasion. The stillness becomes total when he is standing before the altar, hands together, head lowered. He judges how long the silence should last before the congregation becomes restless. 
'Let us pray,' he begins in reverent tones, pausing for people to compose themselves before he continues, 'Let us give thanks for everything the Lord has given us.' 
He is not used to prayer. The words do not resonate with the certainty which will make people renounce past transgressions. He anticipated this would come easily. He struggles to recapture the right note of fervour from the phrases which have stayed with him since school assemblies. 
'We are sinners,' he proclaims while pretending not to notice the dead fly on the white cloth. 'Miserable sinners.' He pauses for his words to sink in. 'Do you want to be saved? Because I can help you.' 
The words do not carry conviction. As he seeks to analyse what is wrong, he is already trying to find the next words. A sense of panic fills him when they do not come. Being a priest and playing with language like an actor ought to be easy, but images of Natasha come to distract him. And the voice is laughing, saying to him, 'You're not much of a priest, are you? A few words and then you're flummoxed. Your congregation's walking out.'
'No!'
'They are. Look behind you.'
'Let us pray,' Robin appeals in what he hopes is an authoritative voice. 'Let us offer up our prayers.'
'Murderers can't be priests,' the voice is saying.
'We shall pray,' Robin whispers melodramatically, quelling such doubts. 'God, we want you to look kindly upon us. We want you to help us through the difficult times ahead.' He thinks that shows prescience. 'We want to know your love.'
'It's Natasha's love you're after,' the voice comments.
'Your all-embracing love,' he continues.
'Hypocrite.'
'We pray that all our sins may be forgiven.'
'All except murder, and that's the worst crime in the book.'
'That we may live for ever in thy sight.'
'With the thoughts you've got in your head? You must be joking.'
'That we may live for ever in thy sight,' Robin repeats emphatically. Then he hears the noise behind him again. A shiver really does pass down his spine. He wills himself to turn. The door is ajar – a crack of light shows at its edge – but nobody is there. He goes through his precise movements on entering the church. The memory of opening the door is clear, but not of closing it behind him. He relaxes, certain of what must have happened. Then his attention is caught by a movement and all his forebodings return. A child is peeping around the bottom of the door. How easily Robin could have missed her. The slit of light widens as she pushes the door further open. A fitful November sun chooses that moment to break free of the clouds, so that the girl is framed in light which burnishes her tousled hair. Rays of sunlight play across the floor of the aisle like her acolytes. The hem of her floral-patterned dress is below her knees. A white pinafore protects it. It passes through his mind that she is the ghost of a Victorian child. 
'Are you the vicar?' she asks.
'Sort of,' he agrees, wondering how long she has been watching.
'I haven't seen you before.'
'I'm new here.'
She wrinkles her face. 'You don't look like a vicar.'
'I can't help that.'
'You're not wearing vicar's clothes.'
'We don't keep them on all the time.'
'Were you practising?'
'That's it.'
'Can I watch?'
'I've finished now.'
She looks disappointed.
'Perhaps another time,' he consoles her.
'I saw you come in here.'
'Did you now.'
'You were walking all funny.'
'I'd been running. I was tired.'
'Are you all right now?'
'Fine.'
'That's good.' She continues watching him. 'Usually the door's kept locked.'
'How do you know?'
'I've tried it before.'
'We’ll have to make sure it's kept it locked, won't we?'
'I'd like it to be open all the time, so I can come in here whenever I like.'
'We can't do that, unfortunately,' he tells her, marvelling that somebody so young should be interested in visiting a church.
'Why not?'
As he searches for an explanation, she tells him, 'I used to play hide and seek in here.' She puts her hand to her lips. 'I shouldn't tell you that, should I?'
'What's your name?'
'Sarah.'
'You know you shouldn't really be here, Sarah?'
'I only play hide and seek. I don't make a mess.'
'That's something.' A thought strikes him. 'Who do you play with?'
'Marie.'
'Who's Marie?'
'She's a girl at school.'
'She's not here now, is she?'
The girl shakes her head. 'She's at school.'
'Why aren't you there?'
'I haven't been well, but mummy says I can go back next week. I've only got a cold.'
Robin envies her simplicity of outlook. If he possessed that quality as a child, it was so long ago that he has forgotten.
'Do you get many people coming to your services?' she asks.
He smiles. 'Not many.'
'Sometimes mummy brings me here when Mr Bastin's preaching and it's almost empty.'
'Sign of these atheist times, I'm afraid.'
'Mr Bastin's a lot older than you.'
'I'm his assistant.'
'I don't think he practises his services. I haven't seen him in here talking to himself.'
'We all do things differently.'
She looks confused.
'I don't really need to practise,' Robin explains, taking pity on her. 'It's my excuse for coming here.'
He watches her turning this over in her mind. 
'You were holding a service,' she points out.
'Keeping my hand in.'
'How can you hold a service if there’s nobody here?'
'It's quite easy really.'
This confuses her all the more.
'You like coming here,' he reasons. 'So do I.’ 
'That's different.'
'Why?'
'I come here to play.'
'Why come here to play if your friend isn't here?'
'I was watching you. I thought you were ill. I was going to run and get mummy.'
'It was good of you to worry about me.'
The irony is lost on her. From her expression it is evident that she is still not satisfied.
'Why do you hold a service when there's nobody here?'
He smiles. 'You wouldn't understand.'
'Yes I would.'
'I like to get away from other people.'
'Did you have a row with your wife?'
'What makes you think that?'
'Because mummy goes off by herself when she argues with daddy. She doesn't do it very often, though.'
'I'm glad to hear it.'
He wonders why he is assuming the avuncular tones of a real clergyman.
'We've lived here for three years,' the girl informs him.
'Have you? Well, well.'
'We used to live in Manchester before that.'
'Manchester, eh?'
Her gaze does not waver. She seems to expect a more enthusiastic response.
'Who's "we"?' he asks.
'There's mummy, daddy, me and granny.' She counts off the names on her fingers.
'Haven't you got any brothers or sisters?'
She shakes her head.
'So you just play with Marie?'
'She's my special friend. I play with Ann sometimes, but not with Sandra.' A note of contempt creeps into her voice.
'But they're at school as well,' Robin sums up.
'Sandra doesn't know about coming here.'
He wonders whether the gleeful malice will remain in the woman to come.
'She thinks she's better than everybody else. If she came, she'd start taking over. She likes to boss everybody around.'
'I don't know her, so I won't be telling her what you’ve said.'
As she looks back at him, he wonders how time will change her – whether she will become like Natasha or Serena.
'What's your name?' she asks.
'Robin.'
As soon as he has told her, he wonders whether he has done the right  thing. It is easy to invent a name – and safer not to tell other people of his business.
'I don't know what Mr Bastin's first name is.' Sarah is saying.
'When you get to Mr Bastin's age, you always get called by your surname.'
'Why's that?'
'I don't know.'
Silence as they muse on the mysteries of seniority.
'Where else do you play?' Robin asks, tiring of the church.
Sarah looks away. Unselfconsciously she scratches her leg through the dress.
'I shan't tell anybody,' he cajoles.
Still no response. She does not meet his eyes.
'There must be some secret place you only go with Marie.'
She looks up, assessing him. He knows pride in her hiding place will eventually make her reveal it.
'Perhaps I could go there when I want to hide from Mr Bastin,' he explains.
'You've got to promise not to tell anybody.'
'Promise.'
'All right, I'll show you. Come on.'
He closes the church door behind them and falls in step beside her as they follow the cracked asphalt path to the gate.
'It's not far,' his guide announces importantly.
A car sweeps past them; otherwise, the road is empty. To the left is moorland, clad in heather and bracken and rising steeply. A wire fence separates it from the road. The stone picture book cottages facing it have ceramic nameplates, varnished hardwood doors and neat gravel hard-standings. The hanging flower baskets are empty in November. Beyond the cottages, new houses are set back from the road, their incongruity concealed by shrubs and trees. Robin can imagine Sarah living there. He hesitates at the gateway to a field, trying to get his bearings. The ground falls away gently. A railway hugs the valley bottom. If a river is there, it is out of sight.
'Do you want to come?' Sarah asks impatiently.
'Sorry.'
Meekly he follows. He can imagine her in twenty years time, when the innocence has gone. Inefficiency or slackness will not be tolerated, whether in business or her private life.
'This is where we cross,' she announces.
He watches her looking in either direction along the empty road as she has been taught. They cross to a wooden stile. 
'You'll have to climb over this,' she instructs, clambering onto the footrest and wriggling between the two horizontal bars with practised ease. She is on the other side and brushing mud from her red woollen gloves as he swings one leg over the topmost bar. The world spins around him. He clings desperately to the rough wood, wanting to be on the ground again, but knowing that he must not move quickly. Breathing deeply to calm himself.
  'It's over here,' Sarah tells him, unaware that anything is amiss.
  A fissure in the hillside – a miniature stone ravine partially concealed by undergrowth and twisted, stunted trees. A noise of rushing water. Going closer, Robin sees water cascading from further up the hillside. At the base is a tumble of boulders. The stream runs swiftly there, to disappear into a culvert under the road. Robin is conscious of his thirst again and enticed by the sight of the clear water. He lets himself down the other side of the stile. When he reaches the stream, he is glad to sink to his knees in the water. Once more he drinks from his cupped hands.
'You shouldn't drink that,' Sarah scolds as though he is a younger brother.
'Why not?'
'You don't know whether it's clean.'
'It's clean – it comes straight off the moor. Try it.' He sees her hesitation. 'Look – I'm drinking it.' He bends low over the stream, so that he can smell the damp earth. Water trickles between his fingers. At last Sarah is convinced. She drinks, kneeling beside him, intent on not spilling the water as she lifts it in her hands.
'Do you like it?' he asks.
She looks up, water glistening on her chin. She breaks into a grin. 'It's nice,' she tells him, 'but it's ever so cold.'
They drink together. Robin watches Sarah lifting the water higher than her face, as though it is a sacrament. He is intrigued by the bobbing of her Adam’s apple. He drinks the same way, pouring water down his throat instead of sucking it from his hands. She laughs. The shared intimacy pleases him. He is a child again.
'I feel all dizzy now,' she says shrilly. 'That's the water inside me.'
'That's right,' he chuckles.
'I bet Sandra's never drunk from a stream.'
'I bet Marie and Ann haven't.'
'I'm going tell them.'
'So long as they don't start telling their own friends. It wouldn't be much fun if everybody came.'
She shakes her head. 'All their friends live in town.'
'So what do you do when you bring your friends here?'
'We play. We come here a lot in the summer.'
'You play,' he muses, watching her. 'What sort of things?'
'Hiding games.'
'Doesn't anybody else come here?'
'Sometimes in summer walkers come along the path.' She points to the path winding up the hillside from the stile.
'I bet you've got a favourite hiding place.'
That makes her secretive.
'Surely you can tell me,' he urges.
A mischievous look comes to her eyes as she rises to her feet. 'You try to find me,' she tells him. 'Close your eyes and count to twenty.'
He closes his eyes. The world of darkness disturbs him. It brings memories of running in the night like a frightened animal, blindly seeking safety. He remembers the growing exhaustion, the thirst and how the coldness seeped into him as he sprawled on the unyielding ground.
'Count out loud,' comes Sarah's voice from the distance.
It is as though she knows that he has not taken heed of her instructions. How alarming that even a small girl can see into his mind.   Self-consciously he begins: 'One, two, three, four...' The only sounds are the rushing of water, a hum of distant traffic and the calls of the birds. He is aware of the damp and the cold. '... five, six, seven, eight...' As he counted once before. He tries to remember the occasion. Suddenly it is important for him to know. '...nine... ten... eleven, twelve...' Trying to put the uncertainty from his voice. More strongly: '...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...'   A car passes, drowning his words. He wonders whether he can be seen from the road. '...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.' He opens his eyes. The car is out of sight around a bend. Its sound recedes. Everything looks the same, except that Sarah is not there. Which way? He casts about uncertainly. Hiding places are everywhere. He might search for hours without finding her. The thought passes through his mind that he should go on his way without telling her, but he knows that she might be watching. If he is to disappear, he does not want her knowing which direction he takes. He begins searching for her, hoping that she will give herself away by laughing at his ineptitude. What he should have done was to listen to her steps and to pay attention to the direction her voice came from. He begins by the stile, assuming she would not have crossed the road. The culvert is too small to conceal her. She must be somewhere amongst the bushes, but where? Looking without success for a glimpse of her pale blue anorak. All he has to do is to follow a semicircle with the stile as its centre, searching all the undergrowth until he is back at the road. He begins, but a further problem presents itself: how large should he make the semicircle? He tries to guess how far she could have gone in the time which elapsed. The area he has to search is vast.
'I'm looking for you,' he calls, hoping to goad her into laughter. He gives the broom a desultory push. The branches stand firm. Beginning his sweep away from the road and towards where the stream emerges from the rock. Calling, 'I'm looking for you.'
A train in the valley. The blaring, two-tone horn. He envies the passengers who read their newspapers in warm, comfortable coaches. Their world is denied to him.
Climbing now. At least Sarah cannot have gone far up the hillside, where the cover is sparse. A problem presents itself as he works his way to the crevice in the rock: he must go down to the stile again to cross the stream. He is above the boulders. From his vantage point, he can survey the immediate countryside. It passes through his mind that Sarah has deceived him and is already on her way home, laughing at the thought of the man who is searching for her. 
'I can see you,' he calls without much hope. 
No response. Another car passes. Robin knows that he is conspicuous, standing high above the road. He wonders whether Natasha and her family will be in their cars and looking for him. When he looks down at the ground falling to the road, he has to close his eyes as the vertigo returns. Sweat makes his clothes stick to him in spite of the cold. How he hopes Sarah is not looking. 
By turning to face uphill he can descend the way he came without panic gripping him. What relief when he is beside the stream again. For a moment he forgets that he still has to find Sarah, but his quest soon comes to dominate his thoughts once more. Drying sweat makes him shiver. 
Calling, 'Sarah.'
No answer of course. Now he knows roughly where she must be hiding. Following the same procedure as on the other side of the stream he walks as close as possible to the road and then begins his semicircle towards the waterfall. Anxiety knots his stomach in spite of his certainty. What will happen if he does not find her, if she has injured herself and is unconscious? He will be blamed for her disappearance. As the thought goes through his mind, he glimpses the pale blue of her anorak. His heart lifts. 
'I can see you,' he calls softly.
Sarah rises from behind the bush. 
'Catch me,' she calls, running from him along the path. Now he is a child playing chasing games. No girl can beat him in running.
The chase ends abruptly. At the moment when she falls, he can almost touch her. Panting, he stands over the figure writhing on the ground.
'What's the matter?' he asks, conscious of the irrelevance of his words. The girl's face which was so happy a few moments before is unrecognisable in her misery. Tears well from her screwed-up eyes and spill down her cheeks. All he can do is to watch, rubbing his hands down his trousers as though in a ritual cleansing. Wails like those of a baby come from her throat, making him fear that somebody from the cottages will hear the strange noise and come to see what is happening. Yet in spite of this, fascination with her anguish holds him enthralled. 
'I cut my knee,' she sobs when the wails subside.
He can see the blood oozing from the broken skin. It repels him, yet he cannot look away.
'We ought to wash it,' he says, remembering what his mother did when he cut his knee as a child. 'Can you get to the stream?'
Sarah shakes her head. She is whimpering. The eyes turned to his are like those of a wounded animal.
'Can you get to the stream so we can wash the cut?' he repeats urgently, but she pays little heed. When he puts out a hand to help her up, she shrugs it away. He insists, 'We've got to wash it.'
Still no response.
'I'm going to carry you,' he explains, bending over her. 'If you can sit up a bit...' He is putting one arm around her back, the other under her knees, close to the blood. Lifting. Taking all her weight. It is a fine feeling to have charge of another person. Drawing her close so that he can feel her warmth, smell her smell and be aware of her every movement. Her face is within inches of his. He marvels at the colours in her eyes. Even though she is so young, the sensuousness of her lips is exciting. 
The struggling takes him by surprise, so that he nearly drops her. She is like animal trying to free itself. He lowers her quickly in case she falls. Her feet flail as she reaches for the ground. He searches for words which will make everything all right, but she pulls free of him when she regains her balance. She screams as she runs along the path.
His first thought is to run after her – he could catch her – but he does not bother. He knows that there would only be one way of quieting her.
'It's what you ought to do,' the voice tells him. 'Did you think I'd gone away? I won't leave you, not the way she did. I'm faithful, though you don't appreciate me. I'll guide you.'
Robin does not know whether to believe such reasonableness. He glances over his shoulder. There is no sign that anybody in the cottages has heard the screams, though people might be watching from their windows. They might already have telephoned the police.
Running up the hillside, heather pulling at his feet. Slower and slower, till his movements resemble a grotesque mime. This time, heaviness comes quickly to his legs. He is not old, he tells himself as he gasps. He has been ill – that is why he is out of condition. Eventually he has to adopt the tactics of an insect, clawing at the heather to haul himself towards his goal on all fours. At the crest he has to pause. Curiosity makes him look back. The road and the houses resemble models set against a painted backdrop of fields and distant, bare hills topped with mist. He glimpses the railway with its fencing and signals following a surveyor's line across the landscape. No sign of anything untoward. Another car passes, looking like a toy. He wonders whether the driver will come upon the distraught girl and stop to find out what has happened. Before him a treeless plateau stretches into mist. He begins walking, trampling the springy heather underfoot. Like walking on a mattress. A fine rain wets his face and clothes. Dampness and coldness embrace him, blotting out all sounds. Now he is utterly alone. Rather than depressing him the prospect brings calm. Images come unbidden and without order to his mind as he trudges onwards. The old woman in the pavilion has Sarah's face. It is Sarah's terror he witnesses as the flames leap around her. He cannot understand why she does not run away. When he tries to help her, she takes no notice, as though he is a ghost she cannot see. He cannot go close to her – she is always receding in his vision. All he can do is to run away, though he curses himself for his cowardice. And as he runs, her screams are in his head. 
So many images cluttering his mind. They can be tipped away, as though heaped in a shovel which is waiting to be emptied. The immediate panic has subsided. If he stayed there, nobody would find him. When he stops running, the silence is profound – far more so than in the church. Tentacles of cold reach into his clothes, making him shiver. He wonders how long it would take to die of exposure if he remained there, not moving. The prospect does not frighten him. He looks around like a child entranced by its new surroundings. No landmarks by which to orient himself. Pushing at the undergrowth with his foot – a mat of blackened, tangled heather which compresses as he puts his weight on it. A fire must have swept over the landscape, leaving only these blackened remnants of vegetation. Easy to believe that no living thing is left apart from himself. He inhales slowly, not sure whether the smell of burning is in his imagination. Mist swirls as it does in horror films – that makes him smile. He has come upon a truly amazing place.
Moving on. No point in hurrying when he has nowhere to go. His thoughts stray to the other fire. Somehow it is inextricably bound with Sarah's image. He does not like linking her to such a death. And Natasha – he can see her smile. The flames are coming closer to her. 
'Good riddance,' the voice says. 'She knew too much about you.'
But she was good to him.
'You trusted her too much,' the voice says. 'You won't be making that mistake again.'
Whenever he forgets the voice, it comes to comment on his actions. He wonders whether there is a way of escaping from it, or whether like a virus it is always dormant inside him. The thought has to be suppressed quickly lest the voice should become aware of it. Even then there is no knowing whether it has been intercepted. He breathes deeply, trying to shake off his apprehension. His nose runs. He rubs it with his hand. When he touches his hair, he discovers that too is wet. He smiles wryly at the insidious way his body is being taken over by outside forces. The cold is his final friend, waiting to claim him when the voice abandons him. The thought does not alarm him.
  As though his steps have been directed, he literally stumbles upon the circle of stones. They stand waist high – a miniature Stonehenge some twelve feet across. No vegetation grows there. He steps into the circle, trying to attune himself to the hopes and fears of those who knew it as a sacred place centuries before the Romans came. Some of their power must remain. He waits. The voice does not address him, which could mean that it is cowed by the primaeval power – or it is biding its time. He does not trust those periods of quiescence. He holds out his arms, seeking some feeling for the rituals which must have taken place in the circle. Instinct tells him that people were killed there. He wonders whether he is becoming attuned to forces inside him which he has never had to call upon before. His arms grow tired from being held in the pose of a scarecrow. Only as he notices does he realise that his hands are flapping and that he cannot control them. Truly his body is being charged with new powers. Perhaps he really can fly. He lifts his face so that he may be borne up by the mist. This is immortality.
Something commands him to continue walking. He is certain that it is not the voice. Hesitating as he leaves the circle. He does not want to lose the power which has been revealed to him, but he dare not disobey. Fatigue slows him, but stopping is out of the question until further commands come. Moors do not go on for ever, he tells himself, yet with the mist all around, he is not sure whether to believe such a commonplace. This is not the everyday world. 
A dark shape appears in the mist. At first he thinks it is an animal and he halts abruptly, his pulse racing, but it resolves into a stone wall. He is puzzled why anybody should bother to build a wall in such a place. Going closer he sees wool caught on the jagged stones. He wonders whether he can survive on that inhospitable moorland like the sheep. Lack of water is one problem. In spite of drinking at the stream, he is already thirsty again. And what will he do for food when the only vegetation is heather? He wonders how long it will take to accustom himself to eating it.
No gate is in sight. To cross the wall he clambers to the top and lies along it, letting his legs swing down the other side. The thick clothes which Natasha found for him cushion his body from the sharp edges. He enjoys that moment of launching into the unknown and of feeling himself being dragged downwards, aware that he can do nothing to stop the process. There is one moment of fear as he scrabbles ineffectually at the stones to slow his descent. His body jars as his feet hit the ground. The sudden movement makes the vertigo return. He has to lean against the wall to get his balance.
At first sight the moorland beyond the wall looks no different – an expanse of heather disappearing into mist. Then a strip of bare earth beside the wall attracts his attention. He follows it without knowing whether it really is a track or just a strip of soil too shaded and too impoverished to support even heather. Imagining people from the past coming that way. Now he is in their territory, he must learn to live as they did. He wonders whether there are animals to hunt on the moors. And shelter – he must find a shelter. Perhaps if he accustoms himself to life on the moor, the rituals of the circle will be vouchsafed to him. He walks on, making the effort once more to remember his past life. Instinct tells him that he must hold on to his past, even in such  changed surroundings. His childhood is clear – all the things he told Natasha. He recalls her face, so beautiful in its solemn innocence, but how he met her is lost to him. And there was a girl who might have been a young Natasha. He met her in a church. She made him a child again, but later she became frightened. He can remember how she screamed and how he climbed to the moorland in his effort to escape. 
The fatigue is worsening. He stumbles. When he puts out his hand to steady himself against the wall, it gives way before him. Falling...
'What's the matter with you?' the boy asks.
Robin blinks. Two children look down on him. Both have enormous brown eyes. The girl wears a faded, creased cotton dress too large for her. Wide cheeks, unnaturally red. Thick, tangled hair. The boy beside her wears jeans with patches on the knees. The pattern on his tee-shirt is indecipherable from repeated washing. His trainers are thick with mud. Neither child seems bothered by the cold.
'Are you all right, mister?' the boy enquires.
Robin sits up. Mist still blankets his surroundings. The drizzle which spatters his face has saturated his clothes. He remembers the wall. He turns. Reassuringly its bulk looms behind him.
'He's bleeding,' the girl points out.
'Course he's bleeding,' the boy says scornfully. 'I can see that.'
'Who are you?' Robin asks, cutting across their squabbling. That silences them. They stare, not sure what to make of him. He smiles in what he hopes is a winning way as he explains, 'I hurt my head.'
'Did you fall down?' the girl wants to know.
'I must have.' He notices the sore as she scratches her leg. 'Who are you?' he asks.
The children exchange glances.
'Where do you live?' he asks, baffled.
'Up the lane,' the girl volunteers. 
'You've got blood and dirt all over your face,' the boy tells him.
Robin touches his face, aware of the dried blood cracking as he moves his jaw. The memory of what happened remains obstinately out of reach.
'What are you doing here?' the boy wants to know and for an instant a residual fear of being questioned comes to Robin. He tries to quell it by telling himself that a boy's questions do not matter. Why should a grown man be afraid of a child's words?
'I was playing a game,' he explains, surprised by the defensiveness of his tone.
'Here?' the boy asks disbelievingly.
'Yes.'
'By yourself?' the girl queries.
He nods. 'I've got nobody else to play with,' he explains. He cannot understand why they look upon him with such incredulity. He hears himself saying, 'I was playing with somebody – a girl – but she had to go away.'
His audience waits for him to continue.
'Is there somewhere I can clean myself up?' He touches his face again, trying to find the wound. 'It hurts,' he explains. 'I only want to wash it.' He cannot understand why they look at each other with indecision on their faces.
'Shall we take him to ma?' the girl asks and his spirits soar.
'Dunno whether she'd like it,' the boy says doubtfully.
'I can't stay here,' Robin reasons.
'She might not mind.' The girl decides. 'Come on, mister.'
He gets up like an old man, clinging to the wall for support. His body feels leaden. He looks around to find the children waiting patiently, watching him. 
'Off we go then,' he encourages, smiling. 'Don't go too fast, will you?'
He recalls the path beside the wall, though whether he is retracing his steps or continuing across the moor, he does not know. The girl looks back frequently to make sure that he is all right. Her brother darts ahead, disappearing into the mist, sometimes waiting for the others to come close before he runs on again. Robin moves slowly, frequently leaning against the wall to recover his breath while the girl watches with unashamed curiosity. His fear is that the children are playing a game with him – that they will disappear into the mist and the last he will hear of them is their laughter.
'Is it much further?' he asks.
'Not now,' the girl tells him.
A gap in the wall. Brackets where a gate should hang. The ground churned by animals. The girl splashes through the mud without appearing to notice. Robin picks his way around the edge. He fears that his legs will give way. Much further and he will have to tell the girl that he must rest. 
'It's along here, mister,' she tells him.
He peers into the mist, seeing nothing except the interminable heather and the dark, snaking line of the wall. His suspicions grow that the girl is leading him away from the wall. He is gasping now. He stamps flatfootedly on the heather, trying to prevent himself from swaying. Much further and he will collapse from exhaustion. 
A dog barking beyond the curtain of mist. The boy calling, 'Ma – there's a man come back with us. He's hurt his head.' The shape of a caravan appearing.
'There's ma,' the girl announces.
The woman stands at the caravan door, watching the arrival of the stranger without showing her feelings. Her clothing is as shabby as the children's. Robin registers that she is in her thirties and still attractive. Her legs are bare. The dog places itself between Robin and its mistress. When it bares its teeth, she calls sternly, 'Come here, Ben,' and the dog slinks away, cowering under the caravan to watch Robin balefully.
'Who are you?' she asks, studying Robin as he halts before her. He returns her gaze. Her face shows the first lines of age. She has the children's liquid brown eyes.
'He's hurt his head,' the girl explains.
'He can speak for himself, can't he?'
He notices a twinkle in her eyes.
'I fell,' he explains.
'You were walking across the moor and you fell.'
He does not answer.
'Come closer,' she urges.
He hesitates.
'You don't have to be afraid.'
He is not really afraid. He goes to her.
'That's a nasty cut,' she murmurs, her hand passing lightly over his head as though blessing him.
'He was lying in the back field,' the girl puts in. Her brother has already disappeared into the mist.
  'What were you doing there?' ma asks.
  Robin has to confess that he does not know.
  'You're a real mystery man, aren't you? Still, you need cleaning up, whoever you are. You'd better come in.'
'Thanks.'
'And don't bump your head.'
He follows her into the caravan. The warmth and the smell of paraffin provide an uneasy reminder of the pavilion. 
'What's the matter?' she asks seeing his hesitation.
Shaking his head.
'Do you think you're putting my virtue at risk?' she laughs. 'Or is it your virtue you're worried about?'
Closing the door. Committed now. Watching as she puts a kettle of water on the burner and washes her hands like a surgeon preparing for an operation. It is an incongruous notion in this cramped caravan heated with bottled gas and lit by paraffin. Children's pictures in crayon are taped to the yellowing plastic padding on the walls. Army blankets are folded neatly on the bunks.
'Sit yourself down by the table,' she instructs. 'Push those things out the way.'
Obediently Robin perches on the edge of the only chair. He pushes the jar of jam and the sliced loaf in its packet towards the back of the table. Crumbs are scattered over the plastic. He brushes them clear with the side of his hand, staring at the ridge of breadcrumbs he has created. The sounds of the woman's preparations and the hissing of the gas burners are in his ears. Though he enjoys the warmth, fumes tickle his throat, making him want to cough. Rivulets of condensation trickle down the windows, saturating the wooden frame.
'It should be about ready now,' she says.
As the water is poured, Robin feels more stirrings of apprehension. He fears that the woman will operate on his brain. He starts as she puts the bowl of steaming water before him on the table.
'Now let's have a look.'
She stands behind him, fingers probing his head. He enjoys her closeness, though he wishes that he could see her.
'It's quite nasty,’ she murmurs. ‘You must have hit a stone when you fell. You ought to have it X-rayed really.'
'No!'
'Okay, okay.' She separates the strands of hair matted by blood. 'It's just that if you've lost your memory, you might have concussion. I can't do anything about that with a plaster.'
'I'm all right.'
'Sure you are.'
Conversation lapses. The woman pours antiseptic into the bowl. It gives off a pine smell.
'Do you all live in here?' Robin asks.
'All three of us,' she agrees. 'Don't look so surprised.'
'I've never been in a caravan.'
'Great new experience for you. Keep still.'
He feels the hot damp cloth on his face. It seems to transmit energy to him, making him want to run and to laugh.
'There's just a graze on your face. It looks worse than it is.'
'I didn't expect to meet anybody on the moor.'
'It's not exactly crowded in November.'
'Do you stay here all the time?'
'We've been here for a couple of weeks, which is a long time for us. Usually we get moved on after a few days.' She wrings out the cloth. Fragments of dried blood swirl in the water like rust. 'How's that feel?'
'Fine.'
'Now for the big one.' She draws his hair away from the cut on his scalp. 'You really should have this stitched. It's a wonder you didn't kill yourself.'
'Is it all right?'
Looking up at her as a boy looks at his mother when he is ill. She tuts in exasperation.
'Don't keep moving.'
'But I'll be all right?'
'As right as any man. Now hold still.'
The warmth against his skin again. Her ministrations are soothing. He wants them never to end.
'I'd better put something on it,' she decides.
He twists to watch as she searches through a cupboard and brings out a tiny bottle with a discoloured label. Inside is a dark liquid. He can hear the children squabbling. She tells him, 'You don't have to look so frightened.'
'I'm not frightened.'
'That's good.'
Watching with apprehension as she unscrews the cap of the bottle and lets the dark liquid soak into a clean cloth.
'This might sting,' she warns.
He closes his eyes. The liquid does indeed sting. 
'I told you,' she says gleefully as he winces.
'I'm not frightened,' he assures her.
'Just as you say. You'll get it in your eyes if you don't stay still.'
Trying to show no feelings as she continues with her ministrations. Keeping his lips firmly together.
'There – it's all done now. How does that feel?' She washes the cloth in the bowl a second time. A red stain spreads through the water. Robin tries to work out his feelings. The sudden surge of energy which came to him as she began cleaning the wound is dissipated. Now he feels a sense of anticlimax which only her closeness helps to mitigate.
'Feels all right,' he agrees. 
'There's gratitude for you.' She takes the bowl away.
'I didn't mean it like that. I am grateful, truly.'
Water gurgles down the drain in the sink.
'Okay, okay.' She turns to watch him. 'You get worked up easily, don't you?'
'I'm sorry.' His eyes are downcast. He is staring at the strip of worn carpet.
'I ought to put a bandage or something on that cut to stop the dirt getting in, but you'll really look like one of the walking wounded then.'
'I'd rather you didn't.'
She shrugs. 'Okay. Would you like a cup of tea?'
'Yes, please. It's very good of you.'
'Sure it is.'
His eyes follow her as she refills the kettle.
'If we've got enough water left,' she murmurs. She glances back. 'No mod. cons. here,' she explains, grinning at his puzzlement. 'We have a plastic container we take to the farm on the main road every morning. Looks as if we'll have to make a second visit today, all the water I’m using.'
'That’s because of me.'
'Don't worry yourself about it.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I said don't worry.' She puts the kettle on the burner. The gas lights with a pop. When she turns to him again, her gaiety is lost. 'We beg water and we buy gas cylinders. Not much of a life, is it?'
He can think of no adequate answer.
'I worry about the gas. One caravan was burnt down when the kids knocked over the gas heater. They both died.'
'I'm sorry.'
She grins. 'At least when I haven't got any money for gas, we don't have that problem.'
'What happens then?'
'We do without. Live on bread and jam and put on lots of clothes.' She smiles at his surprise. 'You get used to it.'
He wonders idly whether this will be his life. Both past and future seem equally remote. He can think of no life except with the woman before him. She is bringing mugs, sugar, milk powder and a packet of teabags from the cupboard.
'Do you like living this way?' he asks.
'It suits us well enough.' She turns to look at him again. Her scrutiny makes him uneasy. She says, 'You're on edge – are you running away from somebody?'
'No,' he shouts, getting to his feet, his idyll forgotten.
'Okay, okay.’ 
'I'm not running away,' he insists, slumping in his chair.
Following the children so meekly does not seem such a good idea now. He is not sure whether he should trust the woman. He ventures another glance at her. She is still watching him.
'I don't know what to make of you, honest I don't,' she confesses.
A long silence. Even the voices of the child outside are stilled. The roaring of the gas seems louder.
'I must have hit my head against something,' he explains, ashamed at not being more grateful.
'I think you did.'
'Where do you go?'
'What do you mean?'
'With the caravan.'
'Everywhere and anywhere. Depends whether we get moved on.'
'It must be an exciting life.'
'Exciting!' She laughs. 'I wouldn't call it that.'
'It's the sort of life I want to lead.'
If it is a smile which crosses her features, it is soon gone.
'Could I make a life like yours if I started with nothing?' he asks.
'Go on the road, you mean?'
'Yes.'
'You don't exactly need qualifications.'
'I suppose not.'
'Plenty of people live in the open. You don't need a caravan.'
'Where do they sleep?'
'Barns. Anywhere.'
The noise from the kettle growing louder. 
'Isn't it boiling yet?' he asks.
'It takes a long while on this burner.'
As she leans back against the worktop, he tries to decide whether she is beautiful.
'It's snug in here,' he says.
That half smile again. 'You could call it that.'
'They're fine children.'
'I think so,' she agrees, looking pleased.
'You must be proud of them.'
'Sure I'm proud.'
'Children you've borne. That's something I can never say, isn't it?'
She looks puzzled. Fortunately, the kettle boils before she asks him to explain.
'Do you want sugar?' she asks, filling the mugs.
'Sugar?' He muses over the question. 'Yes, please – I'll have sugar.'
'How many?'
'How many?' He watches as she busies herself, her back to him. 'How many do you want?'
'I don't know. One spoon... two spoons?'
'I'll try one.'
She brings two mugs to the table and settles herself on the seat against the wall. He can see tiny scratches on her hands.
'I've been walking,' he tells her.
'Have you?'
'I've come a long way and I'm meeting various people.'
'Good for you.'
'I've met rich people, poor people, young and old.'
'You quite a man of the road already.'
'Do you think so?'
'Surely.'
'The other's didn't understand.'
'That's life.'
'You understand.' He watches for her response, but it is disappointingly ambiguous. 'We share the same opinions, don't we?' he persists.
'You're a strange one.'
'You think?'
She does not answer. He sees that secret smile on her face again. When he takes her hand, she does not stop him. He enjoys its warmth. Energy flows into him again. Awkwardly he kisses her, the edge of the table pressing into his side as he draws her closer. How he loves the touch of her lips. He has found his destiny.
Then she slaps him.

chapter 5 

The wintery sun glows like burnished copper as it sinks below the hedgerow, abandoning the countryside to the coldness of night. Cold enough for frost. Fields become lakes of darkness. Trees assume the unreal, stylised forms reminiscent of Chinese paintings. The song of a solitary bird is counterpointed by a rhythmical thudding of drums. Robin wonders how many people will be at the party. He hesitates now the moment has come, but Serena's voice insinuates itself in his mind, urging him to enjoy himself. 
Crossing the last field. The barn is stark and black against the red sky, its long, pitched roof giving it the appearance of a church. Robin remembers the church – a Spartan place, bright, and smelling of old flowers. He remembers the service with a girl as his congregation. He was going about the Lord's work like any other priest. He suspects that the voice belongs to God. 
 A barn marooned in the fields. Nobody in sight. No cars. Only the drumming shows that he has come to the right place. He lifts the latch with both hands, the cold, rusting metal pressing into his flesh. The door does not yield until he puts his weight against it. Then it opens with a jolt. 
The warmth is like a blanket in front of his face. He catches his breath. The thudding rhythm resolves into rock music so loud that his ears buzz. Every-changing colours play over the barn, staining the hay garish colours, but hardly reaching into the corners. 
A man mimes to Robin that he should close the door. Robin's hands tremble as he obeys. People of his own age everywhere. He gazes at girls in bright dresses who flit like butterflies between groups of friends, greeting them effusively. Their colleagues in tight denim jeans seem dowdy by comparison, until he sees the beauty of their bodies. He watches bemused, wanting to hear Serena reassuring him that he is welcome amongst these strangers. Most do not notice his arrival; a few watch curiously, like animals wary of strangers. A man in full evening dress raises a glass in salutation. Robin raises his hand in reply. His face breaks into a smile which soon fades when it is not reciprocated. His fingers stray to his cheek, expecting to feel the stigmata of the slap. He hopes that his shame will not be evident. 
 Venturing further into the barn, his ears growing accustomed to the noise. A wooden ladder leads to a loft. The scents of wood and hay are overlain with the girls' perfumes and the heady scent of cannabis. Away from the dancers, couples lying in the hay show no concern with anybody beyond themselves.
Somebody he has not met before. She is slim, her jeans revealing the perfection of her figure. The mass of blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders catches the coloured lights like the facets of a diamond. Robin is disconcerted yet excited by the lure of seduction on her face as she assesses him. 
'Serena,' he is saying, 'Where's Serena?' 
But his words cannot be heard above the music. The unknown girl loses patience. The welcome is wiped from her face as she turns away. He knows what he has done, but he must find Serena. Search in the shadowy corners for the girl who taunted him. Her voice is still vivid in his memory, but with so many girls around him, he cannot see her features clearly. One girl leans against a thick wooden post, conjuring images drawn from the cowboy films of his childhood that she is tied to a totem pole. A light hangs over her, saturating her in a pool of yellow light which imparts an ethereal beauty and accentuates her breasts. She smiles at him. Like an animal she nuzzles the nape of her neck against the post. He watches with intense concentration, envisaging her body without its scanty covering. Her smile broadens as he comes closer. Though he could easily be seduced by her beauty, he knows that she is another temptress trying to keep him from Serena. He walks past her, knowing how she must scorn him. He wants to admire her, but he dare not catch her eye. The important thing is to find Serena. 
Hoping without expectation that she is alone. His search takes him back to the dancers in the centre of the barn. Some are too self-absorbed to be aware of their partners; others cling together, moving as though hypnotised. 
He fights the heaviness dragging at his eyelids and his limbs and lulling him into sleep. As he tells himself that he must find Serena, he is looking for likely places where he might sleep. He can imagine the guests crowding around his recumbent figure, marvelling at the interloper who shows his indifference to what is happening. 
 The rungs of the ladder are worn. Robin hauls himself upwards. The short climb takes all his energy. He has to pause frequently. The loft is filled with hay, muffling the noise from below and providing a host of hiding places where he might sleep without being seen. As he crouches on the edge of the platform, he dares to look down. The barn looks smaller. The lights penetrate a haze of smoke, reminding him of the projector beam across a cinema auditorium. Directly below are the dancers, positioned like pieces on a chess board. He is sweating in the heavy outdoor clothes which Natasha gave him. He fumbles ineffectually with the zip of the anorak. Abandoning it, he shuffles crab-like from the unguarded edge of the platform, to venture among the bales of hay in the shadows. The urge to sleep becomes overwhelming. He slumps onto the soft, sweet-smelling hay and lets oblivion engulf him. 
'Robin.'
A familiar voice rouses him, bringing a tingle of excitement. He opens his eyes. 
'Robin,' Serena is calling. 
Looking for her, half suspecting that the voice is in his head, for she is nowhere in sight. Scanning the loft one final, despairing time; then fatigue overcomes him again and like a hibernating animal he curls into a ball, nursing his disappointment. The hay rustles beneath him and prickles his neck. His eyes are tightly closed. 
'Where are you, Robin?'
A strange sensation passes through him – as if all strength has left his muscles. He grows still, so that the rustling ceases. 
'There you are.' The voice is closer. She sounds pleased. 'Where have you been, Robin?'
He does not answer. Nothing must spoil his dream. 
'It's Serena. Aren't you pleased to see me?' She is touching him. Mock hurt in her tone. 'Have you got stomach ache? Is that why you're screwing yourself up, or don't you want to speak to me?'
He can feel hot tears welling between his eyelids and burning his cheeks. Serena sinks into the hay beside him. He dare not open his eyes in case she belongs in his dream. 
'What's the matter?' she asks, stroking his face. 'What's happened to my poor Robin?' Her lips brush his face. 'What's happened? You want to tell Serena, don't you?'
He pulls away sharply when he feels her warm breath over the place where he was slapped. No dream can be like this. 
'What's the matter?' She is trying to put her arms around him. At first he does not understand what she is doing and he struggles. Then as her weight presses against him, he becomes compliant, resting his head against her shoulder so that her hair is against his face and he can smell her shampoo. Involuntarily he begins to sob. She strokes his hair. When he opens his eyes, he is looking into her face. 
 'Where have you been?' she coos. 'We were worried about you. '
 'We played hide and seek,' he explains. 'Then she cut her knee and when I tried to help, it all went wrong.'
'Okay, okay. I don't know what you're talking about and it sounds complicated, but it's over now.'
 'I ran away and got lost in the mist. I don't know what happened, but I think I must have fallen. I was on a moor and these children found me. They took me to a caravan...' His voice tails off. He cannot tell about the woman who slapped him. 
'Forget all about it. You mustn't be unhappy – not at my party.' She snuggles closer. 'I began to think you weren't coming. It's good, isn't it?'
He grunts. He loves the sensation of her body pressing against him. 
'Have you danced?'
'No.’
'Shame on you. You know I arranged all this for my friends?'
He mutters his thanks. 
'For my special friends. I think you're special.’
He raises his eyebrows. 
'Have you had a drink?'
'No.’
'Why didn't you help yourself?'
'I didn't see anywhere...’
'There's a bar downstairs.’
He mutters again that he did not notice it. 
'You could ask somebody – that's easy, isn't it?'
'I suppose so.’
'You could have asked where Serena was and anybody would have told you.’ She kisses him. ’Then you could have come straight to me.’
A lovely relaxation comes over him. He lets her hands explore him. She is unfastening his anorak without any difficulty. His body arches involuntarily against her. 
'When I didn't see you, I was beginning to think you didn't like Serena. That's not true, is it?'
He does not answer. He clings to her, wanting nothing more. He can feel the muscles of her abdomen growing tense. Her lips touch his. Her tongue enters his mouth. A girl is laughing, but he knows that it cannot be Serena. She is his.
After the kiss he nuzzles against the hollow of her neck. Her skin is moist with sweat. He licks it, enjoying the salty taste. 
'What are you doing?' she giggles. 
Not answering. 
'Do you always lick people?' she asks, but this time she expects no reply. Her hands slide behind his neck, drawing his face close to hers till they touch. The kaleidoscope of lights from below colours her hair. He caresses her. 
 'Poor Robin,' she murmurs.’You've been through so much, haven't you? And now you've come back to me. I knew you would, because you want me, don't you?'
He grunts his assent. 
'But you've got to be patient. I know it’s hard.’ She disengages herself. When he tries to draw her close again, she restrains him, explaining, 'You'll understand, I promise. Other things have got to happen first.’
He stares, experiencing the loss known from childhood when a favourite toy was taken away. 
'You trust me, don't you?' she asks, seeing his expression.  
He nods, not sure whether he is making the right response. He tells her, 'I just want it to be the two of us.’
'This is a party. It can't be the same as when we're alone, can it?'
'I suppose not,' he has to agree. But in his heart he yearns for things to be as they were. 
'So you be patient,' she chides, her lips brushing his so he can feel her warm breath again. That excites him anew. He tries to hold her but she wriggles free, laughing. 
'I don't understand,' he pleads. 
'You will, I promise.’
'Where are we?'
'In the barn. You've forgotten, haven't you? Never mind. When you're here, the outside world doesn't matter.’
'What barn?'
'Just an old barn. When I have a party, we turn it into something special.’
'Who? Who are you talking about?'
'Me and my friends.’
'Where's Natasha?'
'You don't want to worry about her when you're with me, do you?' She nuzzles closer again, but only for a moment. Clumsily he tries to hold her, but she takes his hands away, saying, 'I told you, didn't I? You've got to be patient.’
'Why?'
That makes her laugh all the more.
’You're wonderful,' she manages to say as she recovers. ’Just like a little boy.’
Resentfully he watches as she sits up, brushing straw from her hair. The other couples pay no attention. 
'You always were a little boy,' she tells him. 
'What do you mean?'
'Always looking at me with those big spaniel eyes when you didn't understand.’
His raises his eyebrows. 
'They're lovely – very soulful. Mummy used to remark on that when you came to tea.’ She grins. ’You remember those teas, don't you? I'm sure you do. We got all the things you especially wanted to eat, so I hope you haven't forgotten. Mummy went to a lot of trouble.’
He tries to remember, but he cannot focus on the past. It is as though a door has been closed, cutting him off from everything that happened prior to his escape. What makes him want to laugh is that he can no longer be sure what he was escaping from. 
'You do remember, don't you,' Serena persists.’You're smiling. What is it?'
His smile becomes frozen. 
'You're remembering something special that happened, aren't you?' she presses. ’Tell me – I'd like to know.’
He stares, knowing that he should search for the memories, but helpless to prevent his thoughts from straying when Serena is close. 
'There was one time, when you were very little,' she continues. 'I think it must have been the first time you came. We had a fizzy drink and you spilt it all over the tablecloth. You can't have forgotten that.’
He shakes his head, uncomprehending. 
'And I thought it was burned for ever in your memory, the state you were in. The way you stared at the red stain spreading all over the white tablecloth, we thought you might have a fit.’
The thought of blood makes him shiver. He thinks that he can reach the memory if he is given enough time. 
'It never came out, you know. Mummy was most upset when you ruined one of her best tablecloths.’
He scans Serena's face, not sure whether she is teasing him, but she returns his gaze blandly. 
'She forgave you of course, or she wouldn't have let us invite you again. It's a good thing she did – think of all the fun we'd have missed otherwise.’
He tries to imagine himself as a little boy in Serena's home, but the picture remains resolutely hidden. 
'What do you particularly remember?' she persists. ’I'm interested.’ 
'I can't think.’
'Shame on you! You spent so much time with us, you might as well have lived there. There was that time you did come to stay.’ She nudges him. ’You were naughty, weren't you? No wonder mummy only let you stay the once. Fancy coming into my room in the middle of the night. Do you remember?'
'No.’
'Of course you do. There I was lying in bed when you came in. I nearly screamed. It was like you were sleepwalking. I thought I might have to wake you. You remember that, don't you?'
 'No.’
 'Then you tried to get into my bed.’ She giggles. ’You were so determined. No wonder everybody came to see what the commotion was about – all standing around and staring as you tried to pull my bedclothes off. In the end mummy guided you back to your own room. You were sulking because you'd been disturbed. I don't think she knew what to do with you – whether to send you home there and then, or let you get on with it.’ She giggles. ‘It would have been all right if you hadn’t made so much noise.’ 
He stares, disbelieving. 
'I think in the end she locked you in your room. She didn't know what else to do. She couldn't risk you wandering around the house again, could she? Not with Natasha around as well. And there you are looking innocent, trying to make out you don't know anything about it.’
'I don't.’
She purses her lips in mock horror. 'How can you say that?'
'It's not true, is it?'
'Of course it is – every word of it. Are you sure you don't remember?'
He shakes his head. The movement makes him dizzy. 
'What about the other things that happened?' Serena persists. ’I can't believe you've forgotten all those?'
His blankness betrays him. 
'Like the time you fell in the lake. That was because you were showing off –  demonstrating how good you were at climbing trees, till you went too far along the branch over the water and it broke. They could have heard you screaming a mile away. I think it was your pride that was hurt more than anything – falling in the water in front of all those people. When mummy took you into the house for a bath, you were bawling your eyes out. You must have got into trouble when you went home – you were covered in mud.’ She looks on him with the indulgent amusement she might bestow on a younger brother. ‘Doesn't it mean anything to you?'
Robin is silent. He wants the recital of embarrassments to end, yet he is intrigued by these hidden aspects of his past. 
'Now what else happened?' Serena puts a finger to her chin and stares at the ceiling, deep in thought. Suddenly her face lights with a grin. Her eyes fix on him. ’There was the time you wanted us to play in the woods – Natasha and me. You said, "Now we're going to play hide and seek," and you sounded so important, as though you were the one who arranged everything. Remember?'
He shakes his head. 
'Shame on you.’ She grins all the more. ’I knew what you had in mind, but Natasha didn't. You wanted to play grown-up games. Anyway, we went along with you and hid ourselves. I was behind this big bush. I don't know where Natasha was, but you were heading straight for me. I think you cheated and watched where I went.’ 
Robin frowns. 
'Didn't you? Admit it.'
'No.’
'So you do remember? I thought you were pretending.’
'I remember some of it.’
'Just the bits you want to remember. That's right, isn't it?'
'No.’
'How about when you found me?'
He stares. 
'Don't say you've forgotten that?' She looks at him slyly. ’Was it your first kiss?'
'I don't know...’
'You were a bit clumsy.’
He feels his cheeks flushing in spite of the heat. 
'I think you got overexcited. I know when you found me you almost tore my clothes. I got afraid you were going to do something terrible to me – and you were only a little boy as well.’
He needs to find some memory of his own to be sure that she is telling the truth. 
'I didn't think little boys liked kissing, but I must have been wrong. You liked it all right. And it wasn't just kissing. You can't have forgotten that.’
He looks away. Bemused, he watches a naked couple, their bodies dappled by colours reflected from below. 
'Nearly tearing my clothes off,' Serena continues. ’You realise if you'd torn them, I wouldn't have been able to keep it quiet? Do you? Robin – I'm talking to you.’ She follows his gaze. When she looks back at him, her grin has broadened. The light from below accentuates the shadows in her face, transforming her into a spectre. ’Is that what you'd like us to do? Is it, Robin?'
'No.’
'I was really afraid what you were going to do to me that time. I couldn't let on, of course – it might have made things worse. I think you were getting carried away.’
'What did I do?' he has to ask. 
She laughs. ’As if you didn't know. You sat on me and tried to get your hands inside my dress. You were getting so excited, you couldn't undo the buttons. I had help you. Then it was strange. You went still and you were staring down at me. Hadn't you seen a girl's body before?'
He does not respond. 
'I still didn't know what you were going to do to me, so I didn't dare move. Then you started licking my tummy – as though I was a lolly. You licked me all over – even the naughty places. That was quite exciting. It must be where you got the idea from just now.’
It is disconcerting that she knows more about him than he does himself. 
'Time we danced,' she announces, getting to her feet. He watches. Standing, she appears like a giant against the timbers of the roof. He does not want to leave the comfort of the hay, but she is stooping over him, holding out her hand to him. 
'Have we got to?' he complains.
'You'll like it, I promise. Come on.’
He tries to object, but she is tugging him from his hollow in the hay. Reluctantly he struggles to his feet and follows her down the ladder. His legs are unsteady. He clings tightly to the treads, letting the weight of his body rest against them to prevent himself from falling. How relieved he is to be on the ground. Around him everybody else is moving with the music which thunders from the speakers. 
'Dance,' Serena is urging. Already she is caught up in the rhythm. He tries to emulate her, but his movements are ungainly and without coordination. Inexorably she drifts from him as though carried by a tide. He stumbles after her, mesmerised by the intricate movements of her feet. He does not care that he bumps into people. 
 'Enjoy yourself,' she urges, throwing back her head so that her body is contorted in a ritual movement which is emulated by the other dancers. The rhythm is powerful and inexorable, like a giant's heartbeat. 
 'Dance,' another voice is insisting. Robin is not sure whether it is in his mind. He tries to obey without taking his eyes from Serena. Her provocative movements hypnotise him. How he yearns for the intimacy of the hay loft. 
 As if she hears his unspoken cry, she draws closer. He attempts to kiss her, but her body will not be still. That confuses him. His only thought is to cling to her. He is aware of her movements being synchronised to the rhythm. So insistently she dances that it is as though the girl who taunted him at his bedside and who revealed his past in the hay loft has become a stranger. In spite of this he must not lose her. Dance with her. Follow every turn of her body in its never-ceasing movement. The rhythm insinuates itself in his mind. His feet move with an agility which must startle other people. The lights resemble those of ships, glimmering over a dark sea. He thinks that he is floating. 
Then he stumbles. Falling. A pain like a heated poker being dragged the length of his spine. Serena slips away from him. Blackness. 
When he awakens, he has sunk with the debris to the bottom of a dark pit. Strangers look down at him. Serena tells him that soon they will be together again. Her voice is the only thing which he recognises. It echoes in his mind. It is something precious which he tries not to lose. 
The pain has subsided to a dull ache radiating through his body. He tries to move his arms, but they will not obey. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he has to content himself with waiting for others to help him. He tries to focus on the audience ranged on either side. Their legs look unnaturally long, as though they are balancing on stilts. He smiles at the notion. Their heads are so far away that they look disproportionately small, like insects' heads. The image of those squashed faces on stalks is so grotesque that he is laughing. Nobody makes any attempt to help him. Arching above the faces is a tracery of timbers. He has to search his mind for its significance. He must be lying in the aisle of a church with the congregation looking down at him. As he attempts to raise one hand, again his body fails him. He tries to speak, but no words come. The subdued buzz of conversation from the onlookers only emphasises his helplessness. 
 The darkness of a church. At the end of the aisle the ornaments of the altar glow. Suddenly they are blotted out by a light so intense that he has to screw up his eyes. It is like a searchlight focused on him. He makes out a figure. It moves before the light, blotting out the brightness. As it advances on him, it resolves into a priest wearing long purple robes – a youthful figure with a beatific smile, hands clasped before him. With his head held high he is indeed a giant. Deferentially the congregation falls back. Conversation is stilled. 
Serena is Robin's only friend. He must find her. Scanning the grotesque faces for her. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of his situation. It is a cruel dream. Soon Serena will waken him. He knows that she will not abandon him. 
 As the priest halts before him, Serena has still not appeared. Robin watches fearfully. Like a painting, the tableau of priest and congregation hangs suspended in time. Paintings of biblical subjects flash through his mind. They depict martyrs wracked with pain, their anguished eyes turn to the heavens from where no help comes. He wants to shout, 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' so that the scene will be erased from his thoughts, but he cannot speak. And then the sound begins. At first it is so faint that it resembles the humming of an insect, but inexorably it swells to a roar akin to the noise in a ship's engine room. A clash of cymbals ushers a moment of silence before guitars sing a melody. The people around him begin to dance. As they press closer, his relief at knowing he will not be sacrificed gives way to a fear of being crushed now that he is forgotten. He remembers dancing with Serena, though he cannot understand why people are dancing in a church. He looks up, recognising the high vaulted ceiling. With so many figures moving around him, both altar and priest are blotted out, if they ever existed outside his mind. He is not certain of anything now. Idly he watches the legs of the girls, savouring their restless movement. Then his chest is shaking with laughter. The paralysis is broken. People around him are laughing. As if to prove that he is one of them, he clambers to his feet. In spite of the unsteadiness of his legs, he begins to dance. Coloured lights play over the swelling sea of people. The incessant movement makes him dizzy. A girl smiles at him. She is plump, her face shiny with sweat. He turns away sharply. Still no sign of Serena. He longs to find the happiness of his fellows. The rhythm quickens. Smoke drifting over the dancers curls aimlessly in the beams of light. He dances faster. Laughter and dancing make him breathless. Scent and smoke clog his lungs. Stumbling. The people around him are a protoplasm, rolling back before his grasp. He reaches out blindly. There is nothing to stop him from falling. Level with the legs of the dancers once more, weaving strange, intricate patterns as though they have a life of their own. Once again he is invisible. The protoplasm closes around him. He knows that he must get up or he will suffocate. Pulling at the people, not caring that they shy from him. Hauling himself up by clinging to their arms. He thinks that he is dancing. Attuning to the rhythm which impels the people around him. Fatigue makes him unsure whether his feet are really moving or whether he is buoyed up by the weight of people pressing upon him. His clothes stick to his body. He closes his eyes to shut out the flashing lights. His skin feels sticky. So heavy is the weight of people that he fears the breath will be forced from him even while he is standing. 
The brightness is evident while his eyes are still closed. Opening them is like staring into the headlights of a car. He holds up his hands to shield himself. One memory comes – of walking home from school one winter afternoon after dark. He was late because it was the day of the Christmas play. Hurrying because he did not like being out in the dark. Running from the shelter of the parked cars without thinking. Caught in the headlights. Then he knew what it meant to be paralysed with fear. Horn blaring. Experiencing the rush of air as the car careered past him, inches away. The sound of its engine receded. The road was quiet again. His immediate panic subsided, but when he did bring himself to cross the road, his legs were weak. On the rest of the journey home he was afraid they might buckle under him. Once there, he stayed in his room for what seemed like hours, staring at a book until his mother called him. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. He never told anybody what had happened. 
Memories dissolve into another image. He is looking at a stream. Sunlight catches the ripples on its surface. The water is so clear. He is walking along the bank, basking in the warmth as though he has no cares. What makes him falter is the sight of a young girl drinking. She kneels on the edge of the bank, bending low to scoop water with her hands, hair almost touching the water. Such is her preoccupation that she is unaware of his presence–  
'Robin.’
The girl by the stream still pays no attention to him, yet it is a girl's voice which is addressing him. He tries to understand. 
'Robin.’
Blundering amongst the thickets by the stream in search of the watcher, annoyed that his idyll has been shattered, irritated that he is being spied on. 
'Robin,' she calls again. 
And then he opens his eyes. Serena is looking at him. Her hair shows the colours of the lights. For a moment he thinks it is dyed in rainbow colours. She smiles. Such even teeth. A thread of saliva stretches between them. She crouches beside him, legs folded beneath her as though they are so long she has to tuck them out of sight. He wonders what it is like to have such power over men. Thus preoccupied, he glances up. A circle of people is around him. The music has faded. 
Somehow he has amused Serena. Her smile broadens into laughter, wrinkling the skin around her eyes and lifting her cheeks so they become shiny and prominent like two small apples. He turns away, confused. 
'What's the matter?' she asks. 
He looks back, startled, not sure whether she is speaking to him. She has not moved. She smiles as though she is sharing a joke with him. 
'Why look like that?' she asks in mock reproach. ’Don't you like me?'
He nods. Everything which he wants to say has been taken from him. 
'If there's nothing the matter, what are you looking at me like that for?' she persists. 
A few words are left to him. He mumbles that he does not know. 
'You're not afraid of me, are you?'
'No.’
‘I think you are!'
He looks at the faces around him. No laughter there. 
'Don't worry about them,' she tells him, intercepting his glance. ’Pretend they're not here. Come closer.’
He edges towards her. She holds out her hands and he grips them, feeling the warm dampness of her palms. A wave of happiness breaks over him. 
'That's better, isn't it?' She leans forward and kisses him. He puts his arms around her and clings to her, closing his eyes to blot out the other people. She protests, 'You're squeezing me,' but he can tell that she is not serious. 'Keep your eyes closed,' she reminds him. ’This is good, isn't it?'
There is no need for an answer. He snuggles against her, content with her closeness – until he feels his clothes being unfastened. That makes him open his eyes. Her face hovers above his. She kisses him. She is saying, 'Everything's going to be all right.’
'What are you doing?'
'Don't worry.’
He tries to wriggle free. 
'Don't do that!' she scolds. ’I'm trying to take this silly thing off.’ She is taking his arms from around her so that she can loose his clothes. They fall to the ground. He enjoys his new freedom. The loosening of his clothes continues. His eyes are open. He tries to pull her hands away, but she draws free. She is saying, 'What's the matter with you?' This time there is an edge of seriousness in her voice. Then it is over. She has let go. She stands, towering above him like the others. Inconsequentially he thinks how attractive her legs are, encased in black tights. 
'Please,' he appeals, knowing that he has upset her. He reaches out, his face upturned, but she pays no attention. His hand brushes against her thigh, allowing him to experience its warmth and its firmness. She goes to her friends and becomes engrossed in conversation, not deigning to look back at him. Humiliated, he closes his eyes again to avoid the faces of the rest of his audience. The music grows louder, but he is preoccupied by Serena's voice inside his head, telling of her hopes and her memories, conveying innuendoes.  
'You're not sleeping when there's a party going on, are you?'
A voice he does not recognise. Opening his eyes. A girl with red hair which hangs around her face as she bends over him. His eyes are close to her knees. He marvels at how the wonderful symmetry of her legs is marred by the protrusion knee joints. They make her fallible. 
'I knew you weren't really asleep,' she confides. She has a sensuous mouth. Her lips are spread in readiness for a kiss. They look enormous. Robin stares, conscious of how an insect must feel on approaching a flower. 
'You like me, don't you?'
He tries to reply, but his throat is dry. When she comes closer, he can see tiny blemishes in the make-up around her eyes. 
The kiss is wonderful. 
'We're soul mates now,' she assures him, drawing back. 'You realise that, don't you? Soul mates for ever.’
He gazes adoringly into her eyes, content with the prospect of never doing anything else. 
'Why haven't I seen you before?' she wants to know. 
'I haven’t been here long.’ 
'Isn't it a great party?'
'Great,' he agrees. 
'I love parties, don't you?'
'Absolutely.’
'Say that again.’
'Absolutely.’
'You've been drinking!'
'I haven't!'
'You can't say the word properly.’
'Ab-so-lute-ly,' he enunciates. 
'I believe you.’
He can see them being together in the country. Brilliant sunshine. Ground baked hard. They walk hand in hand like lovers. Drawing close to the headland, they glimpse the sea swathed in heat mist. 
'I want a swim,' she decides. 
'It’s going to be a bit cold.’ 
'No it won’t.’ She pulls at his arm. ’Come on. I thought you wanted to be with me?'
Still he holds back. 
'Come with me then.’ She has let go. Running, hair streaming behind her. Only when she is within feet of the cliff edge does he understand what is happening. He wants to cry out, but his throat constricts again, depriving him of speech. Watching as she disappears over the cliff. No cry. As though she welcomes oblivion. He closes his eyes to blot out the image. The dream has run its course. 
'I want you to dance,' she is saying.’You're going to dance with me, aren't you? Anything can happen if we do.’
He opens his eyes. He is looking into her face again. Excitement comes back to him now that he knows nothing terrible has happened to her. 
'Dance with me,' she urges, holding out her hand. 
Reluctantly he draws his eyes from her legs and rises. Her body sways in time to the music, making her hair bounce from side to side. He notices that it is brown at the roots. 
Then he is dancing, trying to emulate her movements. She smiles at his efforts. He is captivated by the way her grey eyes betray pleasure. She is so beautiful. He wants to please her, but his muscles protest. His breath comes harshly. She is urging him to dance faster and faster. Their limbs are flying. Nobody can have danced like that before. The coloured beams of light shine in his eyes and tint her hair new colours. Sweat trickles down his face. A voice inside his head urges him not to stop–  
He is lying on the floor. As an insect feels its way across strange territory, so his hands explore the hay-strewn surface. No music any more. 
'Robin.’
Seeing again the way her red hair hangs around her face as she bends over him. The yearning look of a Rossetti painting. He tries to lift himself on one arm, but he has no strength. 
'Poor Robin.’
He smiles an apology as she kneels beside him. 
'I know you're tired, but you can't sleep at a party, can you?'
'Party?'
'You remember coming to the party, don't you?'
'No.’
'Of course you do if you've only just got here.’
He searches his mind. 
'You not winding me up, are you?' she asks, her tone changing. 
'I wouldn't.’
'That's all right.’
As she smiles, he watches her mouth, not able to understand how a simple expression can be so sensuous. 
'We're going to get on really well,' she confides. 
'Like soul mates.’
'That's it – like soul mates.’
He imagines making love to her, moulding his body against hers, feeling her sweat sucking at his skin. The thought makes him grip her arm, savouring the feel of veins and muscle. She smiles at his gesture. 
'What's the matter?' she asks. 
'Nothing.’
'Don't grip me so hard. You don't want to hurt me, do you?'
He lets go immediately. 
'What were you thinking about?' she wants to know. 
'Us.’
'That's right.’ She giggles, kissing his cheek. ’We’ve got something special, haven’t we?’
'Yes.’
'Do you want me?'
'Yes.’
'You know what you're going to do to me?'
'Yes.’
She nuzzles closer. ’Let's find a corner.’
He closes his eyes, content in the certainty that life is going to be wonderful. He can hear the girl calling to him from a distance. Why she should suddenly be so far away puzzles him. And it occurs to him that he does not know her name. He should ask her, but he feels himself spiralling from her–  
'You've got to get up,' she tells him, her voice close to his ear. ’There's going to be a service.’
He is blinking. He cannot stop. 
'You're in church – there's going to be a service. Do you understand?'
'A service,' he repeats dully, trying to focus on her. 
'That's right – everybody's waiting for you.’ She tugs at him in vexation. 
Hauling himself upright with the tired movements of an old man. Glimpsing the faces of the congregation as they watch with such benign expressions. She is helping him. A priest stands close. Robin tries to remember where he has seen him before. A young man, transfixed by some beatific image not revealed to other people. Robin stares at the cord fastening the cassock around his waist. Threads of gold glow with luminous brilliance. 
'Go to him,' the girl urges, pushing Robin close enough to glimpse acne scars on the priest's chin – a youth much the same age as himself. The girl is saying, 'You've got to kneel before him.’
Obediently Robin falls to his knees. The girl's hand is no longer on him. He wants to reassure himself that she is still there, but he does not dare to look. The priest's hands part, coming to rest above Robin's head. A silence during which Robin imagines a force emanating from them, bringing him relaxation; then a murmured prayer, the words inaudible. 
'Confess your sins and find absolution in the Lord,' the priest intones in a voice which can hardly have broken. 
Robin hesitates. One of the watchers shuffles impatiently. 
'Confess your sins,' the priest urges. 
'I've hurt people,' Robin mutters self-consciously. 
'So we can hear,' the priest tells him. 
'I hurt people.’ The words carry through the silent building. Somebody laughs. Robin does not know whether to continue. 
'You're got to tell the priest everything,' the girl explains. Her voice is close. He has to look back this time. She is leaning over him. 
'I met a woman who lived in a caravan,' he explains. ’I thought we were going to make love.’ He watches the priest who chants inaudibly, hands still poised above him in a gesture of absolution. Again there is laughter. 
'All your sins,' says the girl. He can hear the breathy quality of her voice. He twists his head to look at her again. Her face is serious. 
'I let an old woman die,' he says, reassured by the clearness of the memories. That stills the laughter. ’It was in a wood,' he goes on, encouraged by the attention of his audience. ’She lived alone in a wooden shack. I wanted to talk to her, but something must have happened. I don't know what. An oil stove got knocked over. Flames were creeping across the floor. That made me frightened. I ran away.’ The terror comes back in all its vividness. He is crying. He tries to cover his face with his hands, but the girl draws them away. He clings to her hands. 
'Look at the priest,' she tells him. 
He looks up, hoping to find strength in the priest's face, but seeing instead the uncertainty of a little boy on the brink of something unknown. 
'Go to the altar,' the priest commands in a voice which is high and uncertain. ’Go there on your knees and pray.’
Obediently Robin shuffles towards the lights. He cannot understand why the hay is in a church. The rough ground tears at his skin, but there is no pain any more. He fears that his sin is too great to be absolved. Glimpsing faces in the darkness on either side. Willing the girl to watch over him.  So close to the source of the coloured lights that he has to close his eyes. Even then he cannot escape the brightness. He lets his head drop forward. Hands clasped together. His lips move in the first words of prayer. With each breath the hardness of his ribs pushes against his elbows. Forgetting the onlookers as the words come more fluently. So many sins to tell. So many people he has hurt. He sees a small girl drinking at a stream. He wants to protect her, but she screams as he comes close. Her face is transformed by terror. Then the scene is gone as though it was only glimpsed in a film. He is in a house, facing a woman. Her terror is the same. It sears his mind. He is saying, 'I wanted them to understand.’ Repeating the mantra in his search for peace. A stench of burning paraffin makes him feel sick. How he wants somebody to help him. 
Then the music begins again, so deafening in its impact that he looks up in surprise. The sudden movement makes him lose his balance. He topples helplessly like an insect, hands clawing at the air. Dancers all around him. Nobody to help him. Priests are caring; priests should help people, but he can no longer be sure when he saw one. All he knows is that there was a priest. Remembering a girl whose red hair tumbled so wildly and excitingly. She was beautiful. And Serena. There was somebody called Serena–  
'Open your eyes,' the people are chanting. A chorus all around him. When he obeys, he sees that they have drawn back to make way for a girl. He recognises Serena immediately. She must be more beautiful than anybody in the world. His smile comes unbidden. Regarding her with awe as she comes closer. He tries to struggle to his feet. There is a pounding which he thinks is part of the music, but which he realises is in his head. He can hear her telling him that his ordeal is nearly over. He is trembling. As she comes nearer, she smiles knowingly. That makes him stare, for in her contorted features, he sees the old woman she will become – the shrivelled skin, the toothless jaws parted in a grimace and the shrunken body. He closes his eyes tightly in an effort to blot out the picture. As he tries to scramble upright, hands pinion his limbs. Screaming, but the music drowns his screams. People are chanting. ’Your beloved is come,' they say. Somebody strokes his face. He knows it is Serena, transformed into an old woman. A shiver passes through his body. Turning his head away, though his eyes are still tightly closed. The hands exploring him make him imagine that a huge spider is caressing him. As nausea fills him, images from the bible flash through his mind – floods consuming the countryside in retribution; fiery chariots flying through the sky; a bearded patriarch, knife in hand, presiding in triumph over a blood-soaked sacrificial altar. 
Pictures spiralling into darkness where Robin is no longer sure of his own existence – an infinite darkness where fear, ecstasy and longing have no meaning. Mind and body given to the waiting, unthinking darkness. He cries in his despair, but nobody cares. Was it all for this?
END