BANE

Joe Donnelly

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2014-02-05

Copyright (c) 1991, Joe Donnelly.

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About the author

Joe Donnelly was born in Glasgow, in Scotland, close to the River Clyde, but at a very young age he came to live in Dumbarton, which is some miles from the city and close to Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond and the Scottish Highlands.

At the age of 18, he decided to become a journalist and found a job in the Helensburgh Advertiser, a local paper in a neighbouring town where he learned the first essential of writing: how to type. Quickly.

A few years later, at the age of 22, he became editor of his local newspaper, the Lennox Herald in Dumbarton, before moving to the Evening Times and then the Sunday mail in Glasgow where he became an investigative journalist.

During his career he won several awards for newspaper work including Reporter of the Year, Campaigning Journalist and Consumer Journalist.

It was while working in newspapers that he wrote his first novel, Bane, an adult chiller, which was followed by eight other novels, mostly set in and around the West of Scotland and loosely based on Celtic Mythology.

This was followed by Stone, The Shee, Shrike, Still Life, Havock Junction, Incubus and Dark Valley.

Recently he decided to write for children, although he says his books are aimed at "young people of all ages, those with some adventure in their soul."

The Jack Flint Trilogy is his first venture at telling stories for the young at heart.

Joe is now working on two novels: A chiller for adults, and another rollicking adventure for young people, based on Nordic mythology.

BANE

The town of Arden, in the west of Scotland, is old. Its history is lost in the mists of time. But history keeps repeating itself, and Arden has had a troubled history since ancient times.

Nick Ryan returns to Arden to settle down in his childhood home.

But Arden’s disturbing history is about to catch up with him.

As he uncovers the truth about his home town, something has awoken under the dark rock that looms over the estuary. It is hungry. And angry.

The ancient walls which kept it in check have been breached. It wants to be free. It will wreak its revenge.

All that stands between it and Arden are Nick Ryan, a brain-damaged man, and the young daughter of a childhood friend.

They stand alone as the nightmare begins.

1

The road I travelled skirted the estuary. At every second bend I could see that flat expanse of blue grey stretching far out.

If I'd looked hard enough I could have seen the smudge on the horizon where the land poked out a long finger almost as far as the shipping lane, but if I'd done that on this road I'd probably never have made it home.

Home.

I suppose I could call Arden that. More than any place else, I reckon. When I'm far away, that's how I think of it. But the closer I got - and if I was on the Kilcreggan Road, then I was pretty damned close; no turning back now - the less sure I was.

Oh, I'd travelled this road plenty of times, but those times were a while back. This was now and now is always fraught with uncertainty. The picture in my mind always gets rosier in direct relation to the distance from the place I usually call home.

When I was a kid, we'd go on holiday, even once to France where I was sick for a week after a bottle of wine and told I had nobody to blame but myself. Holidays were fine. It was the coming back that sent those tickles of apprehension trailing up my spine. Would our home be there? Would Arden still be the same?

I would always be in the back seat, with my carrier bag filled with books and puzzles to keep me amused as the old Ford, or whatever car my father's salary as a teacher would run to, ate up the miles. My father would drive with his head back, that straight pipe jutting out, humming some classical tune just a shade louder than the engine. My mother would be asleep, curled on her seat, feet tucked up. All I'd see would be a mess of light brown curls, and maybe the glint of her tiny gold earring.

Going home for them was easy. For a six year old in the back seat, looking out at the unfamiliar territory out there, it was a matter of mounting concern. And when we got on the Kilcreggan Road, when my father would nudge my mother awake, it was different. Familiar, but different. Not in a menacing way, but as if it had to be re-affixed in my mind. The house always looked smaller, the garden larger, at least for those first few moments before home was impressed again on a young mind.

Now I had that same feeling, and it wasn't just a fortnight or three weeks that had passed. This was a home-coming. A prodigal returning.

A lot of water had passed under Strowan's Bridge since I had last seen Arden. I'd come back once or twice for the compulsory wedding or two and funerals. The latter (two in quick succession were those of my parents) were in every case occasions of numbing depression from which I had to flee as quickly as decently possible.

No, it was ten years, more like twelve, since I had last thought casually, warmly, of Arden as home.

On tape, another one had stopped biting the dust. The late, great Freddie and his band were now the champions. I cut him off in mid champ. Two more bends, first a right, then a left, then the boundary welcome. Yes?

No. Four more bends. That memory again. The road hadn't changed. The sign was still there, black on white, though, instead of blue. It seemed smaller.

Up and over the bridge, with its sharp right at the bottom, and there I was, in Arden, coming in from the east.

It had changed, although the fabric was essentially the same. There was nothing substantial to the change, just a different feel. It was indeed smaller. Or I was bigger. It seemed to me the roads were narrower, the houses set closer, the trees that bit more shady. It didn't yet have the feel of home. Okay, a small voice whispered inside my head. Let them just smile and say hello, long time no see, how is it going, have a drink.

Nicky Ryan. Hot-shot reporter. Been in some of the world's hottest flashpoints, and faced a lot of things, yet nervous as a schoolboy now. And that was only the half of it. I was coming back to start all over again. I'd made the break. I'd made up my mind that the years chasing stories all over the world with a foot in somebody else's door were no longer for me.

Newspapers had changed. People like Murdoch and the big money-men had seen to that. Opinion was now replacing the truth. Twitter replacing true reporting. And I never had to hack a phone in my life.

I just couldn't change with the times.

I'd grabbed my books and all those half-filled note-books with the half-chewed plots, the novels and travel books I'd promised myself I'd write one of these days, and said:

'Do it. Do it now.'

This was now. This was me coming home. This was me going hell for leather to get it done and see if I could really write more than just column inches.

And what was really bothering me was that I didn't know if the old home town had changed, or whether I could.

Let me tell you a little bit about Arden. It's not a big town even by local standards. A large village would probably give you the picture, housing maybe three thousand people.

But as I've said, it's old. Until the government started centralising everything, Arden was quite happy to trundle on. Officially, and the tiny council which loosely ran the place was fond of reminding you, it was known as The Royal Burgh of the Parish of Arden. A mouthful for a place its size.Somewhere along the line, not long after William the Conqueror took the south, one of the Scottish kings granted the harbour town royal burgh status, which was a bigger deal in those days than it is now.

Being a Royal Burgh meant that Arden could have its own town council and make by-laws. It had a court and a sheriff who was the local judge and a provost who was a kind of county sheriff. They could jail people, and they could hang people, and if you didn't go to church on a Sunday they had all sorts of painful ways of saving your soul.

Robert the Bruce died near here of what the history books reckon was leprosy, but now, after all that happened here that summer, I'm not so sure. Until only a few years ago, nobody knew that the mound around the Ardmhor peninsula was a Roman wall, made at the same time they were building the big one right across the country to the River Forth. There's some standing stones poking out of the soil in a few places which make Stonehenge look like a new building project, and in the mud flats at the east of the town they once dug up a dugout canoe which was thousands of years old. Inside that were some bones which were said to be near enough human as to make no difference, and others positively identified as mammoth.

It's an old place, and probably hasn't changed all that much in a long time.

The parish council allotted some town edge bogland at the Milligs at the turn of the century - the 19th century - for workers cottages, and later on some of the rich traders put up those sandstone mansions on the slope above the harbour where they could overlook Westbay, where most folk lived. Then, as now, you had three classes of people, easily identified by their location in the town. Milligs was poor, Westbay was middle, and Upper Arden was lottery win territory.

Looking back, I remember the feeling of awe when I considered that these people had gardeners, and housekeepers. In my young mind's eye they were close to royalty. My perspective has changed, but that feeling of being not among the Upper Arden dwellers is something that still sits uneasily in those shady corners below conscious thought.

Back then Upper Arden was Rovers, Westbay was second-hand Fords and Milligs was pedestrian only. So what has changed? Ah, the internal combustion engine has reached the Milligs. The town's scrap yard is down there, and the sons of pedestrians drive beat-up bangers with dented bumpers and patching of fibreglass fill. Not too many insurance certificates, or working sidelights, but Milligs has been emancipated into the era of road transport.

Westbay is where most of the people live. It merges with Milligs from the east and crowds round the harbour in the west where the old Royal Burgh peters out to good farming on the shore side, and some low craggy cliffs north of the main road. Westbay now is new compact cars. The people live in sandstone cottages and semi- detached and terrace houses one or two storeys high, or in those white rough-cast boxes that builders are throwing up all over the country, in the few areas in Arden where they've found an acre or two to cram them on.

Upper Arden is still leafy and winding, the imposing homes set well back from the roads in well-tended gardens where rhododendron and azalea flank long pebbled or tarmac drives. There are bay windows, multi-chimney roofs. Here it is Range Rover country. It is Beemer and Merc off-roaders. It is hacking jackets and green rubber boots. The tennis club, the dinner party, the pony paddock. The wealth that shouts down the hill to those below:

We've got it. And we always will.

Past the sign there's a stand of trees on either side, followed by a couple of smallholdings, and then the first houses flanking the Kilcreggan Road which veers sharply away from the shore. The Milligs. Even here you have a sub-division of class or wealth. The shore side, with its scrap yard and the town dump and the great gun-barrel of the main sewage pipe stretching far out on to the flats, it is tougher and rougher and more ramshackle than the other side of the street. Shore side has shacks and pigeon coops.

It has a couple of dog pounds where no doubt live the many times great-grandsons of those huge German shepherds that scared the shit out of me when I went exploring the dangerous, exciting side of town. On the far side of the road, the council housing was plain but solid enough under the peeling paint and the grey roughcast. There is a section of allotments where people grow potatoes and cabbages, and a few folk raised a chicken or two. No rhododendrons here.

There was a corner store and a hardware store that used to be run by old Mr Smollett who'd sell us slingshots - the kind with the thumbprint grip that give you a black nail every second shot - then threaten us with a severe kick up the arse if he ever saw us playing with them near his shop. I was wondering if he was still alive when I passed by, slowing down to a crawl, and I was pleasantly surprised - no enormously surprised and pleased when there he was, still wearing that old brown overall with the big pockets on the front, with that that close-cropped grey moustache. He was coming out of the shop, preceded by two small boys, bending low to tell them something. I could swear that if I could lip read I'd make out what he was saying: 'There y'are now, and if you fire that thing near my window you'll get a toe up your arses. All the way up.'

On the right, still on the far side, I saw my first change. Ronnie Scott's garage had disappeared, to be replaced by one of those glass and steel beam carport filling stations with a tyre bay and an accessory shop.

Ah, that was a loss. I teamed about at school with Ronnie's son Alan who was set to become a fair mechanic himself. We used to hang about in the workshop, among all those old, oily tools, camshafts, crankshafts and a huge lifting jack that took the two of us to pump, and then we'd stand on its lifter for that delicious moment when the other would twist the grip and float us gently to the ground. The big asbestos shack always smelled of old rubber and rust and oil. It was a place where we could use the grindstone to whittle down broken hack-saw blades into arrowheads and daggers; where we could sit in the cabs of smelly diesel trucks, or maybe in the front seat of a Jaguar from up the hill and imagine haring around the Monza circuit.

Alan's dad used to wink at us from under whichever car he'd be, or from the depths of his mechanics pit, occasionally yelling at us to mind we don't get mucky footprints on Doctor MacGregor's seat, or not to let off the handbrake of the big yellow caterpillar tractor. That was a garage. What I was pulling into was a filling station with a steel and concrete bay behind it.

My backside was sore and my accelerator foot was stiff after all the miles the Subaru had rolled since I had left London late on the previous afternoon. I climbed down from the high seat and unhooked the nozzle from the pump. I let it fill, trying to stretch and arch my back with only one hand free.

The big tank took twelve gallons and a small fortune before the automatic cut-off. I flipped the cap, jangled the nozzle back into its place and crossed over to the cash desk.

Passing by the pumps I realised what was really so different about the yard. It wasn't just new motorway modern. It was bigger, and set further back from the road, and the workshop and small glass-fronted showroom stood where the Scotts' little cottage and garden had been the last time I'd seen it. I reckoned maybe his father had given up trying to make the small operation work, although he always seemed to be busy whenever we hung about on the rainy afternoons. Alan was determined to be a mechanic just like him, a wizard of the machine, who could get any engine back to life. But I assumed with the recession he'd probably sold up to the multinationals and got out of Arden. In at the cash desk a young girl with short hair and a smattering of freckles flashed me a glimpse perfect teeth. I bought some milk and biscuits which brought the bill up to enough to give me one and a third coffee mugs. The smile vanished when I brought out my accordion of credit cards. For a second she looked at them blankly, then smiled that pretty way again and said: 'I'm sorry, we don't take them.'

'What, none of them?' I asked. 'Not even Visa?'

'I'm afraid not. The boss says it's cash or cheque. We don't have one of the machines to work these cards.' Normally I would have grumbled about the inconvenience, but she was only a girl doing a boring job, and the last thing I wanted on my first day back was an argument.

'That's OK,' I said, reaching inside my leather jerkin, before I halted. I'd just remembered using my last cheque in a similar service station outside of Watford. Worse still, I only had about five pounds and small change in the pocket of my jeans. I stood and stared at her for a moment, then the silliness of the situation got me and I burst out laughing. She started laughing too.

'You're not going to believe this, but I haven't enough money. I thought everybody took credit cards these days, but I'm wrong. So what do I do now?'

'I'd better get the boss,' she said, still smiling, and pressed the button on a bell which rang faintly somewhere in the other building. I nosed around among the oil cans and rows of replacement wiper blades. She pressed the buzzer again, and there was a muffled reply from the workshop: 'All right Janey, I'm coming.'

This, I assumed, was the boss, so I pretended to read the de-icer cans left over from winter while mentally composing how I was going to tell a complete stranger that he'd have to trust me until the next day for his cash.

'Well sir, what seems to be the problem?' A tone of voice which said: 'This explanation had better be good.'

I turned around to see a tall, slim-built man with a shock of jet-black hair falling over his forehead. His eyes widened in instant recognition just as the thought flicked through my mind that that hank of hair was just like his father's.

'I don't believe it,' he said, starting to smile as he crossed the couple of yards to grasp my hand and pump it vigorously.

'Nicky Ryan skint. I never thought I'd live to see the day.'

'Flat broke and up the creek without a paddle,' I said, returning his handshake. 'I can give you a fiver down payment on account if you'll trust me till tomorrow.'

'Ha. Trust you. You? A washed-up old hack? Are you kidding?'

He didn't wait for a reply. 'Credit cards? We don't take them any more. I quit about six months ago because took too long to get the cash back. And with the by-pass it's hardly worth my while.'

Before I could say anything, Alan gestured around his forecourt and said: 'What do you think of this then? A big change from the old place.'

'That's what I thought when I pulled in. I thought there was something wrong. It's too neat. Not like it was when it was a going concern.

'Going concern? It's been great. I tell you, I haven't looked back since I got the franchise.'

'Oh? You got a dealership then? I thought maybe your dad had sold up?'

'No,' Alan said, still beaming. 'I got the Caterpillar deal for the whole district. Everything from tractors to farm machinery ... plus Toyota spares and repairs.'

I looked him up and down, taking in the neat tweed jacket and well-cut slacks, clean hands and a white collar.

'You've not been spending too much time under trucks,' I said. 'Got a whole team doing the dog work for you? I thought you always wanted to be the best mechanic in the world.'

'But I am, I am. I just found a way to do it without lying on my back under a sump all day. I took over seven years ago, but I didn't want to rely on just the village trade. And I am the best anyway!'

'Alan, that's terrific,' I said, and I meant it. 'But, I tell you, just when I came round that comer I was thinking of us playing about in the garden. Don't you miss the old place?'

'No, I needed the space. My dad works for me, doing the books. He's better at that than he was at fixing cars. He's got a house only a couple of doors down from your grandad's old place, and guess where I live now?'

The look on his face told me one of the Milligs commoners had made it up the leafy slope.

'Down the shore side,' I volunteered.

'Don't be such an arse.,

'Okay, I'll have another guess. Bayview?'

'Close enough. Harbour Avenue. Just round the comer.' I could see Alan was getting enormous pleasure telling me of his step up in the world. It gave me a pleasant buzz too.

'Upper Arden. Why fan mah brow, mastah,' I said, dredging up a phrase from schooldays.

'I just moved in last year. It's the old Erskine place, just on the corner.'

I couldn't place it yet, but I nodded anyway.

'I suppose you've got maids and gardeners too?'

'Don't be daft. Just a man who cuts the grass once in a while, and my wife looks after the house. She's happier than a pig in shit to tell you the truth.'

'I'll bet she is. Who is she anyway?'

'She's my wife.'

'Yes. No. I mean who did you marry? Do I know her?'

'I don't know. Maybe you do. Janet McCrossan. She was a couple of years younger than us. Came from Shandon.'

I had a vague recollection of a small girl with a fair pony tail and a bright smile that could have been her, but I wasn't sure. "You probably never met her,' Alan said before I could reply, 'but if you stay around you'll have to come up and see the place. And meet Janet too.' I could feel Alan was dying to show off his big house, and frankly, I was keen to see it. He seemed pleased when I told him I'd be staying around for quite a while and that I'd love to come and see his mansion on the hill as soon as I'd got my own things sorted out. He assured me there was no rush for the cash I owed him, and I could tell he meant it. As I left his filling station he asked: 'And how have you been going? You don't seem to have changed that much.'

'Only a bit older and wiser, and still the best with a slingshot.'

As I adjusted my seatbelt and jiggled my backside into the position it had kept for the last four hundred miles I caught a glimpse of Alan's face in the offside mirror. He was shaking his head and smiling.

I nosed the car out on to the Kilcreggan Road, pleased that it had been Alan and not some service manager who would have made a big song and dance about not getting the cash.

The road took me over Strowan's Bridge which effectively marks the boundary between the east and west of town, an old stone hump-back, just wide enough to take two-way traffic as long as each way isn't a twenty tonner. Strowan's Well, which runs below, is a clear stream which starts way up on the moorland at Cardross Hill, neatly bisects the town and forks east and west to empty into the firth on each side of Ardmhor, that big hunk of tree-covered rock that juts out into the grey water to the south.

On the down-slope of the bridge the road continued, past another couple of smallholdings and the beginning of Westbay, the solid middle-area of Arden with its tight sprawl of cottages and two-storey buildings, its neat shopping centre, the town hall and little cinema, the library and the school-house. At first glance, and from a speed that had slowed to ten miles an hour as I eased the jeep along while searching for a parking space, the changes had not been too drastic. The grocery store had been converted into that type of mini-market that has sprung up, like mushrooms all over this country and just about everywhere else.

McKay's had been a family concern then, one of those old-fashioned places where the potatoes come dirty from burlap sacks, and huge jars of boiled sweets are kept well out of reach of small hands.

Now there would be rows of canned food, trolleys, and girls with uniforms, kneeling in the aisles, click, click clicking with their label guns. I found a space in the little car park they'd carved out behind the new store. I planned to pick up a few provisions, maybe some beer, before going down the harbour road to the cottage. My aunt, who'd looked after my grandfather for a decade or so - not that the old salt needed much looking after - had been living there since she'd sub-let grandad's place, and had found this a convenient time to visit her aunt, my Great Aunt Jean. Knowing Aunt Martha's habits, I reckoned the place would be pretty shipshape. Strangely when I thought back, I seem to remember thinking of grandad's place as a second home, a place where I spent a lot of hours, weekends and evenings, never tiring of the old travelling tales of the old travelling man.

Holly's bar was still there, the first place I ever had a drink with the real men when I was only sixteen. Big John Hollinger, a great bear of a man with a ruddy, laughing face behind a big highlander's beard, had known exactly how old I was, but he'd let me buy a Guinness anyway. I hadn't a clue what I was drinking, and I still cringe with embarrassment when I remember how he'd stared me in the eye until I'd drunk every last drop of the thick, creamy beer. I hadn't the taste for it then, but that was a while ago, and I planned, in the very near future, to head up to Holly's for a refresher course.

Mary Baker's, the most aptly named shop in town, still displayed its small loaves and tea cakes in the front window, but the shop next door had changed. I recalled it as a small clothing store where mothers would drag their reluctant children on the last few days of the summer vacation to have them fitted out with the school uniform.

Now the shop was some sort of arty-crafty souvenir place with shells and tartan rugs, odd-looking home-made candles and grotesque little pottery representations of the Loch Ness monster, who, if he looks anything like he's depicted in these tawdry tourist shops in every west coast village, should pray for extinction.

Mary Baker - the second that is - her mother having passed on even before I'd left, was essentially the same. Those glass display cases were still filled with confections that she had been baking since early. The danish pastry was thick and light; the brown loaves were solid, and roughcast with pure grain which always came from the local mills, mostly the little granary up at the Abbey seminary where the trainee priests practised self-sufficiency to help them get along with their upcoming vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.

Mary recognised me right away and flashed me a big smile from behind those huge bottle-end glasses. I could have been there for the day, if I'd stayed to answer all her questions. As it was it took me half an hour to buy a couple of spicy buns and a thick farmhouse loaf which I intended to savour.

In the supermarket I found everything as expected. I loaded up a trolley with tins and packets and a dozen cans of Belgian beer. I added a bottle of whisky and another of vodka, having first checked to find out whether the store accepted credit cards. I made a mental note to get to the bank on the following day anyway, but the little supermarket was keen to take almost any kind of plastic I threw at it.

All the provisions were crammed in two plastic bags in the back of the jeep, precariously balanced on my boxes and travelling bags.

The cottage looked tiny as I drove round the right angled turn into the avenue. Tiny, a bit shabby, as if it had been left to lie, forgotten, for a while.

I stood back and had a good look at the front of the building, noticed patches where the sandstone had worn, and a couple of slates missing from the roof were angled up in the gutter. The paint around the sash windows was cracked, but the glass was clean. No doubt aunt Martha had been bustling around the overstuffed armchairs with the cluster. My old key opened the Yale lock easily and the door, which used to squeak, didn't. Inside smelled of air freshener and bleach, so I knew Martha had been busy, but it was dark in the living room, a kind of depressing shade, and quiet too, as if the room was sleeping, not really expecting a caller.

The window let in little light, but outside it was overcast, and the old dark green curtains were designed to keep the out-side out. The first thing I did was pull them apart to their greatest extent, and tie them back with the braids. The room looked a little brighter. I dumped the groceries on the sofa and sat on the edge of the easy chair that had once been my father's, feeling almost that I shouldn't be sitting there. The place was empty, except for me and a million memories. A sprinkling of tiny dust motes caught a stray patch of light that must have slipped through the clouds, and sparkled lazily in the air. This was the room where I'd spent a huge chunk of my life with my mother and father. Now there was just me.

Just me and the memories that jostled and swirled like half-recognised faces at a busy party. I nodded briefly to them all as they came and paused before moving back into the swirl. I popped a lager, refreshingly cold, and maybe had a few more while I sat and ruminated. Those snatches of memory loomed in and faded out before I could grab a hold of them. It was a disorientating feeling because my mind couldn't settle.

It was late when I decided to go to bed. Up the narrow staircase the walls shifted just a little, letting me know I should have gone easier with the cold beers. Strangely, I instinctively put my foot on the inside edge of the seventh stair, the one that had always creaked. After all those years, that just came back to me out of the cobwebs in the back of my head, and it wasn't until I reached the top landing that I realised I'd done it.

When I was very small I used to sneak down those stairs in the early mornings of summer, tip-toeing slowly, reaching up to hold the smooth wood banister, heading into that pool of light the early morning summer sun would shoot through the kitchen window. It was always quiet, except for the low rumbling snore from my parents, room, and maybe a couple of early birds out in the back yard.

I knew that if I stood on that creak on the seventh stair then one of them would wake up and order me to get back to bed. If I made it downstairs, I could grab a biscuit and a drink of milk and gingerly snap back the old mortise lock on the back door and out into the morning. Not creaking on the seventh step had become one of those fixed-in rules that never got broken.

I grinned to myself when I realised I'd kept the rule.

My bed was still the same, but the room like the house and everything in it, seemed smaller. Otherwise it hadn't changed. My old pictures were still on the walls. Me and my grandad out shooting duck down on the mud flats. Me being prepared and looking solemn in the scouts.

My posters of old guitar heroes and a beat up Fender leaning in the corner. I knew if I opened the drawer next to the bed I'd still find the bits of string, the old penknives with their smooth-worn handles, and probably a lot of unsent letters to a few half-remembered girls.

I shucked off my jeans and threw my shirt over the chair by the window, before pulling back the goose-down duvet and crawling into bed.

The last thing I remember is thinking of my mother hanging out my fathers white shirts on the washing line where the sunlight shone right through them. I don't know where that picture came from, probably somewhere down deep, but she was looking over her shoulder at me as she clipped the clothespegs into place and was smiling at me.

I dimly remember smiling back at her, but I must have fallen asleep pretty quickly, for there was nothing after that until . . .

2

. . . The phone rang.

Loud and sharp, like a stuttering firebell. I jerked awake sitting up, my heart thumping like a trip-hammer on my ribs.

A dream's aftershock washed through me leaving a bitter, soiled taste in my mind. I'd been in a cave, or a tunnel that was dark and dank with slime. I had been wading through cold water that slicked around my calves, and from up ahead came the ominous beating sound that shook the walls and batted echoes all around me and the people I was with, whoever they were.

The hairs on the back of my neck crawled, because there was something ahead in that dark, something that moved with ponderous intent towards us. And in the dark tunnel of my dream I had seen the pale green glow ahead, the two pallid circles a yard wide and a yard apart, the great dead eyes of the thing that was bearing down.

There was a scream that rose high until I felt my body vibrate, and I knew it was a scream of rage, and I was screaming too because I was running, splashing through the slimy water, running towards the thing with the eyes that wanted to eat me ....

The phone rang again and the jangling sound shook me out of the aftershock, and the insistent ringing hauled me, shivering, out of bed. Down the stairs, into the living room.

I almost fell across the other chair in my haste to grab the receiver and shouted: 'Hello!'

Nothing. Not a sound, unless you can call an echoing silence a sound, like in the cave I'd been running through in the dream - and there was an ambience that made no sound, but gave the impression of big, dark spaces.

"Hello. Hello!'

I waited for an answer. Somebody was playing a joke. The silence was accentuated by the faintest whispering hiss in the line. I was just about to slam the receiver back down when I heard something. It was a muted thud that was so low it was almost a feeling. It came again. A little louder, a little deeper. Then again, and again. A slow, pulsing beat. And behind it came a low moan that started to rise in pitch, rapidly edging up the scale until, within seconds, the sound was blasting at the inside of my head. It was the sound I had heard in the dream.

It was just exactly the scream I had heard as I ran towards those pale eyes. The fright gave me such a jolt I slammed the phone down on its cradle. It made a solitary tinkling sound.

I stood there in the dark living room, breathing heavily, and feeling sweat on my back like a cold trail. Gingerly I picked up the phone again, and slowly brought it to my ear, expecting that sluggish pulse, and that ear-splitting scream. But there was only the low burr of the dialling tone.

I put it back and watched it for a second or two, waiting for it to ring. It didn't. I shivered in the cold and decided to get back to bed. I headed up the stairs.

And for some reason, maybe because I was shaken, I broke the rule. The seventh step gave slightly under my foot and let out a sharp two-toned cree-eak.

Suddenly my heart was thudding again, somewhere near my throat. I can't say why, but standing on that step hit me with a weird feeling. As if I'd gone and done it. As if I was going to get caughtgoing and doing it.

I lumbered up the stairs, two at a time, and into my room. When I awoke again, it was still night, but this time it wasn't the phone. It was the rain, drumming hard and fast on the breast of a hard westerly wind right on to the window. It came down in solid rods against the glass. From some-where up in the roof I could hear the gurgle of water pouring from the slates into the gutter and down the drainpipe.

Peeling back the curtains, I looked out into the black night. Rivulets raced down the pane as the wind rose higher, blasting more hard water in from the west, up the mouth of the firth, and splatting it all on Arden. I could make out the shapes of the other houses, and beyond them a belt of trees, then a mass of grey-black cloud that seemed to swirl right down to water level, boiling like a witch's cauldron. The wind rose higher, from a dull roar to a shriek that caught the telephone wires and sent them singing. I wasn't tired any more, so I just sat for a while, after pulling on all my crumpled clothes again, watching the big storm boil up into a real Armageddon.

From somewhere further up on the roof I heard a piece of tin flashing rip off and jangle metallically. In the next day or two I was going to have to get one of the men from Milligs up on the slates to nail on a new piece. Out on the firth a foghorn sounded out, like a beast in its death throes. A minute later it went off again, bellowing out of the night. It wasn't foggy here, but the rain must have brought visibility down to twenty yards or less, and out there on the heaving water the clouds would be scraping decks. It wasn't a night to be out on a boat. At about four in the morning, after I'd sat there for an hour or so drank two cups of coffee in the dark, the horn sounded again, this time much closer, sending out a vibration that shook the glass.

Much closer? I remember that thought jumping into my head. That big horn sounded really close, and I suddenly had a crazy mental picture of a huge, sharp bow bearing down relentlessly, crashing through that stand of sycamores, crushing the houses and slicing through the bedroom wall.

The black marker buoys that edged off the shipping lane were more than two miles out on the firth. And that horn was nowhere near two miles away. It was too close in. Too near Arden and its little sheltered harbour.

Just as I thought it, an orange flash blossomed high in the turbulent sky. Another flash went up just as the first one was dying slowly, floating below the rooftops and out of sight.

It must have been the second flare that got me moving. I had watched the first one like a spectator at a fireworks display. When the second one burst I spun round and ran downstairs to the phone. When I picked it up there was none of the echoing silence of before, just the normal burr. I dialled emergency and asked for the police because I didn't know if the service could call out the lifeboat.

I rattled out what I'd seen and the handler at the other end calmly started asking me for some details, my name and address and that kind of life-saving information that they always seem to need when you think there's not a second to lose. I hid my frustration as well as I could and gave him the whole picture and he said: 'Thank you sir, we'll get on to it right away,' and I hung up.

It took me several minutes to find my oiled cotton coat and a pair of boots and a big Shetland sweater I'd inherited from old seafaring grandad. I pulled the hood tight and popped the studs in under my chin and headed for the door. I yanked it open and stepped out into one of the worse nights I care to recall.

There wasn't much to see. Down at the harbour there was a knot of people in yellow oilskins huddled together and pointing out into the roiling grey.

When I joined them, a couple of them nodded to me and turned back to look out to the firth where nobody could see a damned thing except the whitened tops of waves and a dark tumble of cloud. One of the men turned round and I saw recognition in his face, but I couldn't put a name to him although his face was familiar.

'Nicky Ryan, right?'

'Yes, that's me,' I replied, trying to smile through the blasting rain driven in on at least a force niner.

'Thought it was you,' the man said. His name just came to me then - Bill Finlayson, who ran a little chandlery shop for the summer sailors who used the harbour during the holidays.

'Haven't seen you in a long time, except on the telly,' he said, and grinned or grimaced against the downpour, I couldn't tell.

'No, I just got back.'

'Good time for it. This one's blowing up to be a belter. Looks like eighty one all over again. That was a bad one.'

'I saw a flare and called the police. They say they'll get the inshore lifeboat out.'

'Dare say they will. Don't fancy being out in that, though. It looks pretty shitty out there.,

'Anybody know what's happening yet?' I had to shout over the high whistle of the wind and the crash of waves on the storm wall of the harbour. Great fountains of spume were being whipped up over the capstans and into the quay.

'Some ship's ran aground out about there.' He pointed out due south which was roughly where I'd seen the flares go up, and I nodded.

'Brian Bailley heard it on his short-wave. A big sugar boat I think, heading for Greenock. It's way off course if it's on this side of the water.'

Another flare lit up the clouds again, just where he'd pointed. It only seemed about a mile away. On the far side of the harbour a couple of cars had arrived and a handful of men were leaping out and into the inshore lifeboat shed.

Bill leaned over, pulling the sleeve of my coat to yell in my ear.

'It's a bit heavy for the inshore, don't you think?'

'Yeah. Why don't they send for the big one from Kirkland?

Just then one of the other men shouted something which was carried away on the wind. Bill pulled me over to the rest of the huddled group. One of them had a big old FM tucked inside his coat. It crackled like the dinghy riggings. He turned and shouted. We had to crowd close to hear.

' They've put out boats. The ship's aground just off Ardhmor, maybe a mile, maybe less.'

'If it's not sunk, there's not much good in putting out when the water's like that,' another of the group said.

" No, by Christ. I'd stay on.'

On the quayside, a square of light flared as the inshore bay doors were flung open and the orange figures of them lifeboat crew - their suits just the same colour as the flare - hauled out their inflatable. I've been on these little scudders before. They're fast and light and strong. But you can bet a month's pay you wouldn't have got me out in one that night. I could tell from the other guys faces that they were thinking along those lines too.

One of the team started up the big double Evinrudes as soon as the craft slapped into the water. The rest were in, and over the sound of the storm the boat roared into a tight turn through the narrow storm gap and out into the night.

The rest of us followed on foot along the sea wall where the salt spray lashed us hard. The surge out there looked murderous. The inflatable bobbed up then disappeared behind huge waves, looked as if it had been swallowed, then miraculously appeared on the crest again. After it had gone a hundred yards, the roar of the big outboards was lost, drowned out in the big roar from the water and the hard drum of rain against our hoods.

'Not much we can do around here,' somebody said.

'Y'right,' a voice boomed out. It was big John Hollinger, who ran the bar. 'We might as well go up for a warmer. What d'ye say?'

' Aye,' came several replies at once, making the scene sound like a comic pirate sketch.

'All right, I'll open up. I don't suppose you'd mind Murdo?' he said, turning to another big man in flapping yellows standing at his shoulder. Murdo Morrison, the sergeant of Arden's small police station (he was the one with the FM band radio), looked at Holly as if he'd lost a few marbles.

'Mind? On a night like this I'd be more likely to arrest you for refusing.'

He grinned, shoving the radio further into the shelter of his ample armpit.

' We'll come back down later and see what's doing. But I'm for a whisky to get the cold out of my bones. Come on then, let's go.,

'I joined the crowd, accepting a tacit invitation, and we trudged back along the cobbles with the wind at our necks. I could feel that patch of my jeans, below my coat and above my boots, damp and rasping the back of my legs. Holly opened the back door and we skirted around the stack of casks and into the warmth. Holly went behind the bar, still in his oilskins, and started lining up whisky glasses. He reached for a bottle of malt and started to pour deftly. Large ones. His huge hand dwarfed his drink, which must have held about four measures. He lofted the whisky and boomed: 'Cheers.'

The rest of us stamped over, still dripping rain on to the worn wooden floor, and the rest of the lined-up drinks were quickly hauled off the bar. I reached for mine when Holly noticed me.

' Ah, Nick, how are you my boy,' he had a voice like that foghorn I'd heard earlier. 'By God, you newspaper men are quick off the mark. How'd you get here so fast?'

A large slug of whisky burned down my throat and hit the bottom of my stomach just then. I started to cough and couldn't stop for an embarrassingly long time. Somebody clapped me between my shoulder blades and my eyes watered. I wiped them with a knuckle.

' I've been here since yesterday,' I said weakly, still trying to clear my throat.

'Well, you must have a nose for news,' he said, and winked. 'If I'd known you were here I'd have poured you a Guinness.'

'Not tonight, Holly,' I said, picking up the wink he flashed to Murdo Morrison. 'This is going down just a treat.'

'It is that,' the sergeant said, lifting his glass to the light and gazing lovingly at the amber. He took a large gulp, throwing it about a yard past his tonsils and let out a long sigh.

Murdo had been a constable in the Sheriff court when I worked in the Kirkland Times as a trainee reporter. Now he was sergeant for the town and he looked like the best kind to have in a small place like Arden; big, bluff and not too hot on the formalities.

Just then there was a hiss of static from under his coat, and what sounded like a hacking cough from the region of his armpit. The sergeant moved over to the corner of the room, with his head tucked under his arm like some big yellow bird.

He spoke quickly then turned back to the rest of us.

'The inshore team's on their way back,' he said. 'They've turned out the lifeboat from Kirkland and they've picked up one of the boats from the Cassandra.

'How many came off her?' one of the men asked.

' They think two. They've got the captain and about fourteen of the crew. I'm not sure yet, but we'd best get back down to the harbour because they've decided to put in here. It's quicker, and some of those poor buggers might need transport to hospital.'

Murdo snapped over the wide collar on his waterproofs and pulled the hood down to eye level.

' Right, thanks for the dram Holly. You might as well keep the place open a while yet. I'll probably need another one later on.'

We followed him into the night, leaving Holly behind the bar, and were instantly buffeted by a head-on wind that lashed the freezing rain straight at us. Down at the quayside there were a few more men all wrapped up in heavy weather gear, who hadn't been there before. Out at the breakwater, where the waves still lashed up the curve and over the top into the harbour somebody had switched on a big spotlight to guide the inshore inflatable home. Just beyond that, on into the basalt rocks that formed a natural harbour entrance, two lights, winked red. I thought they wouldn't be much use to the men in the dinghy, for even from this close range they were just smudges of light. From any distance out there they would be invisible. It was cold and miserable up on the sea wall, but a whole lot better than being out in that mucky sea in a little boat.

It took more than half an hour for the sturdy inflatable to make it back from the Cassandra. They followed it on the spotlight beam, and from where we were standing it looked as if they were having a tough time, even though the wind was at their backs. Once they were in the shelter of the harbour, they steered the boat to the far ramp. Just before they hit the concrete, the steersman flipped up the twin props and the boat scooted right out of the water.

The crew quickly stowed their gear and then they all made their way round to where we still huddled, peering out uselessly into the dark firth. The coxwain, an Englishman I'd never met, Dave King, was a tall, rangy guy with a lined and weatherbeaten face.

He and his men came over to us and the leader went straight to Murdo Morrison.

'They're coming over this way, but they'll have to make two runs, I reckon. The lifeboat picked up one of the ship's boats, but they've lost sight of the other. I gather it was getting driven off towards the peninsula, so they could even have made landfall. Ardmhor's a lot closer than here.'

All this came out in a clipped, educated voice, all in a rush, like a major making a field report. Right away I got the impression that the inshore cox knew his stuff.

' I'd suggest you take a few men and go round there any-way to see if anything can be done. I'll wait here for the lifeboat if you like.'

Murdo nodded and called a few of the men over. 'There's a chance one of the boats is drifting on to Ardmhor. I need a few men to go round with me right now.'

A couple joined him and then a further four separated from the huddle and came across. Murdo asked them if they had flashlights and most of them said they had. He cocked his head in my direction and said: 'You want to come along, Nick?'

Frankly I could have done without it. I was cold and a bit tired and that belt of whisky was drilling an auger hole in my gut, but it was my first day back home, so I thought I might as well show willing.

'I can get everybody in my jeep, if you like,' I said.

' Good. I can't get more than four in mine, so I'll lead the way and you can catch me up down at the Swanson place. That's as far as the road goes and we can walk it from there.'

Down at Swanson's farm I pulled the jeep into the yard where a beam of light shone from a downstairs window on to the hard-packed earth. Murdo was coming out of the building with the farmer, Willie Swanson, a short, sturdy man in a baggy tweed jacket that had seen plenty of better days.

The farmer went across to an outhouse and emerged moments later in an ankle-length waterproof coat heavily smeared with what I assumed was cow shit. Uncharitably, I was glad he wouldn't be travelling in my car. We joined them and headed down the path beside the hedgerow towards the peninsula.

Ardmhor is a great hunk of basalt rock that hangs down from the north shore of the firth. It's connected to the Arden shore by a narrow neck, below which its mass juts out into the Clyde. There's a pathway from the farm that goes over an old dyke that's built in a bracket shape around the neck of the peninsula, and that's the way we went, torches flashing at our feet as we stumbled over the ruts and occasionally into deep holes in the mud made by Swanson's cattle.

Ahead of us Ardmhor Rock hunched like a black beast ready to pounce. It was covered in a thick coat of beech and birch. At its westerly side there's a stand of old Scots pine that are gnarled and bent away from the wind like a crowd of old men cowering from a storm. I knew the trees would be taking a beating this night.

I'd slipped and fallen a couple of times on the rutted track, and once when I went down my hand went smack into a large wet cowpat and I cursed very sincerely into the rain.

Don't go to Ardmhor. It's a bad place. A BAD place!

Where did that come from? I didn't know, but at that moment when I looked ahead into the gloom and saw the mass of that rock looming over me - even darker than the storm-whipped sky - I felt a shiver go right through me. All of a sudden the stinking cowpat I had been trying to wipe off my cold fingers was the least of my problems.

Have you ever been afraid? Really afraid? Not just wary, or apprehensive like the kind of shakes you get when you know somebody is going to punch you in the eye, or when your brakes fail and you feel the wheels loose their grip. That's natural self-preservation fear. We all get that.

But this was a different kind of fear. It was feeling that went down somewhere deep. The kind of fear a hard-drinking man will get when he wakes up in a nest of ants because his brain is scrambled.

For a moment, I just wanted to back away down that muddy track, at a fast gallop.

But I didn't. Behind me, in the dark, one of the men following barged into my back with a thump that knocked the wind out of him in an explosive whoof.

'What the fuck . . . ?'

'Sorry.'

'Move on, move on!'

And I did just that. Because there were other men here, and the biggest fear in the world is the fear of people's contempt. I missed out on the big war, and the two in Asia, thank God, but I've seen many a skirmish on a border in not a few of the more heated spots on the globe.

I've seen men mess their pants and still charge the barricades, and I know that every one of them knew that he was the only one with a disgusting secret. They may be scared out of their minds to go a step further and face whatever instant death is flying at them, but they're even more terrified of not going, because of what their friends will think.

That's what moved me along. The jitters didn't leave me. They came right along on my back on that muddy track. But I put one foot in front of another and walked. It felt like I was walking towards something I wouldn't come back from.

And if what happened in Arden that year hadn't happened, I would have considered seeing a shrink, but I didn't get around to that, because as it turned out it was notan irrational fear.

My antennae were out on extended stalks and I was picking up messages from Christ knows where, only I didn't realise then that I had antennae.

The path took us through a stand of beech trees which groaned under the weight of the wind. Up above, their branches crashed against each other, and the leaves lashed about. They sounded just like the waves beating on the storm wall.

Past the trees we skirted the low basalt cliff on a track that was scoured bare, but the going was rocky so there was less mud for me or anybody else to fall about in.

Here we were more exposed to the gale that was screaming in straight from the west. The black rock loomed up thirty feet above my left shoulder, and from the overhang, rivulets of rain water pouring down the stone were being blown right back up again.

I still had that scary sense of apprehension, as if I had no right to be in this place, at this time. A few yards ahead in the murk I could hear a couple of voices yelling at each other over the roar of the storm. Somebody was pointing directions and we kept going, slipping and stumbling until we were past the face and heading down towards the shore.

If the scene at the harbour wall was bad, this was worse, for even right at the seafront where the jetty took the force of the waves, there is still some shelter from the surge. Here there was none. The mighty waves being stoked up miles out there in the firth had been building up, backed by the huge force of the blow, and were running in on a frontal attack on the rocks at Ardmhor. All around was noise and water.

Murdo Morrison turned and motioned us all into a huddle. When we were all in a circle around him, he still had to shout to make himself heard.

'This is about where they were coming aground.' He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the water pounding on the shingles. There was so much whip-spray that visibility was only twenty yards or so, even with the torches.

'The lifeboat couldn't come any closer, but the ship's crew said they were blown out of the lee and straight for here. The water's a bit rough, but they should have been able to beach here. We might as well look at both ends. I don't imagine they'll be too far away.'

We split into two roughly equal groups and went along the slippery shore line. The rocks were rounded and water-polished. As I walked, I could hear that polishing action going on as it had done for thousands of years. The rumble and crash of a big wave, then the rattling, hissing sound of pebbles running back in the undertow. Every now and again, an even bigger wave would come lashing up the beach, tugging at our boots.

We walked that beach for more than an hour, searching up past the jagged rocks, and back from the water where the huge stones that had calved from the volcanic basalt lay in tumbles, each the size of a house, and under which there were warrens of cave-like shelters.

But we found nothing.

Not a sign.

Murdo Morrison assured us that the men from the stricken ship had to be around here.

' There's nowhere else they can be,' he said, when we were huddled around him again. 'The boat must have come ashore here. Let's have another look.'

We did. The rain didn't stop, and the storm kept up its pressure. We searched high and low on the west shore of the peninsula. We shone our flashlights into every nook and cranny, and despite that feeling of anxiety never lessening, I looked in every rock cave, almost congratulating myself that I actually had the nerve to go into the dark places. We searched the trees and the water's edge for wreckage.

And we still found nothing.

The first glimmer of dawn was lightening up behind the roiling clouds when the big police sergeant called off the search. It must have been about six thirty in the morning when he gathered us together again, puzzlement evident on his face.

' I can't understand it, lads,' he said, still yelling to beat the wind. 'Unless the boat crew made a mistake. There's just not a sign of them.'

There wasn't a sign. Not a hair, nor a scrap of cloth. Not even a spar from their lifeboat. Nothing.

When Murdo called off the search and we headed back along the track, past the overhang, through the beeches and alongside the hedge that bordered the muddy cow track, I found that I was last in the line. The dark was just beginning to lift and the further away from the shore we got, the more the storm seemed to abate, but there was still a good wind blowing through the tops of the trees behind me.

When I realised that I was keeping up the rear, with no-one else at my back, that dark feeling of apprehension came shivering inside me. In that instant I felt like a small boy again, tangled in the blankets in a dark and empty room, struggling for breath.

Around me, the briars and brambles bordering the track seemed much closer in. They tugged at my coat and scratched at my wrist as I wrestled them away. Then at a bend in the track, when the others ahead of me were out of sight, the thicket really closed in, forcing me to brush past the tangle.

And one of the spiky brambles snaked out lazily and wrapped itself around my arm.

My heart tried to leap into my throat.

I wrenched away, trying to pull free, my mind refusing to believe what my eyes had seen, and as I was tugging at the bramble runner, I felt something coil itself around my boot. A grunt of pure panic escaped me as I heaved myself to the right, pulling hand and foot away, and almost crashing headlong into a thick jungle of briar on the flanking side.

The thought of that scenario gave me a jolt of adrenalin like a tight white line straight into a vein. Thorns ripped into the skin of my wrists as I wrenched back from the clutching tendril and I heard a jagged rip as I kicked my foot back. Something gave, I thought probably a root, but my boot was free and my hand, though stinging, was not caught. I stamped hard down on the bramble runners. It seemed they drew back at the onslaught, just enough to let me race past along the track. I came through the gap in the old dyke like a rat out of a trap and sprinted up towards the group ahead who were heading for the farm. But just as I was going through the gap I heard the rustling of a million leaves and branches behind me, whipped up in the fury of the storm (at least I took it then to be the storm's anger) and over that roar I heard, as clear as anything, a low, rumbling chuckle of laughter.

It was the kind of creepy laugh you only hear in gothic horror films, but it was worse than that because I was hearing it.

I almost fell on my backside again when I reached the men.

' What's the rush?' Murdo asked.

'He just wants to get back for another whisky,' somebody said and there was a ripple of tired laughter.

I didn't say anything. We all went back to the cars and drove up the farm lane towards Arden. I dropped off my crew at the harbour where most of them planned to go back to Holly's bar for warmer. I decided to give it a miss. When I got back to the house I stoked up the fire and took off my coat. It was an expensive oiled cotton thornproof or it should have been thornproof But there were dozens of rips on the left side. And it couldn't have been a root that had ripped out of the ground. On the instep of my boot, there was a jagged gash where a section of thick rubber looked as if it had been chewed.

If it had not been for that, I would have thought I'd imagined the whole thing. I got the bottle of vodka from the box in the kitchen and poured myself about a half pint.

In the morning after breakfast, I'd just about convinced myself that it hadbeen imagination. After all, if you go wading through brambles, you're bound to get a scratch or two. By lunchtime, my head had stopped pounding and I was certain I'd dreamed the whole thing. I rationalised it all away.

Extract of Report by WH. Mailley, Clyde Port Authority.

Statements were taken from Captain Elliertsen, First Mate Cristos and several surviving crew members.

Only Captain Elliertsen and Mr Cristos were on the bridge when the Cassandra went aground on a sandbank 1.3 miles due west of Ardmhor peninsula, Arden, April 27 1991.

Both senior ships officers insist that they followed Clyde navigation and marine navigation regulations to the letter. Both have made sworn affidavits through the Company lawyer that the Cassandra was in the port side of the shipping lane according to the markers and confirmed by radar.

Lloyd's insurance investigators have made technical checks on the marker buoy lights and the radar and sonar equipment of the Cassandra. They have so far ascertained no fault.

What is clear is that the vessel (Liberian Registered, Greek Owned) was some two miles of the shipping lane on a course directly towards the peninsula when it struck a sandbank.

While the Captain and the First Mate insist that they believed themselves to be in the deep channel, I can find no reason for them to hold such a belief

The whereabouts of the twelve crew members in the first lifeboat have not yet been ascertained. Royal Navy diving teams have failed to locate any wreckage.

Based on discussions with Captain and crew, I can only assume that there must have been some system failure, whether human or mechanical. I intend to submit this report to the Glasgow office of the Department for Trade who may be able to take the issue further.

3

The big storm blew itself out in the morning, leaving a trail of broken branches, a couple of deadfalls here and there, and enough roof-work to keep a team working for a month.

Out on the firth the wreck of the Cassandra and her twelve thousand tons of unrefined sugar from Central America settled on to the sandbank, the hulk humping out of the water like a dead behemoth.

After such a filthy night, the day was remarkably clear and warm. My first breath of salt air felt terrific as I stepped out of the front door, lanced by the dappled green fire that shot through the battlemented chestnut trees that lined the street. The garden was in not too bad shape, maybe a bit overgrown, and I made a mental note to get out the old mower soon, as well as getting up on the roof to inspect the storm damage.

I stretched in the sunlight and slung my leather jacket over a shoulder.

In the main street, a few people I remembered nodded hello and I nodded back and smiled and was feeling a whole lot better by the time I got to Holly's bar.

Inside it was dark and warm, already quite busy despite the fact that it was just past lunchtime. Up at the bar, a friendly looking barmaid, with dark hair and brown eyes flashed me a quick smile and went on pulling a pint for somebody else.

'Be with you in just a minute.' she said, and levelled off the dark flow of beer, pushing the tap back to let the brew gain a satisfying head.

She took the money and slung it in the cash register, then turned to me. Just then, her name came back to me. Linda something or other. Linda Milne. She was about twenty three or so, fairly tall and solidly but attractively built. She had lived a few doors along from me when I last lived in Arden.

'Yes sir, what would you like?' she asked, still obviously recognising me from somewhere, but not yet sure.

'Just a coke, Linda. It is Linda, isn't it?'

'Yes, how did you know? Have we met before?'

'Plenty of times. I'm Nick Ryan, I used to stay just .... '

'Oh, I thought I recognised you. You look much different in real life,' she interrupted. 'We saw you on the television.'

'I hope I look better than that}

'Yes, but you look taller, and younger as well,' she said.

' You've just made my day,' I replied, and she blushed a bit.

'You certainly look older. You must have been about ten the last time I saw you. How's your brother doing?'

' Very well. He's married with two wee boys . . . my nephews.'

'And how about you? Worked here long?'

'Oh no. I'm on holiday from university. I just work here part time.'

We chatted for a bit and I nursed my coke, promising myself to stay away from vodka for a while. My constitution was definitely not up to the hammering I'd given it last night. The cool drink went down easily and the bubbles scoured me out like steel wool. It felt good.

Linda the academic barmaid brought me fairly up to date on who's who in town. She accepted a drink from me and surprised me by just having a fresh orange juice. After an hour of Arden's recent history, in which she was as well versed as any woman in a small town, she rang the bell and shouted time. I told her I'd only dropped by to see Holly and she explained that he was still in his bed after being out all night after the wreck. I didn't explain that I'd been there too.

I went out into the street, deciding what to do next.

There were a couple of people I had planned to visit, but this was not the day for it. I'd also promised to go and see Alan Scott's dream house in Upper Arden, but that could wait. I stood outside Holly's, squinting in the sunlight, trying to make up my mind what I had actually planned to do. Nothing sprung to mind, so I just set off strolling down the Main Street, which was actually a section of the Kilcreggan Road which came into town from the east, became

Main Street for the whole length of its passage through Arden, and became Kilcreggan Road again on the other side. I stopped off at the newsagent and carried on east along the street to the break where a couple of smallholdings and paddocks formed a short green belt before the start of Milligs.

This had always been a favourite playing area. One of the fields was covered in bare patches where brown earth showed through the short worn grass. Kids had played football in this field since time immemorial.

The old pitch looked the same as it had done in my childhood, especially on a day like this, a high spring day with the sun higher and the bees buzzing about the flourish on the hedgerows, the daisies and clover bright asterisks against the green on the touchlines where the grass remained intact.

Along the far side there was a farm path. On either side it was bordered by strong hawthorn and privet. I turned into the path and strolled in the sunlight.

Old Mr Bennett, who owned the smallholding and never seemed to mind the hordes of kids ruining his field, was in the yard next to his cottage as I passed by.

He was tinkering with some sort of canister, and as I approached he put on an odd-shaped hat with a wide brim that came over his eyes. Just as I stopped, he looked up and raised a hand to ward off the sun.

' Hello Mr Bennett,' I said.

' Huh?' he grunted, just as smoke started belching from the canister.

'Damn thing,' he muttered and reached to cover the spout with a

small plastic cone.

'Do you need a hand?' I hadn't a clue what he was doing, but thought I might offer anyway.

'No, s'alright. Got the bloody thing now.' He looked me up again, straining against the sunlight to get a look at me.

'Oh, it's young Ryan isn't it?'

' Yessir.'

' Haven't seen you in a while,' he said, easing to his feet, a small, wiry man in dungarees. 'What're you up to, then?'

' Just going for a walk. Checking out the place. Seemed like a nice day for it.'

Old Mr Bennett lifted a scrawny arm and pushed the hat back on his head. It dawned on me that the thing was a beekeeper's headgear, for the fine protective gauze was rolled up behind the crown and tied with two neat laces.

'Want to come and watch?' he said. I nodded and he opened the gate that led on to a path between budding rose bushes. 'It's a bit early for a swarm. Mostly July, but there must have been something wrong with the queen.'

We went round to the back of the cottage and across a patch of ground where vegetables sprouted in straight lines. Beyond this was a small field, bordered with ash and sycamore. In the corner stood a dozen or so hives, white boxes against the green.

The old man pointed to a thick bush twenty yards away.

"There's the swarm. Lucky for me I noticed them before they all took off.'

I could hear, even from that distance, the soft hum of the bees. All around the bush there was dark cloud that waxed and waned in time with the buzzing.

'Come on. I'll see if this thing works. I borrowed it from Bert McFall last summer, but never got round to using it.'

The buzzing got louder as we approached and soon I could make out the individual bees. They sounded angry, and I said so.

'On no, that's just the noise they always make. They hardly ever swarm, so people don't know what a whole pile of bees sounds like.

' I've seen you doing this before years ago,' I said. 'You used a watering can.'

' That's right,' he nodded. 'I always have done. But McFall says this is easier. Quietens them down quicker, and it saves me lugging two gallons of water about every time I try to catch 'em.'

He started unrolling the netting and tucked the gauze in around his neck under his chambray shirt. With a motion of his hand he gestured me to stay back. He uncapped the canister and smoke started billowing out all around him, white clouds that drifted lazily in the calm air. Walking towards the bush he held out the smoke gun and started spraying the fumes into the heart of the swarm.

I couldn't see what was happening, but I'd watched him before, and I could picture the seething brown mass, like a huge gobbet of molasses clinging to the forked branch of the bush, thousands of bees snuggled round their new queen.

The noise was soaring up into the high register as the scouts milled about like tiny fighters.

From inside the cloud, Mr Bennett coughed as he breathed in the fumes. I hoped they were harmless. After about five minutes, the buzzing started to diminish and there were less scouts flying out from the swarm. The returning bees flew into the cloud and most of them stayed there. Soon there was hardly a hum from the swarm.

'Hey, young Ryan. Hand me over that box.'

I bent and picked up the carton which had previously held one of fifty seven varieties and moved in to the bush.

'There they are. This thing does work. Look at them. Sleeping like babies,' he said.

He wedged the box under the brown mass, grabbed the branch where the bees were massed, and gave it a firm shake. A large part of the swarm broke off the main body and fell into the box with a thud. He did this a couple of times, and then the whole mass slid down. A couple of bees dizzily flew out. The old guy deftly flipped the four top flaps one over the other so that they locked.

' That's us. We've got most of them. The stragglers should follow on.' He reached over with the box. 'Here, you take this and I'll get the smoker.'

It was surprisingly heavy. I'd never thought bees would weigh so much.

There was an empty hive nearby. He took the box laid it on its side, using his hat to fan fresh air into the mass of insects which were just beginning to stir.

' Watch this. The scouts'll fly out and some of them will check out the hive. They'll bring back word to the rest and they'll bring the queen in if they're happy. Sometimes they're not, and I've got to try another hive.'

Everything went exactly as he said. The outrunners crawled out and it didn't take long for them to find the hive entrance. As the old man had said, the scouts started coming back and did their little dance which encouraged more of their sisters to follow until there was a sizable advance party crawling all over the hive.

After about ten minutes, they must have been satisfied with their new piece of real estate for the whole swarm started to crawl up the ramp.

' Don't you ever get stung?'

'Not any more. I learned to go slow. But I got immune to the stings anyway.'

In his little cottage, he made a big pot of tea.

'I haven't been up this way in a long time,' I said. 'I just got home yesterday and then I was out last night with Murdo Morrison down at Ardmhor.'

' Not a place I'd go tramping in the dark. It's a wrong place, so it is.'

I recalled the bramble runner reaching for my hand. The scratches were still bright.

'Murdo didn't seem concerned.'

'Ach, what would he know? He's not been around as long as me. All I'm saying is it's no place to be at night. Never has been.'

He sipped his tea and looked over the rim. 'You ask Jimmy Allison. He'll tell you.'

'Tell me what?'

'He knows all the history of this place. Me and him and the Major get together down in the Chandler of a night. If anybody can tell you about Arden, it's your friend Jim. Have you been to see him yet?'

'No. I just arrived. Wanted to get settled in first.'

Old Jimmy Allison. Pushing seventy and one of the best friends I ever made.

Jimmy was the sub-editor on the Kirkland Herald when I was in my teens and facing the prospect of becoming the teacher my father wanted me to be. My grandfather knew this was not part of my plan. He worked through my mother and despite a couple of hot arguments with my father, he finally let Jimmy get me fixed up as a trainee reporter, and the rest, as they say...

Jimmy Allison was one of the most astute men I ever knew. He was big and old and rugged, and even then his hands were beginning to pain him as the arthritis started setting its teeth.

He knew newspapers inside out and had worked on them all. I thought he'd been a newspaperman all his life, but I was wrong. He'd done just about everything there is to do. The old man had run away from home at fourteen to work the fishing boats up in the Western Isles, then he'd been in the merchant navy, and he'd done a stint of fighting in somebody's army. After that he'd gone to Australia and made money in the opal fields and done a lot more besides.

A lot of what I am today is down to a few people in my life, and probably at the top of the list of credits is Jimmy Allison.

Mr Bennett brewed made more tea and friend some bacon for sandwiches. Both hit the spot.

'Are you still curing your own?' I asked.

'Not since Maggie went. Cancer. Quick, thank god. I was never as good as her at the bacon. I sold the boar, Old Grunt, and the sows to McFall up the road.'

I remembered the big boar from way back. A mean old thing with a temper that all the boys were scared off. Of the ball was kicked into the sty, then it stayed there.

'If you that he was a mean old pig, you should see his son. That's an evil one for you.'

'Worse than the Grunt? That's hard to believe.'

'The young 'un grew even bigger. A couple of years back it got out and into the trees. McFall and myself got the dogs out. We cornered it up the gully next to the seminary and it ripped the bellies out of two of them.'

He took another bite and another swig, and laughed that short rasp again. 'Ha. Even McFall was shaking in his boots. We finally got a rope around it. I was all for shooting the bugger, but McFall said no, so we lassoed the thing like cowboys and managed to get its legs together. It took five of us to drag it down the hill to his pen.

Then when we got it inside, McFall says to us to stand back and he goes in to cut the rope. He took one slice and that big bugger was on its feet like lightning and McFall almost gelded himself jumping over the fence. That boar took a snap at his boot just as he was going over and he landed right smack on the crossbar. He let out such a squeal it sounded just like the pig, and after that he showed us his boot. There was a rip the length of your hand right down the sole. Looked like it was razor cut, and they were no shop-bought boots neither. McFa1l said he got them up at McKenzie's who does the farmers' boots and the soles were nigh-on an inch thick.'

'He was lucky,' I said.

'Sure he was. That animal could have taken his leg off in one go. And he's even bigger than Old Grunt. I'm as sure as hell glad I don't have that to worry about. I've still got the goats and the Jersey cow. Them and the bees and what I grow here's just enough for me.'

He stopped for a moment, then went on.

'I reckon you've been away quite a while. There'll be a lot about this place that you'll have forgotten about and then it'll jump back up and hit you smack in the face. Good things too, I don't doubt. I hope you get settled back in quick. What is it you plan to do with yourself?'

' I'm giving myself a break from newspapers. They've changed too much. I've always wanted to write books, so I'm going to give it a try and see if I can.'

'Jim seems to have a lot of faith in you, so I reckon you'll give it a fair go,' he said.

' I'll take that as a compliment.'

' You do that, young Nicky. And come back any time.'

' That's a promise. I'll do that.'

'Go and see Jimmy soon as you can.'

'OK, that's another promise,'

'Oh, and don't forget to come up to the Chandler any night. You'll like the major.'

I made a third promise and thanked him for the tea and the sandwich and left the cottage. He came to the door and waved me off.

I walked down the path from Mr Bennett's and was about to get back on to the main road when on a whim I turned left up the main path to McFall's small farm.

I was curious about that pig. I skirted the yard on the track that took me behind the byre and into the field beyond. There was the pig pen. I could see the sows moving about and adjacent to that was a thick wooden fence - not just thick, it was made of solid pine logs - which was obviously the boar's pen. I could hear the snufiing grunt of the big animal, and the squelching, sucking noise as it pulled each trotter out of the mud.

Mr Bennett had been right. This was a big boar. I leaned against the spar and looked over. The movement must have caught the boar's eye, for it twisted its head then turned and looked at me.

Old Grunt had been a big beast. This one was huge . It looked at me from under those big flapping ears in that truculent, heavy-jawed way that pigs have, its little eyes glaring at me. A trickle of saliva dripped from the corner of its mouth.

'Hey mister,' a high-pitched voice shouted behind me. 'Hey mister, watch out for the pig.'

I turned and two small boys, who turned out to be the younger members of McFall's sizable brood, came running towards me.

' It's all right. I was just having a look. It's a big pig.'

' He's a big badpig, my daddy says,' the smaller one told me. 'Boot, we call him, 'cos he bit off my daddy's boot.'

' Yes, he's big all right. I knew his daddy a long time ago, when I was your age.'

'Pigs don't have daddies. They're just pigs.'

I wasn't prepared to get into an argument. I nodded and smiled, and turned to go.

' D'you need any eggs, mister'?' one of the boys asked. 'And we've got milk as well.'

'Not today, but I'll come back again another time.'

'All right then, but my dad says nobody is allowed near the pig.'

' Don't worry, I won't go near Boot. Honest'

As I walked away across the field I heard a crunch from behind me. I turned to look and the big boar was up against the pine fence, gnawing at the logs. Jagged splinters were peeling off the wood.

Jimmy Allison welcomed me with a huge smile when I arrived on his doorstep the next day with a bottle of Glenlivet ten year old in a presentation box.

'Not a phone call, and not a letter. Not even a postcard to tell me you were coming back.'

' Rubbish, I told you months ago,' I countered.

' Probably you did, but I can't be expected to read all the letters you write.' He held out one of his big hands to take mine. His grip was firm, but I almost winced in sympathy when I felt the distorted arthritic knuckles.

' Come in, come in.' He clapped his other hand on my shoulder.

'Here, I brought you some medicine,' I said, handing over the package. He knew what it was, of course, but pretended not to as he always did.

'For me? That's nice. What is it?'

' Sun-tan lotion, for the heat wave.'

He winked, and beamed again, his grizzled face creasing into parentheses, and let me inside.

' You'll have one, huh?' he asked, holding the bottle aloft to admire the amber in the sunlight.

' Too early for me,' I said, 'but you go ahead.'

'Well, just a wee one,' and he poured himself a tiny measure and sipped from a crystal glass.

'I suppose I can forgive the lack of correspondence just for that.'

' You've not been too hot in that department either. You can't afford a stamp?'

'Cheeky beggar. Like your grandfather. Come in. I'll stick the kettle on.

I followed him through to his study where the walls were lined with packed bookshelves and an old oak desk was piled with papers and notebooks.

' You've been busy then?'

'Never a dull moment,' he said. 'Still working on the town history, and maybe I'll get to finish it one day. I've had some help from the university after the dig.'

' Another dig?'

'Down past the Roman wall, beyond the stream. Strowan's Burn. There's another wall, but much older. Professor Sannholm thinks they're pre-Pict, and so do I.'

If Jimmy thought the archaeology was from Pictish times, I was inclined to believe him. It was due to his own research that a couple of decades back, they had discovered that the bracket-shaped mound around the neck of the Ardmhor peninsula were the remains of a Roman dyke. What had puzzled him was their reason for building it. The rock itself would have been an ideal fortress, but there were no remains, Roman or otherwise on the peninsula itself.

Jimmy pulled out a map he'd drawn of the area, filled with old place names, most of them Gaelic, based on maps dating from around the granting of the Burgh charter and even before.

' Look here,' he said, 'just south of the dyke. I noticed these mounds when I saw some pictures taken from a helicopter going up to the base. They are well inside the wall, but they run parallel to it from one side to the other. It's as if there are two walls.'

'Maybe the Picts thought the rock was a good fort too.'

' That's what you would think. But Professor Sannholm has found old Pictish relics all over the mud flats and in the fields surrounding Ardhmor. But there's never been anything discovered on Ardhmor itself.'

I looked at the map. The mounds were definitely parallel to the more recent fortification which itself was paralleled by the stream of Strowan's Burn which forked behind the farm and sent its waters east and west into the bays on either side of the peninsula.

'I remember the first time you told me about Strowan's Burn,' I said, looking over the old map which Jimmy had re-drawn a dozen times in the past twenty years. 'I'd never thought about it until you told me it was Saint Rowan's Burn.'

' Not a lot of people know that still,' Jimmy said. 'But I don't think he was a saint. The name Rowan is really ancient. If there had been a monk or a hermit around here, it would have been somewhere in the records. Most of them lived before Christianity arrived in these parts. Maybe they were the equivalent of sorcerers. Mumbo-jumbo men, or even just warriors.'

'But there was a legend about St Rowan,' I said. 'I remember you told me years ago.'

'Yes, I found it in a translated version of a field report of one of Columba's people who came down this way to convert the tribes. They had a pretty good organisation, even then. They'd send out their monks to make an impression and dig out the folk culture so they could change it around to suit the Christian dogma. The St Rowan story is just like Old Moses, you know.'

' I remember,' I said. 'He was supposed to have struck the rock with his rowan spear to bring the water of life to the people.'

' That's it. And that's where Strowan's Well is supposed to have come from, although why he should have bothered in a place like this I can't imagine. We've got more streams and rivers than we need.

'Anyway the professor found a wicker fence and a few other odds and ends last year just before the start of winter, but they're arranging a proper dig in a couple of weeks.'

'Will you be there?' I asked.

'Oh, I suppose I'll go down and potter around, but I don't get involved in any of the heavy work. I just like to chew the fat with the professor. We see eye to eye on a lot of things.'

' And are you planning to get any fishing done. Mr Bennett said the hands are giving you a bad time.'

'Yes, he said he'd seen you. Word gets around quick.'

'And you were always the first to know. I got more stories from your contacts here than I've had ever since,' I said.

'I wouldn't say that. You've been doing quite well. You shouldn't undersell yourself, but I gather you'll be working on a book just now.'

'Yes, once I settle in, although I've hardly had a chance yet. I was down at the shore looking for the men off that boat.'

' Yes, I heard that too. Murdo said there wasn't a sign of them.'

' No, we searched all over. It was a crappy night down there, but there was nothing at all. I don't think they could have come ashore there.'

'I don't know, it's a strange place.'

'How do you mean, strange?'

'Oh, nothing,' Jimmy said, and started rolling up the big map.

'No, go on,' I insisted. 'What's funny about Ardmhor?'

Jimmy turned to look at me, then looked away, shaking his head. I reached across and snagged his sleeve.

'What is it?'

' You'll think I'm rambling,' he said. 'And I don't want you to think the old man's getting senile.'

'Cut the crap. Really, I'm interested in why you say it's a strange place, because something odd happened to me when we were down looking for that boat.'

Jimmy turned suddenly and looked directly at me. There was something in his eyes, maybe concern, maybe surprise.

'What happened'?'

' I'm not sure. But just when we got past the old dyke .... '

'The Roman wall,' he corrected me.

' Yes, the wall. We had just gone back there when I started getting scared. I mean really shaky scared. As if there was something there. But there was no reason for it. None of the others seemed to be bothered.

' Then, when I was coming back with the others, I was last in line on the track up to the farm and I got caught in the brambles at the edge of the path. But at the time, I was in such a state that I thought they were actually trying to grab me, for Christ's sake. It was weird.' I looked at him, and laughed. 'Now you'll think I'm rambling.'

' No,' he said, and his voice was deadly serious. 'I don't think that at all. I've had that feeling myself. Once a long time ago, and the other only a week ago. As if I wasn't wanted there.'

' That's exactly how I felt. But that's nonsense. How can you feel not wanted in a place ?'

' That's what I've been trying to find out for years. It's a wrong place.'

'Mr Bennett said that yesterday. He said everybody knew that.'

'Well, I think he's right. But not everybody knows it.'

'I remember as a kid, my mother used to threaten me with all sorts of hard times if she ever caught me down there. That was after the accident, remember?'

'I remember that night all right, though I'm surprised you do. You were unconscious for a week.'

'You remember more than me. I can't recall a thing about it, only what my dad and grandad told me.'

' You'd been missing for a couple of days. You and a couple of your friends. Then old man Swanson found a jacket in the bushes at the edge of his farm and there was a big search all over that rock.

' That's where we found the three of you, under a rockfall. You and the girl and that poor boy who's never been the same since. Nobody knew how you got there or why you were there, but you were in bad shape by the time we got you out.'

'Yeah, I always a bit wild as a kid, climbing and falling out of trees.'

' What I'm saying is that in the spring of that year, after they'd done the dig on the Roman wall, I was down in Ardmhor one night looking for something I'd dropped, and I got a dose of the scaries. I came out of that place like a bat out of hell, and I was no youngster then, but I swear I'd have clocked up a record.'

'I often wonder what had happened then,' I said. 'But I suppose we'll never know.'

'No, I suppose not, but that was a bad summer here in Arden, a right bad summer. That was the year Henson down at Kilmalid Farm fell under his plough and got his hands near torn off. Then there were the bull terriers they were using for the fights down at the shore tore up that fellow that was breeding them. Forget his name now, but the sergeant, Jack Bruce it was in those days, said it was the worst thing he ever saw. Those beasts ate the man alive.

' Funny thing was, after all the things that happened that year, they stopped just after the end of summer, just about the time we pulled you out from under the rocks. I remember your Grandad at the time. He was worried out of his head, 'cause he was saying you were the latest victims. 'I remember asking him what he meant, and he just said 'This damned place has taken them.'

'What do you think he meant?'

' I don't think. I knowwhat he meant. There's some people around here with long memories, and there have been bad years before. Years when some crazy things have happened.'

'How do you mean?' I asked.

Jimmy finished off his coffee in one gulp. He put the cup down between the mementoes that crowded the little table beside his chair, then turned to me again.

' What I mean is that there were fourteen people died that summer,' he said. 'And it wasn't the first time. In 1906 there was another bad year when there were thirty deaths - and I mean killings. It was in all the papers at the time. They thought the whole town had gone crazy in the heat. Apparently it was the hottest summer in living memory then.

'And before that in 1720 there was the massacre at the priory, where the seminary is now, and they had to send a sheriff down from Glasgow with an armed militia. This goes way back. There's no rhyme nor reason to it, and I bet if the records were clearer we'd find more bad years going down through the ages.'

'But can you say it's abnormal? I mean every town's got a history of tragedy,' I said.

' That's true, but Arden's history is updated every now and again, like a catalogue of disaster. I know, for I've been through the records, even the old parish ones that go back for centuries, and a lot more dusty books besides. I told you about the legend of St Rowan, but there's other ones too. I'll dig them out for you some time, but I can assure you that some of the old Gaelic writings show that the old folk believed there was something wrong with this place. With Ardhmor. They called it the Sleeping Rock, and they had the notion that it woke up every now and again.'

4

For a week I was like a caricature of a novelist, deleting half-pages of words, writing more and then deleting them.

I just couldn't shake together those great ideas that I'd filled my notebooks with down the years, and - so I thought - only needed to be keyed in had been burbling along just under the surface, to be keyed in and polished.

But the more I wrote out the basic draft, the more complex and unreadable it seemed to become. I think you could call it writer's block. To me it felt like a log-jam. And the harder I tried, the less I produced. My mind just couldn't settle.

I'd promised Jimmy Allison and old Mr Bennett that I'd meet them along in the Chandler, but I didn't make it. On the Sunday, I'd sat down and sorted out all my notes and put the coffee maker on heat. Then I'd started writing garbage yet again.

I wasn't sleeping properly either. At nights, I'd drag myself upstairs and throw myself into bed and toss and turn until the early hours, wondering where I was going wrong.

There was another reason of course, which I didn't realise at the time. I spent a lot of time at nights just trying to get to sleep. And when I finally did I had dreams that would jerk me awake with the same shivery feeling I'd had on the night when I stepped on the seventh stair.

Sometimes I'd wake up with no recollection of what I'd been dreaming about. I'd just have an overwhelming feeling of threat and dread, and although the substance of the nightmare might have vanished as I leapt up with a moan, the aftershock would leave me shaking.

There were other nights though, when I did remember. Not the whole story, but glimpses of the picture, sections of nightmare that were still vividly careening across my imagination. Sometimes those scenes shook me so badly I felt I needed to throw up. I'd dreamt about the dark tunnel scenario a couple of times, and it didn't get better with familiarity.

But there were others.

In one of them I was crawling in mud that was thick with blood. Behind me I could hear a slavering, grunting growl of whatever monster was after me, and my feet kept slipping while teeth snapped and crunched behind me. As I slipped and slithered in the red-streaked mud I saw a small shoe lying there, embedded in a gory puddle.

There were little strips of flesh hanging from it, child's flesh and I knew that what was coming after me had done this, and my feeling of terror was so great that just before those jaws closed upon me, I woke, panting for breath. Panting for life.

After dreams like that I'd lie in the darkness and stare at the shadows on the walls. And then I'd wonder what the hell was wrong with me. In the mornings I felt slugged and dopey. The night terrors might have ebbed, when finally I'd got back to sleep, but there was still an underlying apprehension that maybe I was having some kind of breakdown.

On the following Sunday I decided to give myself a break. What the hell. I'd enough money to last me a long time, and if it took a long time, I'd still do it. I told myself I just wasn't ready for it yet.

Holly's bar was warm and welcomingly busy when I stepped off the street and through the polished wooden door. I had to push past a couple of regulars who sat in a group playing dominoes, and made my way up to the bar. Big John was at the far end and I caught his eye. He waved. Linda, the barmaid, was nearest me and I ordered a pint of Guinness which she poured in the usual slow manner, letting the head separate from the black stout and form a creamy lid on the surface.

I turned and leaned against the bar, with my elbows propped on the surface, and had a look around. Very little had changed in the past decade. Probably in the last fifty years. Maybe a lick of paint here and there, and some new upholstery on the bench seats that lined the walls, but essentially Holly's bar was the same as ever.

Holly had resisted the electronic gaming invasion, and there was no juke box. Up in a far corner there was a television for watching football on Saturdays and replays on Sundays, but that was it. It was a bar, plain and simple. A meeting place for a fair percentage of Arden's adult population. The faces hadn't changed here either.

As I looked around, I recognised most of them, and there were some youngsters who would still have been in short trousers when I took off for pastures new, but they were the sons of people I knew. If I couldn't put a first name to them I could at least identify them with a family tag. No doubt the same history had repeated itself down the years as the pub had been handed down through the Hollinger family. In fact, while its official name, in green paint above the door, said Arden Inn, and the old building dated back nigh on two hundred years, it had been known as Holly's for as long as anyone could remember.

I turned around when he tapped me on the shoulder, and I thanked him for the drink which was on the house. I had just started sipping it and the big landlord had gone off to serve somebody else when a crowd of men came in and jostled past the old men at the table as they made their way to the bar. There were four of them, in their early twenties, in jeans and leather jackets. One of them bumped into me as they crowded the bar in the space between me and the other customers.

'Three of heavy and a lager, sunshine,' one of them called out. 'Make it quick and I'll give you a big kiss.'

Linda rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she continued pouring for someone else, and the man who had called the order, the one who had bumped my drinking arm, drummed his fingers impatiently on the bar top. Eventually she came across and started working the beer tap. She set the drinks on the bar and the customer handed over a fiver which he whipped back just as her fingers were about to close on the money.

'How about the kiss, sunshine?' he asked, turning to his friends, with a cheesy grin. The man was small and wiry, his brown hair swept back from his forehead, and when he grinned he displayed a set of strong, slightly mis-shapen teeth.

' That'll be the day, Billy,' the girl said. 'You've no chance.'

One of his friends, a tall, skinny guy with a long, horsey face, laughed. 'You tell him, Linda. Saving yourself for me, right?'

The girl shot him a look as if to say she'd sooner kiss a snake, and quickly reached out and grabbed the money from the first man's hand.

' Better luck next time,' said horse-face, and the thin, wiry one told him to piss off.

They made their way to a free table in the corner, talking loudly as they went, and pulled up the chairs to sit in a huddle. On my left side, someone said hello and I turned round and went through the same half-second of disorientation that I would experience time and again over the next few weeks before the name sprung from memory.

'Hi Tucker,' I said. Tommy O'Neil was now the town's postman, as I discovered. He and I chewed the fat for a while, and I savoured my beer. We swapped stories about what I'd been doing and what had been happening in Arden over the piece, which wasn't much more than small-town small talk, but it was pleasant anyway. While we were talking, the pub door opened a couple of times as people came and went, but I didn't bother looking round to see who the new arrivals were until I heard one of the four sitting at the table let out a yell.

' Badger, you big daft bastard!'

Right away, I knew who was at the receiving end of that. I turned round and saw him and my stomach gave that quick lurch of sadness or pity or conscience whenever I'm faced with one of life's unfortunates. You know what I mean if you've ever been in a handicapped children's hospital, or seen mutilated beggars in the streets of Bangladesh, or the swollen bellies of stick-insect children in Ethiopia.

Badger Blackwood was one of them. And the feeling that made my insides drag was coupled with the knowledge that he hadn't always been the way he was. Badger .... Colin Blackwood had been my best friend once. He was that 'poor boy who's never been the same since' that Jimmy Allison had been talking about. He'd been with me and the girl that night they pulled us out of the rockfall at Ardmhor, but while Barbara and I recovered - I was unconscious for a week - Colin did not.

He'd been hurt. Brain damaged. They'd kept him in the hospital for months while the terrible injuries in his head healed over, and the scars, two great wounds that had ripped his scalp from the crown to his forehead, had left their mark. The two lines of hair had grown in white against the glossy black, and ever since he was let out of hospital he'd carried the mark. The children had started calling him Badger, and the name had stuck. God knows, he didn't have the capacity to care one way or another about his new name, for the damage inside his head had left him slow and dull, and he'd stayed that way ever since.

I found out that he was a regular in Holly's bar, where he'd be allowed a couple of shandies with hardly any beer, and he'd sit for hours watching the old men play dominoes, smiling at them all with that vacant look on his face. It was the saddest thing you ever saw, but I suppose whatever the rocks had knocked out of Colin's head had killed off any memory of what he had been like before.

' Jesus Christ, you big ape,' said the wiry guy who'd bumped into me at the bar. 'You spilled my fuckin' beer.'

Badger just stood there, next to the complainer, his dark eyes bewildered and apologetic.

' I-I'm sorry Billy,' he said slowly. 'I d-didn't mean it.'

Billy had jumped up from the table and started wiping spilled beer from his jeans.

'Why don't you watch where you're going?' He shoved at Badger, slamming his shoulder with the heel of his hand. Badger lurched back, and as he did so the shandy he was carrying slipped right out of his hand and fell against the small man, covering his jeans properly this time.

'Jesus! Look what you've done now,' yelled Billy, as his three companions pushed themselves rapidly away from the table to avoid the deluge. The glass tumbled to the floor.

' I-I-I. . . ,' the bewildered Badger started to stammer. I could hear panic rise in his voice.

' You fucking cabbage,' Billy yelled again, and grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket, dragging his face up close, shaking him back and forth.

' You're going to pay for that! Look at the state of these jeans.' .

'Leave him alone,' I said, walking forward and gripping the man's arm at the wrist. 'It wasn't his fault.'

'Who the hell are you?' he hissed, rounding on me.

' It doesn't matter,' I said very calmly. Inside I was seething. 'Just leave him alone and pick on somebody else.'

One of his friends sniggered. I saw what was coming a mile away. Billy pushed Badger away from him - the lumbering figure cartwheeled his arms as he fought to retain his balance - and Billy's head lunged towards mine in the classic Glasgow kiss, his forehead angling down to catch the bridge of my nose.

I've been in a few hot-spots in my time and I've had to handle a some tricky situations. And some of the servicemen I patrolled with taught me a couple of tricks.

As I said, I saw it coming and had already started to move back, bringing the heel of my hand upwards fast and hard, right into the front of his face, and my left hand came whipping round, the knuckles twisting tight, to take him solidly just under the ribs.

Billy yelled and it was his turn to look like a windmill as he staggered back, crashing into a chair which overturned, and into the arms of one of his pals.

'Oh by fugging dose,' he moaned. 'Jesus fugging Christ!'

The whole bar had gone quiet. From the corner of my eye, I could see John Hollinger come through the bar-flap.

' Right. You, you and you, out. You're barred. All of you.' No nonsense now.

'And you, Billy. Get yourself out of here and don't come back until you learn to behave.'

Billy still had his hands clapped to the front of his face, but there was no mistaking the venom in his eyes as he lurched towards the door.

' I'll get you for this, you cunt,' he grunted.

Badger just stood there, looking as bewildered as ever.

'Right. What's going on here?' Holly said. Badger started to mumble a reply, but it was beyond him.

' That one was giving him a bad time. He knocked the drink out of his hand, and then blamed Colin for it,' I said. 'He was going to hit him, so I stopped him.'

'I saw that bit. I was down in the cellar for the rest of it. That was a quick one-two there, from what I saw. Billy's a mean little shit if there ever was one.'

'I gathered that.'

'But I don't like violence here. If anybody's going to do the hitting, it's me. It's my licence,' he said.

'Sorry, Holly. I thought I was doing the right thing,' I said, as we both walked to the corner of the bar, Colin in tow.

'You were, Nicky, you were. That was just for the benefit of the rest of them. Anyway, I saw the good bit. I didn't realise you were a fighting man. I wish I had an action replay of that. Have you been training'?'

' A couple of nights a week. With some army pals.

'Looked pretty good to me. But watch out for that Billy. He and the rest of them are worth the watching. I had to throw them out last year for smoking whacky baccy. They're nothing but trouble.'

Holly didn't throw me out. I bought another pint for me and a shandy for Colin who was looking at me as if I was a hero.

When his drink came, Badger thanked me shyly. 'Are you all right now, Colin?' I asked.

'Yes mister,' he said, after drinking a big mouthful. He hadn't a clue who I was. I could have wept, looking at his bland, child-like face, for I remembered when we had played about the trees as youngsters, Colin bright and fast and full of fun. Destined to go places, always full of enthusiasm.

And destined to lose all that under the rockfall at Ardmhor. Destined for nothing.

'You don't remember me, do you?'

He looked at me, examining my face with those dull, dark eyes, then shook his head.

'It doesn't matter,' I told him. 'I'm Nicky Ryan. I used to live here. I was in the same class as you at school.'

He smiled brightly, and nodded. I could see him puzzling over that, but he still smiled. It didn't mean a thing to him. The pub had gone back to its usual busy hubbub, as always happens within minutes of any brawling, and Colin and I sat together. He told me he worked up at the stables where the better-off kids from all over came for pony trekking in the summer.

Colin could have been anything he wanted to be. But Badger mucked out stables. Behind my feelings of sadness at that waste, I'm sure there was the certain knowledge that this could have been me. I hadn't a clue how he and Barbara and myself had ended up getting clobbered with rocks on the Sleeping Rock, but Babs and I had come out alive. Only part of Badger had.

Would somebody have stood up for me?

The nickname was maybe cruel, but apposite. The two white-grey lines on Colin's hair really did give him the appearance of a badger, and he answered to the name quite readily. He didn't see anything wrong with it.

I walked him home. It only took a few minutes to get to his house which was a two-up, two-down on the north side of Main Street.

There wasn't much conversation. Colin was big and shy and talking to him was like having a conversation with a child.

Every now and again, he'd look over his shoulder to make sure Billy and his pals weren't following us, and occasionally he'd sneak a glance at me which read pure hero worship. I could have done without that.

His mother was peering through a crack in the curtains and came bustling out as soon as we reached the gate.

'Colin? Colin! Is that you?'

' Uh-huh,' he said.

She came down the flagstones to the square of light that came through the front door.

' Who's that?' she started to say as she walked the dozen or so steps. 'Who are you with?'

A small, grey-haired woman with a drawn face, and a pair of reading glasses dangling from a thong round her neck, she came up and peered at me. Her dark eyes were a match for her son's, except that hers were quick and alert.

' Oh. It's you.' She looked me up and down, then looked at her son. I'd seen that look before, the one she directed at me. Ever since the doctors had told her that Colin wasn't going to recover, I'd seen that look on her face. Maybe she didn't consciously think it, but even at ten years of age I knew what it meant: 'Why my boy? Why not you ?'

I didn't know why then. Hell, I hadn't a clue even about what had happened. It was as if a handful of days of my life had been plucked out and never happened. Except that they had happened, and Colin was the living, enduring evidence.

'Hello, Mrs Blackwood. I just walked Colin home.' I was careful not to use the other name in her presence.

' That's right mom.' Badger nodded, smiling. 'Mr Nicky. He did it. He hit Billy Ruine.'

Ruine. That name rang a bell. One of Jack Ruine's boys from down the south side of Milligs. I knew the family well. His big brother Mick had been the terror of our generation, a whip-thin youth with a tight smile and ready fists. A fighting man among the fighting men on the far side of town. The whole family were wild.

' What's that?' Badger's mother snapped. 'What happened?'

Badger started to stammer an explanation that was beyond him.

I broke in and said: 'It was nothing much, Mrs Blackwood. A couple of guys were causing a bit of trouble down at Holly's, and Colin got caught in the passing. I just got him out of the road.'

' I don't like you going down there, Colin. You've got no business going and getting in fights.'

' No mum,' he said, kicking his boot toe into the edge of the low wall, hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket. He did look like a big foolish child. Mrs Blackwood looked at me, and there wasn't a lot of warmth in her gaze. I had been a memory that maybe for her sake should never have come back to Arden.

'Right, Colin. In you go and get your tea.'

'Yes mum,' he said and shambled up the path, turning to look back at me with a big, shy smile, before going inside.

'Well, Nicky Ryan. I suppose I should thank you for getting Colin out of trouble.'

'No, it's no trouble. Anybody would.'

'I can't stop him going there. He's just a big baby, God help him. And look at you, looking after him.' I knew what she meant, and it made me feel indescribably sad. What she meant was that I shouldn't have to look after him.

'But thanks for bringing him home,' was what she did say. 'He doesn't know how to take care of himself.'

' Any time, Mrs Blackwood. The Ruine boy and his pals are just loud-mouths. If I'm in Holly's again, I'll make sure they leave him alone.'

She nodded, and quickly said goodnight, and bustled up the path. The door closed quickly.

I didn't go straight home, but wandered round the old harbour to the side where the lifeboat shed stood, to the left of the small crowd of boats tied up at the white-plank moorings. It was a cool, calm night, and this time the masts of the dinghies were hardly moving. I stayed watching the boats for a while, then walked back the way I'd come and down the street towards the house. It was warm when I got in. I'd left the gas fire on, and the room's heat quickly got rid of the evening chill. I thought about trying to write, but didn't bother. Instead, I turned on the television and watched an old movie until quite late, and then just went to bed.

At two in the morning, I was wide awake again. One of those dreams had slammed me awake, and as I sat up in the dark, I could feel the force of it drain away. I couldn't quite remember what it was about, but an image of something big and terrible that was after me, stayed with me.

My heart was still pounding, but gradually it slowed as I became more awake. I didn't understand this. I'd come back to Arden and I'd been scared rigid on my first night, and even worse on the morning after down at Ardmhor. Now I was having a spate of nightmares about God knows what. Was there something wrong with me? Was I beginning to flip?

The thought of being a candidate for the funny farm was almost as scary as the feeling I had when I woke up. I put that straight out of my mind.

I didn't want to think I was losing it.

5

Jimmy Allison insisted on me joining him along at the Chandler on the west side of the harbour. As he pulled on his overcoat, he asked me how the work was going.

'I just can't get into it,' I explained as we strode along the road. A slight smirr of rain, more a heavy mist, was blowing in from the estuary, and we bent our heads to keep it out of our eyes. The night was still warm, so the fine spray was not unpleasant on our faces.

'I can't seem to get a start on it. Like everything's in my head and just can't get out.'

' I wouldn't worry about it. Any author will tell you that books have a hard time being born.'

' It's the conception, not the birth, I'm having difficulty with. Coitus is interruptus, you might say.'

' You'll make it. Give yourself some time.'

The Chandler is not like Holly's bar. It's more modern for a start, at least inside, although the building is easily as old as the Arden Inn. It's been a sailors' bar for decades, since the days when the little fishing boats used to go out on the firth and up by the Mull of Kintyre after the herring. Now the sailors were the weekend sort, and the Chandler did a roaring trade in the summer.

The bar was where the local guys, the men who worked on the boats and helped repair and refit the craft, came to do their drinking. This was where my grandfather had spent a lot of the time when he was home from the sea, although to tell you the truth, he did a power of drinking at Holly's as well. I imagine he got round most of the bars in the area, and everybody who was anybody in Arden knew old Nick Westford.

The Major was a short man with a moon face and sharp blue eyes and a thick head of iron-grey hair that was cut short and neatly parted.

When I was introduced to him he shook my hand strongly and warmly and told me he'd heard a lot about me.

' All good, I assume,' I said, trying to return his grip just as firmly and probably failing.

'Well, I suppose so,' he said, in a deep, lilting island accent, that pleasant slow speech that makes everybody think that the people of the islands are just as slow as they sound. Most of them find out too late.

'I suppose so, if you can believe a word of anything this old storyteller says, which none of us do, at all.'

I laughed along with Jimmy, and stuck up a round for the three of us. Both men had a taste for the dark malts, and I stuck to half pints.

' You're not a whisky man yourself'?' the major asked.

'No, I don't really like it. Just at weddings and funerals. That's my stretch.'

'Oh, it's a pity that. I wouldn't like to be drinking that stuff,' he said, indicating my beer, 'it's just like cold tea.'

The major was one of those slow-talking men who give an outward appearance of being placid, and maybe a bit soft.

But he was as hard as nails. I discovered he'd been to Oxford University, then Aldershot and then almost every trouble zone you care to mention. According to Jimmy he'd a list of decorations as long as your arm. Another thing I discovered later was that his rank was really brigadier, but he'd been in one of the special regiments which nobody really knows much about and was quite content with the rank everybody else seemed to think he had.

' I've been telling Nick he should think about writing a book about Arden,' Jimmy told him.

'Maybe he should at that,' the major mused. 'Then again, nobody would believe a word of it.'

'You mean the history?' I asked.

' Aye, the history. ' He nodded. 'It's as strange as anywhere. You know, my people came from here. I should have been born in Arden, but my father moved up to the islands when the fishing went bad, and that's where I was born. But I've always thought of this place as home. When they pensioned me off, this is where I wanted to stay. But as Jimmy will tell you, it's got a lot of history.'

' Donald's been helping me with the Gaelic,' Jimmy said. 'It's the one language I never picked up.'

'Aye, and it's a beautiful tongue. I'll be going up to the islands in a week or so in the boat. I've a nephew who's getting married, and you know what the weddings are like. Probably last most of the week, I shouldn't wonder.'

It must have been after midnight when the landlord - an Englishman, but none the worse for that - called time and we had to leave. We all went back to Jimmy's where he and the major polished off the bottle of malt the old man had broached before, and I had a beer.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning the major went home, walking steady as a rock despite what to me would have been enough to have my head down the toilet. I slept fully clothed on top of the spare bed and didn't dream. In the morning I had no hangover and felt good. Jimmy woke me with a cup of tea and toast which went down a treat. He looked worse for wear. He had coffee. Thick and black.

From the Kirkland Herald: 1906.

Mystery of Missing Trawler

Arden fishermen and the tugboat association from Greenock have discontinued their week-long search for the crew of the Herring Gull which went missing off Ardmhor Point last Tuesday.

The Herring Gull, a Clyde-built trawler, disappeared in thick fog while netting for herring in the firth with two other Arden boats, the Sea Spray and Otter, all three owned by the Arden Fishermen's Association.

The mystery of the Herring Gull 's disappearance is unexplained. The captains of both vessels maintained that the three boats were fishing in calm water only two miles out from the home harbour in an unseasonal, but welcome shoal, when the Herring Gull drifted into a fog-bank.

Such was the success of the catch that the absence of the Herring Gull was not noted by the other boats for more than an hour, and due to the calmness of the firth, the alarm was not raised until six hours later when the boat failed to arrive to unload in Arden.

Boatmen from north and south of the estuary have spent many hours dragging the coves around Ardhmor, but no trace of survivors or their boats have been found.

Association Chairman Mr Walter Wood, having taken advice from Sergeant Mclntyre of Levenford Station, has allowed his boats to discontinue the search.

Mr Wood said he was unable to explain the mystery. He told the Post: 'Captain Mellow and his crew have fished these waters for two decades without incident.

'I can only assume that their vessel became lost in the fog and drifted on the firth into open water. 1 have no doubt whatsoever that it will be recovered in due course. The absence of wreckage gives us all hope that the captain and the seven members of the crew are safe and well. '

The Clyde Pilot, Mr. J. Thomas, said that to his knowledge the I Herring Gull had neither been sighted, nor put into any of the western ports.

' And it never did show up,' Jimmy Allison said as he took the old newspaper clipping out of my hand. 'I heard an old story that months later they found bits and pieces of that boat all over the rock, far up from the high-tide line. But there was nothing in the papers about that. There was too much going on here by then.'

'So when is this supposed to have happened?'

' Not supposed. Did . In 1906, a vintage year for Arden. I was thinking about it last week when you were telling me about the sugar boat. I knew I remembered something similar.'

' It's hardly the same, though, is it? I mean, the Cassandra went down in a storm. Even then, it didn't sink, just rolled over on a sandbank. And half the crew were none the worse for wear except a couple of cracked skulls,' I said. 'For all we know, the crew of the fishing boat just took off for new fishing grounds. They were part of the Arden Association, weren't they?'

Jimmy nodded and I went on. 'So there was nothing to stop them taking off and starting somewhere else where they would get a full share of the catch.'

' That's true enough. But there would have been word of it. Some rumour even. But they weren't even sighted by anyone, and you know what a clannish lot those old fishermen were. Everybody knew everybody else's business from the Minch down to the Irish Sea.

'But that's not the point,' he continued. 'The point is that they went missing off Ardmhor, and they were never seen again. That boat from the Cassandra went missing off Ardmhor, and that hasn't been seen since, either.'

'But it's only been a week.'

' Come on, Nick,' Jimmy said, putting the clipping down on a substantial pile of papers and old notes. 'You know as well as I do that if a boat goes down anywhere on the firth there's always some trace. I mean, it's not the open sea with a clear run straight out into the Atlantic, is it? That boat disappeared. And I tell you it's gone for good.'

'What makes you think that?'

' Because it's too like the first time. Or even that might not have been the first time for all I know. But it's the same, and remember what I told you; it was 1906 and that was a bad year. The disappearance of the Herring Gull was just the first in a whole series of strange happenings in and around this town.'

'Like what?'

' I'll tell you like whatnext week, when I've got the whole lot looked out from this mess. Listen. I'll do a deal with you. If they don't find anything down at that rock by the weekend, which they won't, you can buy me another bottle of malt and read all the notes I've got.'

Somehow I knew he was going to win. On the following Sunday, I would have my nose buried in a mass of old and yellowing paper, culled from the old Post, the Herald and the big broadsheets from Glasgow.

But it wasn't just the fact that the boat from the Cassandra never turned up. Not a stick of the lifeboat was ever found. But there were one or two things that happened in the following days that made me think Jimmy Allison might have a point. I was just at the prologue to a story, and it wasn't any fairy story either. I was just at the 'once upon a time' stage, not really interested. It had to get to the big bad wolf bit before I would sit up and take a bit of notice.

I was slowly sinking into a dream, the kind of fuzzy dream that was going to take a little hitch somewhere along the line and the rules to get bent right out of shape before I was going to plunge down into a black nightmare. You know the kind of dream I mean, where things just begin to change a little and you keep right on because it's only a dream, and while things do look a little bit strange, it's not yet time to wake up because you can handle it.

So hey ho, on we go. At this stage, I didn't even know the story had started, but it had, and I was in it and even then things were beginning to take their sideways hitch out of true. But only Jimmy Allison knew more than me. He'd been around longer. He'd been places and seen things. And right soon, I was going to be seeing some things. And worse than I'd ever have believed.

I didn't give much of a thought to what had happened to the men on that old fishing boat that disappeared into the fog way back when my grandad was just a boy. Nor did I concern myself over much about the fate of the men from the lifeboat. At that time, it wasn't a mystery. A tragedy, maybe, in newspaper terms, and certainly a tragedy for the families of those men who were not coming back.

The reason I wasn't dwelling on that- and my agreement with Jimmy, was that on the afternoon that I'd read the old clipping, the sun came out from behind a cloud and beamed down on me.

Life took an upward flip and I was looking good, feeling fine.

And the reason for that was that I met a girl. Not any old girl. A very special one.

And in meeting her, all the prime characters were in place to get this story out of the prologue and into the main tract. In some ways it might have been better if I'd never met her, but I reckon it had to be. It was meantto happen.

She was standing at the side of the supermarket where the sun bounced off the yellow brick wall. Her arms were tanned brown and smooth and moving quickly as she threw the two rubber balls down to bounce them on the concrete and catch them on the upward rebound from the wall.

I could hear the rhythmic child jive chanted in time to the sound of the bouncing balls. I was passing by the girl and had edged away just enough to avoid getting in her way when she mis-caught one of the balls and it bounced high over her head. I was just in the right place to reach out and snatch it out of the air.

'Good catch, mister,' she said, in a high voice which had more than a hint of an East Coast American accent. She was maybe seven years old.

' No, it was a great catch,' I said, turning away from the sun which was right in my eyes, to look at her.

When I looked down, my heart gave a jolt, and suddenly I was a boy again. It was like walking into a time-warp, the kind of total recall so vivid that you can hear it and smell it.

Barbara Foster squinted up at me, the hand with the ball shielding her eyes from the glare, and the other one outstretched for its companion. She was standing hip-shot in the same pair of faded jeans and white tee-shirt, wearing the same big smile and those pretty freckles over her snub nose.

I had last seen her like that more than twenty years before, and there she was, ever the tomboy, my best pal in the whole world, and she'd stayed just the same.

' Barbara?' I blurted out without thinking. If I had thought, I would have known it was utterly impossible, but just seeing her had thrown me right off balance.

'No, I'm Paddy,' she said, smiling brightly. 'Can I get my ball back mister?'

I looked at the ball in my hand. It was just the same as the balls you could buy in the ironmongers for a few coins then. Soft and spongy, a good bouncer, just made for small agile hands to juggle. I squeezed it in my hand, feeling the familiar give.

' Please?' the girl said.

' Oh, sure, here,' I said, and handed it over. She reached up and grasped it and threw it up in the air in a quick juggling motion. I'd seen her do that before too, except it hadn't been this girl.

'You called me Barbara,' she said, still grinning.

'Well, you look very much like somebody I used to know. She was called Barbara,' I said, and smiled back at her. The resemblance, as they say in all books, good and bad, was uncanny.

'What did you say your name is?'

'Paddy. It's for Patricia, but I hate that. It's a cissie name.'

' Nothing wrong with Patricia,' I said, 'but Paddy's nice. It suits you.'

I bent down and extended my hand. 'I'm Nicholas. But I hate that. It's a cissie name too. I like Nick, but my friends call me Nicky.'

The little girl smiled. We had something in common. She transferred the ball into the other hand which now held two of the sixpenny bouncers and took mine, shaking it manfully.

' Pleased to meetcha, Nicky.'

I was still taken aback with her appearance. The resemblance was striking, and I was about to say something else when I heard a shout from behind one of the cars in the park.

' Paddy! Come here at once,' a woman's voice came loud and sharp. I heard the click, click of heels on the concrete and turned to see a tall, fair-haired woman striding towards me.

'What are you doing'?' she demanded, but she was looking at me, not the child. Her eyes were flashing.

' Nothing mommy. I was just saying hello.'

The mother threw me another stinker of a look, and right then I felt at a loss for words. I could see how it looked. A strange man talking to a little pretty girl behind the supermarket.

'What have you been told about speaking to strangers,' her mother said, grabbing her by the arm and preparing to haul her off.

' I'm sorry. It was my fault entirely,' I started to say.

' You bet, buster,' she said, and prepared to turn away.

'He called me Barbara, mommy. He said I looked like his friend.'

' I'll bet he did,' the woman said in a stage whisper that made me feel about two inches high. Then she stopped in mid-stride. 'He called you what?' she asked, and started to turn round, and in that moment everything fell right into place.

Barbara Foster, the real Barbara Foster, turned her blue eyes on me, the hostility battling with uncertainty. She stared at my face in that intent way of someone with a glimmer of recognition, trying to bring it into focus.

' I'm sorry Babs, it wasn't Paddy's fault. I made all the running. ' I grinned, and even as I did so I realised how stupid that would look. 'For a minute, I kind of thought she was you.'

' Do I know you?' Her eyes weren't so frosty now, but she wasn't yet ready to be nice to the stranger who'd buttonholed her daughter.

'His name's Nicholas, but he hates that,' the little girl piped up. 'His friends call him Nicky,' she said, matter-of-factly.

' Nicky.' A statement.

' Nicky Ryan,' I offered. 'I know it's been a long time, but I thought at least you would have remembered.'

'Nicky Ryan?' A question. Then: 'Nicky Ryan. Dear God, Nicky Ryan. I don't believe it.'

'The one and only,' I said. 'The original one and only.'

'Only the lonely one and only,' she said, and started to laugh, then stopped to think of what had come tripping off her tongue, our chant from way back then. She laughed again.

'It really is you, Nicky. Oh dear, it must be .... '

'At least twenty years,' I completed for her. She was still staring at my face, trying to see where the boy had gone.

'Well how are you?' I said, offering my hand, which she took with a cool, firm one of her own and shook warmly.

'Great, just great. You've changed.'

'Now there's a surprise. I was four feet tall the last time you saw me.'

' No, I mean, you're not how I thought you'd be. God, I can't believe meeting you after all these years. I didn't think you lived here any more.'

'I don't. Well, I do now. I mean I've just moved back again.'

'Me too. Last week.'

' That's a coincidence. So did I.'

I looked her over. She was tall and slim and well shaped, obviously a woman who kept herself Ht. Her honey-blonde hair fell in waves to her shoulders, and her deep blue eyes sparkled in a face that was heart-shaped with a well-chiselled nose and a strong, feminine chin.

' You've changed too,' I said, then looked at the girl. 'But she'sstill the same. She's exactly like you when you were her age. It gave me a jolt when I turned round the corner and saw her. I thought I'd gone back in time.'

'Well, I can't deny maternity there,' Barbara said, and ruffled her daughter's hair.

I stepped back for a real look, at both of them. Barbara had changed indeed, as could only be expected in two decades, but there was still something of the girl I knew - the third one-and-only - that brought a series of pictures right into my head, like fast-forward re-runs of old movies. The tomboy had evolved into a head-turner, and the new version was a clone of her mother.

We both started to say something, and stopped to allow the other verbal right of way. Barbara laughed and I said: 'Fancy a coffee?'

'Coffee would be just great. There are one or two things I've got to pick up, but they can wait. Is there somewhere around here that does anything decent'?'

'Your guess is as good as mine. Remember I'm the new boy here, but Mary Baker's tearoom is still going. Let's try there.'

It wasn't far along the main street and we walked in the sunshine, a little awkwardly asking questions of each other, framing them politely like two strangers, which in a sense we were. But there was a feeling of unreality about that because, despite the fact that Barbara and I had not set eyes on each other for more than twenty years, there was a feeling between us that's hard to explain. She and I and the other one-and-only had been as close as any three kids could be until something happened that blew it all apart.

In Mary Baker's back pantry, as the tearoom had been known since anybody could remember, the coffee was thick and strong, and the cream even thicker. Paddy ignored her mother's warnings over the sugar on the pastry, then Barbara ignored them too and demolished one in a few big bites.

' Mmm, they're delicious,' she said, or at least that's a fair translation of how it sounded through a mouthful of Danish pastry. 'I'll put on pounds,' she added when she had washed it down. 'I haven't tasted one of these since God knows when, and they're still exactly the same.' Over several cups of coffee, we exchanged bits and pieces of life history, while Paddy worked her way through a mountain of calories and listened intently to every word we said. .

' You're that Nick Ryan? I must have read about you a million times.'

'None other,' I said.

'The name never clicked. I mean I must have seen you on TV and all, but I never thought for a minute.'

'I wasn't looking my best,' I said. 'Anyway, what about you? What have you been up to for most of my life'?'

I discovered that Barbara had grown up near Boston, in between bouts of schooling in England which had helped merge the Scottish and English accents into a well-rounded, pleasant one. She had married at twenty, had had Paddy within a year and something went wrong with her tubes and she couldn't have any more - another one and only, she said, nodding in her daughter's direction. Her husband, a doctor called Hartford, had been killed in a car crash five years ago and when her father, who had been a surgeon at Levenford General, retired, and decided to come back to Arden, Barbara had followed him home.

' I felt it was the best thing for Paddy. I mean, Arden's a better place for a girl than anywhere in the States. It was okay for me growing up, but things have changed, and they're getting worse.'

'So what do you plan to do?' I asked.

' There's no rush. John's insurance - that's my husband - his insurance was pretty comprehensive, so everything's fine there. I was a qualified physiotherapist in the States, so I might go back to that if my papers are worth anything here.'

Barbara told me her father had bought back the old family house in Upper Arden and spent most of his time re-planning the extensive gardens. Barbara had spent the past week just settling into the old town. Paddy had fallen in love with the place immediately, and her mother felt she had made a good move.

Sitting in Mary Baker's tearoom brought back a whole stack of memories one after another, that just came slotting into place like records in an old juke-box. The way she looked, the way she turned her head, and even the way she sat would trigger off another far-off memory that would come zooming into focus like a delicious aftertaste. We stayed there for almost two hours, until we couldn't face another coffee, and Paddy had got past the stage of being interested in the pastries. Barbara said she would bring her daughter down to visit me, and I agreed I'd go up to Upper Arden and say hello to her father. He had never been that keen on me as a youngster, but I expected him to have mellowed. We parted in the car park, standing once again in the bright sunlight, and instead of shaking my hand Barbara gave me a feather soft kiss on the cheek.

As I walked away, I heard the little girl ask: 'What's a one and only?'

I was feeling warm and light after my chance meeting with Barbara. Sadly, that didn't last. While we'd been in the tearoom, an ambulance had shot past on the main street, siren wailing urgently. Just as I was heading towards the jeep, the town's police car screeched to a halt beside me. Murdo Morrison leaned out of the open window, his big face red and sweaty looking.

' Has that thing got a tow-bar?' he asked, pointing at my jeep.

I said that it had and Murdo just said: 'Right. Follow me. I need you.' He drove off and turned right at the car park entrance. I was puzzled, but I jumped in the jeep right away and the engine roared at the first turn of the key. I took off after him, along Main Street, heading west, and right on half-way to Milligs. We got to the end of the row of houses on Elm Street and Murdo, his blue light still flashing wanly in the bright sunlight, took a left down a single track. We had gone about a quarter of a mile when he stopped at a five-bar gate that gave on to a large pasture.

The ambulance was parked just outside the gate, and I could see why. At the corner, where two hedgerows met at right angles, the ground had been churned into mud by the cattle. From the tracks, I could see that the ambulance had tried to get through it and failed. Murdo leapt from his patrol car and swung open the gate, his trousers slick with mud up to the knees, and he jammed the heavy wooden spars against the hedge. He came dashing back, opened the passenger door and got in.

'Right through, Nick. It's Andy Gillon. He's under a tree, by God. He's in a terrible way, and the fire engine's been called out to Levenford.'

We ran across the field, scattering browsing cows to the corner where the dark green of reeds showed that the land was marshy.

The four-wheel drive took me through that as easily as it had gone through the mud at the gate, and as we neared the end of the field, I could see why they needed my jeep.

A big oak tree had toppled over and underneath it the heavy trunk, pinned into the mud, I could see a pair of boots twitching and jerking. I hauled the Subaru into a tight turn and Murdo and I got out. There were a couple of other men, one of them kneeling beside the farmhand who was caught under the deadfall, and an ambulance man was holding a distraught woman in the way that men do when they think that whatever the woman wants to see is something she had better not.

Andy Gillon was conscious when I got there, but he was stuck fast under a couple of tons of oak which had squashed him into the mud.

Further along the edge of the field, I saw his bright red tractor angled against the ground. It looked like the axle had snapped.

Murdo started bellowing orders and organised a team to rig the rope on to the jeep while he fixed up an ingenious lever and fulcrum of logs, wedging them under the fallen oak. He lashed the tow rope on to the biggest log and told me to take it away when he gave me the call. The other farmhands and the ambulance driver started putting their weight against their levers as I inched forward.

I had to hand it to Murdo. That big tree groaned and lifted, and coupled with the pull of my wheels and the leverage of the straining backs, it came up into the air, moved in an arc and crashed back to earth a clear six feet away. I stopped the engine and got out. The paramedic holding Andy Gillon's wife let her go and she came running over to where Doctor Brant was kneeling over the still twitching man.

Then she let out a scream like I'd never heard before. It started off high and went soaring upwards until it sounded like jet engine. Then it just cut out and the woman toppled straight back and fell on the marshy ground. She was out of it in a dead faint. When I got up to where the doctor knelt, I almost joined her.

Andy Gillon was still alive, still conscious then. But the look on his face showed that he knew it wasn't going to be long. He should have survived this. Maybe bruised and battered. Maybe a couple of cracked ribs or even a strained spine. That's what should have happened when that old oak had come crashing down and pinned him in the mud.

Except that where Andy Gillon had fallen, it wasn't just mud. He'd landed on to the only spot in that whole acre of marshy land where a rock had been dumped.

And Andy had come between the rock and the tree. When that old oak had rolled away, half of Andy Gillon's innards had come away with it. The rest of them were like mashed meat, like the drums of offal you see down at the slaughterhouse on a Tuesday afternoon.

There was nothing left of him from the navel to his groin. Nothing that hadn't been put through a blender and scraped all over the reeds he lay in. I was nearly sick, with horror and disgust. I could feel the coffee and pastries trying to make a bolt for it. Jesus, I wanted to make a bolt for it.

You know what it's like when you come across something that shocks you rigid. Everything seems to go in slow motion. I remember clearly looking down at Mrs Gillon, who was lying there in the marsh, all by herself, her eyes wide open but only showing the whites. Doc Brant turned away from the mess. His face had gone the colour of putty. Murdo Morrison's face was still red from exhaustion. He stood like a statue, then, strangely, for the good Presbyterian that he was, he brought his hand up and crossed himself like a devout Catholic.

A bunch of dung flies buzzed up in a cloud from a still-steaming cowpat, and half a field away a cow was lowing loudly. There was a buzzing in my ears that I think was just internal pressure. Like everything had been stretched way beyond its elasticity inside me. Then I looked down at Andy Gillon as he lay there, his head facing right up, and his legs still twitching in their boots although there was nothing much more than rags holding them on to the rest of him. His eyes locked on to mine, great wide, shock-filled, rimmed with watery blood that ran down each side of his face, and I looked into hell.

Andy Gillon's gaze held on to mine and didn't let go. We stared into each other's eyes, both of us in horror and fear. I didn't know, and I still don't know, how much pain he was in, but there was no mistaking that he knew what the score was. I could read it in his eyes. His chest was working up and down in short, quick motions. It rasped in his throat and the movement made little gurgling noises down where his belly had popped open and the glistening, torn ropes were pulsing out blood and bile and God knows what else. A white, jagged piece of bone, probably from his pelvis, shone whitely through the red at his hips. And between where his hipbones should have been there was nothing but a pulp.

The old oak trunk had been punctuated with bumps and burrs and one of them had been in the right place at the wrong time and had smashed everything that Andy Gillon had had between his legs into an obscenity.

The crushed man seemed to look at me for ever, his eyes staring right through me, right into the back of my head, as if there was something important, some meaning, something that would explain how he'd come to be lying with his guts draining into this field on a sunny day like today. His mouth was moving and there was a sound coming out along with the trickle of blood. I moved in close to where Doc Brant, the young resident at the Hermitage Cottage Hospital, knelt beside him. His face was grey.

The doctor pulled his bag closer towards him and snapped open the catch with a click and pulled out a little cylindrical bottle. He jammed it into a silver syringe which he adroitly jabbed right into a vein in the man's neck. The doctor looked sick.

I don't know what I expected from that injection, but it didn't work quickly enough for me. Andy Gillon was still conscious and as I hunched down closer to the doctor - I don't even know why I did that - I could hear the burbling whisper.

' Jumped.' The breath bubbled and rattled deep in his throat.

' Jumped on me. Tree jumped.' Like a hoarse, garbled litany. He was talking to me. His eyes were bright and shockingly sane.

'What did you give him?' I said to the doctor.

' Morphine.'

'Give him some more, will you?'

'I gave him a lot. It should be working now.'

But the dying man, who knew he was dying, still locked me with those terrible eyes that glittered in the sun.

' Please, doc,' I said, 'give him anything. Just put him out of this.'

The young man turned to me. There was a streak of bloodstained mud down the side of his face, and his expression was torture.

' I've given him enough. Do you understand'?

Andy Gillon still stared at me and still dribbled the words out along with the rest of the goo that was trickling out of both corners of his mouth.

' Tree. Jumped. Jumped .'

' It's not working,' I said, and grabbed the doctor's tweed lapel.

'Put him out of it, will you? Please?'

' There's nothing else I can do. Nothing.'

'Well I can,' I told him and got to my feet and scrambled to the bole of the tree where a tangle of broken branches was strewn. I dragged out a heavy bough about five feet long and strode back, squelching through the wet. I locked eyes with Andy Gillon again.

He was dying there in his field right in front of me. His insides were squashed into the mud and his eyes were on mine and he was asking me to do something. It was a plea I understood instinctively and I agreed. I hefted the heavy branch right up over my head and braced myself to swing it down with all my strength and Murdo Morrison reached up and yanked it right out of my hand. He shook his head slowly, then chucked my death-giver over the hedge.

Afterwards he never said a thing about it, and never charged me with attempted murder or anything like that. Then he just looked away, away from me, from the doctor, and the woman still out for a very long count, and away from the man whose life was packing up and moving out only two yards away.

I couldn't notlook. It was like a compulsion. I didn't even know the man. As far as I knew, I had never set eyes on him in my life before. But here I was, attending at his death, and he was looking at me as if I was the most important thing in his universe. He was holding on to me for that big crossover, and his litany was for me.

The mumbling stopped suddenly, and the man gave a grunt. He put his elbows down beside him and, still staring into my eyes, he levered himself up a few inches, his body making a slight sucking sound.

' Jumped. It . . . jumped .' Then a gout of thick blood mixed in with anything else he was going to say and he slumped back. The light went out of his eyes, and he was gone.

His dead eyes continued to stare at me for a long time until I turned away.

Murdo got the ambulance men over with their stretcher and one of them vomited quickly and efficiently into the reeds when he saw the mess, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and carried on. They covered the body with a grey blanket and put it on the green canvas of their stretcher while the doctor attended to the still-unconscious woman.

Murdo Morrison came over to me, still shaking his head. He was a big, tough man, but there was a glint of tears at the corner of his eyes.

' Terrible thing,' he said, shaking his head. 'Terrible.'

' I'm sorry about that, Murdo. I don't know why I did that. I think I .... '

'I know,' Murdo interrupted. 'I know what you mean. But it's best to leave these things to the medical men.' He clapped his big hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way.

' He said the tree jumped .'

'Oh, was that what it was?' Murdo turned round and looked at the bole of the old dead oak and the big roots which had ripped clear out of the ground. He and I looked back at where the old tractor was down on its haunches forty yards away. Through the grass you could see the still-flattened parallel lines where its big treads had run. And there was another line, the last passage of Andy Gillon where he had walked through the reeds towards the place where his life had been squashed out of him.

The mark followed a roughly straight, faint line, for the reeds were already beginning to straighten into their original positions, but you could make out his track, following the hedge, about twenty feet away from the hedge.

Murdo and I looked at each other, and back at the tracks. Then simultaneously we looked at the spot where Andy Gillon had been splattered.

The thick trunk must have been twenty feet long, knobbled and gnarled. Its outline was clearly imprinted on the soft marsh where it had fallen. The root-ball had pulled right out of the ground and lay about six feet from where it had been embedded when the tree was standing.

Murdo stared at that indentation for a long time, then he looked back at me.

' That's strange,' he said, through his teeth. 'That's very strange. And there's not a breath of wind.'

In my mind I could hear the dying man's mumbled chant. 'It jumped. The tree jumped .'

If it had just fallen over, some of the roots would still be embedded in the ground.

And what could make it move six feet from where it had grown?

There wasn't a breath of wind, as Murdo said. Not there. Not in that sunny field. But a cold breath went right through me, right into my bones. Murdo's face looked bleak.

And in Arden, a very bad summer began to happen.

6

Summer 1991

'That's what my mum says anyway,' the girl said, looking down from the fork in the sycamore tree. 'I'm her one and only. I'm special.'

'I can't see anything special about you. You've got freckles.'

'Well they're special freckles, ' the girl said, and stuck out her tongue.

'They're not freckles. They're the black spot,' a voice came from further up in the tree, the speaker hidden by the thick broad-leaved foliage.

'They are not spots,' the girl slung back.

'Not spots. The black spot. If you get one of them, you're dead. Pirates come and cut you up with cutlasses.'

'My mum says they 're freckles. They're a sign of beauty. '

'Beauty? Ha!' The boy at the bottom of he tree was busily carving his initials into the dark green bark on the shadow side of the tree. His tongue was sticking out on one side of his mouth as he worked carefully and intently.

'Anyway, I'm my mum's one and only,' the boy said as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. 'So you're not the only one.'

'Not the only one and only. Hey, that's poetry. ' From the fork in the tree high above, Nicky Ryan held on with both hands, arcing his body back and forward, making the leaves shimmer and shake. He let out a yell that was supposed to sound like Tarzan, but just sounded like a small boy yelling.

'Oh, stop that racket,' Barbara Foster said. She too sat in a fork, the place where a large, thick bough stuck out almost straight from the trunk. 'My dad'll hear you. '

'Oh, then there'll be big trouble. Heap big trouble,' Colin Blackwood said from below, still working his penknife into the bark.

'I'm not supposed to be just the one,' Nicky Ryan said. He was starting to climb down the tree, moving carefully. 'I mean, my mum was supposed to have more. But they died. Before they were born.'

'Miscarried,' the girl said, knowledgeably. 'That's what they call it when a baby dies before it's born. That's what my dad says. Mrs Bell had a miscarriage, and my dad says she should try for another one as soon as possible. I heard him telling my mum. '

'How do you try for another one?' Colin asked. 'I thought you just got them. '

Barbara started to laugh, a high-pitched peal of tinkly laughter that almost shook her off her perch.

'Don't be so daft. Where do you think they come from?'

'From heaven, of course. My mum says that's where all babies come from, and you get a guardian angel sent down to look after you. '

Barbara started quaking with laughter again. Up above, Nicky Ryan called down: 'What's so funny?'

'He thinks babies come from heaven.'

'Well, where do you think they come from? Colin wanted to know.

'Inside your mum's belly. That's where.'

'How do they get in there, then?'

'Your dad puts you in there, stupid.'

'Well, where did my dad get me from, smartypants?'

Nicky had reached Barbara 's forked seat. She rolled her eyes up in exasperation.

'It's sex. They have to do sex.'

'What the hell is sex? '

'Don't say hell. It's a bad word, my mum says,' Barbara scolded. 'Sex is like mating. '

'What like cows and bulls? '

'Something like that. It's all in one of my dad 's books. The man puts his penis into the woman's virginia. '

'What's a penis?' Colin asked.

'What's a virginia? ' Nicky said from beside her.

'Don't you boys know anything?'

Nicky looked blankly at her. She giggled. 'It's your thingy,' she said.

'My thingy? A virginia?'

'No, a penis. A woman's got a virginia. '

Nicky could feel himself beginning to blush in his ignorance. 'Why do they call it that?'

'It's just a name, stupid. The proper name.'

'Hey, why's it called a penis? ' Colin shouted up at the top of his voice.

'Ssh,' Barbara hissed down. 'My dad'll hear you and I'll get called in.'

'Well, why is it called that?'

'Because you pee with it,' Barbara said briskly.

'I don't believe all that, ' Colin said. 'My mum says I come from heaven.'

'Well, I wouldn't have been an only child if my mother hadn't whatchyacalled it. '

'Miscarried. '

'Right. She said they would have been boys. Big brothers. That would have been great. Huh? No getting duffed up by Fraser Ballantyne and Charlie Beaton. Great stuff'

'Well, we're all one-and-onlies, ' Colin said. 'The only one-and-onlies.' His voice broke out of speech into song: 'Only the lonelies, the one and the onlies,' badly imitating one that his mum had on a record.

'Oh shut up Collie,' Nick said, sliding down the trunk, his bumpers making little scrape marks on the thin covering of moss.

'Look. I've done my name,' Colin said proudly. 'That'll be there forever. '

'Nah, it's not deep enough. That'll grow over. You've got to go right through the bark.'

'It's all right. I'll betchya a pound it'll still be here next year.' "

'Right, you're on, sucker,' Nick licked his thumb and Colin did the same and they rubbed the spit together, sealing the bet.

'Hey, do you believe all that?' Colin asked.

'All what?'

'All that stuff about babies? '

'I dunno.'

'Do you think your dad would do that? '

Nick had never thought about it. He'd heard some of the older boys talking about that sort of thing, but they called it by another word. A word worse than hell, even worse than bloody and that was a no-pocket-money-for-a-week-my-lad word. In a small town like Arden, that sort of thing was only a playground rumour that nobody knew too much about. Everybody knew about cows and bulls. But they were animals.

He thought about it for a bit, trying to imagine the mechanics of it, and thought about the problem of getting it into a virginia, of which he had only a half-glimpsed impression gleaned from an infant at school who'd lifted her skirt and dropped her panties and wee'd behind the tree at the far end of the playground. Nick had done a double-take when he saw what was missing, and eventually came to the carefully thought-out conclusion that this was the big difference.

'No. I don 't think so.'

'Mine neither,' Colin said. 'Especially my mum. Even if she catches me scratching down there she gives me a clip round the ear.'

Babs came swinging lightly down from the lowest branch, the one that was smooth worn from the hands and feet that had been climbing it all summer and many summers before that. She wiped her forearm across her snub nose and grinned at them, standing at ease in her jeans with the big patch on the knee, her feet planted wide apart. Her hair was a short-cut, fair tangle, and her eyes sparkled from their welter of freckles.

'Well, it's true. That's how they do it. Everybody. Just you ask if you don 't believe me. '

'Not me,' Colin said. 'My mum would leather me. She doesn't like that kind of talk.'

'I've just had a thought,' Babs said. 'There's only three of us in the class. '

'What's that got to do with it?' Nick asked. He was just a week past his tenth birthday, small and lightly built, with straight brown hair that fell in a fringe over his eyes.

'I'm not talking about that, silly, ' Babs said. 'I mean, only children, there's only the three of us in our class. Everybody else has brothers and sisters. '

'Lucky us,' Colin said sincerely. 'Billy Kerr's got three big sisters and they 're always bossing him about. '

'I would have liked big brothers,' Nick said, thoughtfully.

'Sisters!' Colin stuck to his theme. 'Who needs sisters? They're just girls. All they want to do is dress up and play with stupid dolls. '

'I'm not stupid, stupid,' Babs rounded on him, and Colin took a step back.

'I didn't mean you, Babs, honestly,' Colin said earnestly. 'You're not a girl.'

Nick laughed out loud.

Colin 's face went red: 'Well, you are, but you're not like a girl.'

Barbara almost visibly swelled with pride at this.

'You're one of us,' Colin assured her.

'One of the one-and-onlies,' Nicky chipped in. 'The only one-and-onlies.'

'That's what we are. Who needs brothers and sisters?'

'Not me,' Colin said, stoutly.

'Nor me,' Nicky said, although he had always wondered what those missing big brothers - those miscarried big brothers - would have been like.

'And me neither,' Barbara concluded, grabbing their hands and placing them on top of hers.

'We're all special. '

7

From the Kirkland Herald.

Double Shooting Death

Mother and Son Killed

A mother and son died in a gun horror in an Arden farmhouse last night.

Mrs Margaret Henson and her 24-year-old son Edward, of Kilmalid Farm, were found dead in their living-room after a series of gunshots.

Farm worker James McGrath raised the alarm after finding the bodies in a pool of blood. Mrs Henson suffered shotgun wounds to the head. Her son had been shot in the chest.

The tragedy comes only a week after an accident at Kilmalid Farm when Mr Henson, who took over the running of the homestead five years ago, was badly injured by farm machinery.

Mr Henson had been rushed to Glasgow's Western Infirmary for emergency surgery after his hands were badly damaged by a cattle-feed mixer.

The young man had been allowed home on Friday morning to recuperate, while doctors waited for a series of tests to ascertain whether he would have the use of his hands again.

Police inquiries into the double tragedy are continuing, a spokesman told the Herald.

It didn't take a great deal of effort on anybody's part to read between the lines of the report on the front page of the local newspaper. The story even made the dailies, but just as another shooting. Here in Arden it was a story as big as, even bigger than, the shocking death of Andrew Gillon who farmed the neighbouring acres.

As the subsequent police and forensic examination showed, Mrs Henson, the farmer's widow, had got the old double-barrel twelve bore down from the rack, loaded in two hy-max shells, and given one of them to her son as he sat defenceless on an overstuffed armchair in their living room. One barrel for him, which blew out his chest and embroidered it into the chintz, and another for her, which she took

in the mouth, stretching down to get her thumb hooked over the trigger. It spread the crown of her head and all its contents on the ceiling plaster.

Her reasons were not too hard to figure out either. She was in a state of shock and grief over the tragedy that was all set to ruin her son's life.

History was repeating itself for Mrs Henson, and she'd decided to get in there quick and take the needle out of the groove. Maybe it was for the best.

The microsurgeons at the Western had done a wonderful job of getting Eddie Henson's hands firmly fixed on to the end of his arms. They'd hooked up blood vessels and muscle and ligament, but those hands were never going to do anything much more than lift a forkful of food to his mouth on a good day.

Nobody knows how Eddie Henson managed to get his hands stuck in the feed mixer. It wasn't even a mixer. It was an old Seagull outboard motor that he'd hooked on to a fifty-gallon oil drum in the byre. It worked just as well for mixing feed as it did in shoving his fourteen footer around the west bay fishing for dabs and cod. It did a good job on both, and it did a truly terrific job on his hands. The fact that he still had something resembling hands was a tribute to the miracles of modern microsurgery.

But they weren't hands that were ever going to work a farm, and his mother knew it.

Her sure knowledge was easy to understand too. For twenty three years she'd worked that farm by the sweat of her brow, scrimping and scraping and breaking her back and doing a man's work, while her husband sat at home, helpless to do otherwise.

For in 1981, the summer of 1981, Hugh Henson had tumbled off the back of his tractor when he was ploughing in the shaws of his early potatoes. Some said he'd fainted, nobody, not even him, knew exactly what had happened.

But everybody knew about his hands.

For whatever reason, Hugh Henson was lying on the field and the tractor was trundling on and the ploughshare went over his wrists and nearly cut his hands right off. The bones were smashed and the muscles torn to shreds. When Hugh Henson came round, he picked himself up and walked home, dangling his hands in front of him.

The doctors saved what they could which left him with twisted talons that had no feeling in them, and Hugh Henson was helpless for the rest of his life, which he chose to end five years before his wife ended hers, except he pressed the starter button with his elbow, and let the carbon monoxide build up. Up until then he was a broken, bitter, shell of a man.

Hugh Henson's young wife had given him a baby boy at the start of that year and she lived through it all, taking care of her son and doing everything for her husband until the boy was old enough to take some of the strain. She worked that farm as good as any man, everybody said, and it was a struggle. Then her husband had taken the easy way out after doing it the hard way for all those years and Maggie Henson had mourned her grief and was pleased for him that he'd gone and done it, and by this time her son was a strapping lad and an able farmer, well taught by his mother, who could work like a horse and make Kilmalid farm pay.

If ever a mother was proud of her son, it was Maggie Henson, the careworn and callous-handed old woman of forty five, bent before her time.

And when her boy had come back from the Western Infirmary, with his hands encased in two big plaster of Paris sleeves that were supported on metal stalks on his hips, forcing him to hold them out like a mildly boastful angler, she saw it all coming again, and nobody could expect her to take it.

Maggie Henson had watched her young husband become an old man, a shadow of himself. A victim of the bad summer of 1981. She was faced with the kind of decision no woman should have to make. At least not twice.

There was no way she was prepared to watch her big, smiling, willing son get like that.

She gave him the easy way out.

That bloody by-pass is going to kill me,' Alan Scott said, swilling his drink around in a stubby tumbler, 'just when I was getting it all together.'

'I'm not with you,' I said, taking a sip of cool lager. Out on the lawn, through the bay window, Alan's three kids, two girls and a boy, were playing a game of catch.

'The big opening's set for June seven. The next week, and from then on I'll lose the passing trade. All the traffic from Kirkland and the south will just go zooming past, missing Arden altogether. '

'But you'll still get plenty of people coming through.'

'Maybe in the summer, but they won't be wanting petrol. At least not enough to keep my forecourt going. And nobody is going to bother using the coast road when they've got three lanes each way and only twenty minutes to Glasgow.'

He paused and looked out of the window. The meal had been large and satisfying. Alan was on his fourth Scotch after several glasses of wine.

'It's these Ministry of Defence bastards,' he said, and Janet, his wife, a pretty brown-haired and slightly built woman, frowned at him but said nothing.

'Yes, they call it the Trident Road, don't they?'

'Not just content with killing us all with the bloody A-bomb,' Alan said, 'but they're strangling us in Arden too. And for what? Huh? Just so the Yanks can feel a bit safer knowing we're going to get hit first?'

Feeling was running high all through Arden, and indeed the whole district, about the Trident base which was being built into the solid granite of the Kilcreggan peninsula at a cost which would have bought a couple of British colonies back, or settled the national debt with a handshake. Billions of pounds sterling were being poured into the area which was set to become the major ballistic missile centre in Western Europe. So guess who was going to get struck first in a first strike?

The local and daily papers had shown graphic artists' impressions of where the fall-out would go, and where the footprint of a ground strike would be, and at what radius the flash would kill unprotected humans, and where the firestorm would burn everything up. Pictures of gloom and doom.

In the event, you could forget Kirkland, and Arden and Levenford, and even Glasgow. And the Kilcreggan peninsula, a long narrow neck of land that poked down into the estuary, would go the way of Krakatoa. Straight down.

Oh, there had been local and national protests. The local Council had declared themselves a nuclear-free zone, and that did a whole pile of good. They wore badges at meetings and joined marches.

But in this neck of the woods, nobody beats the Ministry of Defence. Naturally they don't want the first strike to be anywhere near them. That's why all the silos and dumps are way out in the backwoods, rolling hills and blue lochs, little realising that there are enough highly unstable transuranic elements stored under them thar hills to wipe the breathtaking scenery off the face of the map.

OK, enough of the political lecture. But I'm an Arden man, going back dozens of generations - at least on my mother's side - and no matter how far I've wandered, there's no place like home, even if there are some pretty strange things going on at the time I'm talking about.

The new by-pass was going to hurt Alan Scott. Arden was going to do him damage. There he was, having pulled his old dad's business out of the dirt and oil puddles and into the black in a big way for a small place like this, and it looked like hard times were on the way. He was right. Nobody was going to bother with the Kilcreggan Road that wound along the firth shore when they had a fast smooth dual carriageway to zip them past. Everybody knew the road was needed for the vast construction job that would be going on over the next seven years, and then it would be ideal for getting those big ominous trailers with the big ominous pointy things covered in tarpaulin, and even sheet steel, sitting on their backs, into the new base. But it was a road, and the quickest way between two points was a straight line and the quickest way was not through Arden.

'What do you plan to do?' I asked.

'I'm thinking about moving. Just when I've got it going right.'

'What, closer to Glasgow'?'

He nodded. 'Harry Watkinson's place in Levenford would be just right. I'm told he'll be retiring in a couple of years, so maybe I can buy him out.'

'And still live here'?'

'If I can. I love this place. I've always wanted to stay up on this hill ever since we were boys. It meant everything to me, and now I've got here, I don't want to move.'

He took a swig of his drink, and I saw his wife look at him again, one of those quick woman's looks which let you know you're doing something she'd rather you didn't, which, in Alan's case, was doing any more drinking. But he wasn't drunk.

'The problem is, if it's going to get as bad as I think it might, then there might be no option. The mortgage I've got on this place would buckle your knees, I swear to God.'

The look he got then told me Janet didn't like blasphemy either, but Alan didn't notice it, or chose to ignore it.

'I'm sure it won't get as bad as that. You've got all the summer sailors, plus the people in town, and you've got the franchises as well,' Janet said, obviously in a bid to shake his gloom.

'We're luckier than most, I'll grant you, dear,' Alan said. 'But we need everything that's going, especially the petrol, and I've got to hold on to the car sales too.'

'Yes, dear,' Janet said, more soothingly. 'But I'm sure it will be

all right. And if not, I don't mind moving. I really don't. The children are young enough to fit in anywhere.'

'I just hope it won't come to that, love,' he said, and smiled across at her. She was an artful woman who knew her man. 'I'm sure you're right.'

But I knew he wasn't sure, and he knew it too. And if I'm any judge of character, Janet Scott was also aware.

'Terrible thing down at the farm,' Alan said, changing the subject.

'Which one?'

'The shooting. Damned tragedy. That young Henson was a nice boy. His mother was a bit of a battleaxe though. Dad and I used to fix her machinery for her and she knew just about as much as we did, down to the last nut and bolt. I swear she could tell to the penny exactly what any job was going to cost, right down to the ten per cent cash discount.'

'She must have been some woman,' I said. 'Ran the farm on her own after her husband got mangled.' From the corner of my eye, I could see Janet give a brief shudder.

'Poor woman,' she said. 'Imagine that happening twice. Father and son. No wonder she went crazy.'

'The other one was pretty gruesome, I understand.' Alan said.

'Yes, it was. I was there.

'I heard that. Must have been rough.'

'Frankly it was terrible. I had a hard time getting to sleep afterwards.'

In fact, getting to sleep was almost impossible for the first couple of nights after Andy Gillon got squashed. I kept seeing his face in those patterns on the wallpaper, and in the small hours of the night, when I'd be tossing and turning and trying to get below the consciousness threshold, I'd hear his voice.

'The tree jumped. Jumped.'

I kept seeing those eyes staring at me out of the walls. Pleading with me to do something to get him out of there. As I said, it was hard to sleep with that.

'It must have been awful. That poor woman, seeing him crushed like that.'

'Damned strange thing to happen,' Alan said. 'Weird.'

I nodded. I didn't really want to talk about it, but I didn't have to, for the short pause of silence was broken by the roar of a motorbike outside. Alan stood up and looked out of the window, and I joined him. Up the gravel path at a fast clip came a big shiny silver Honda, roaring up the gravel bend, with a black figure astride it.

The bike's engine revved and I could see the rider twisting the handle, feeding more juice into the four big cylinders. The machine came to an abrupt sideways halt, spraying the smooth stones in a shower. The children had stopped playing catch and were racing towards the black figure on the bike. The sun glinted on the smooth dome of his helmet.

'Who the hell's that?' I asked.

Alan chuckled. 'Gospel Rock.'

'Huh?'

'The piston-driven priest. He's one of the lecturers up at the seminary. He's bike mad. Thinks he's a caped crusader or something. Always getting me to fix new bits on to that bloody bike of his. Nice enough, though. You'll like him.'

Father Gerald O'Connor was a tall, slim young man with dark eyes and black Irish hair that went down a treat with his all-black leathers, and, as I discovered, his priestly clothes as well. He had a ready smile and a fund of jokes that would shock the sailors down at the Chandler's bar, but he had an Irish charm that he used like a spanner to screw funds out of every women's group in the area.

'Meet heaven's angel,' was how Alan introduced him to me. 'Father, meet my old school friend, Nick Ryan.'

The young priest flashed an easy grin as he leaned forward to shake my hand.

'Nice to meet you, Nick,' he said as he started to unzip the tight leather jacket. Street priest, I thought, taking in his longish hair and the open-necked shirt. Probably a medallion down there, rather than a medal.

'So you were in school with the mechanical wizard? He's worked miracles with my machine,' he said. Outside, Alan's brood were all sitting astraddle the parked Honda. 'It's running like a dream. I had it at a hundred and twenty up on the new road. Terrific?

'And illegal,' Alan said.

'Only when it's open to traffic.'

'And it's the traffic that's on it which bothers us all,' Alan said sourly. 'Megatons of instant death back and forth, and meanwhile a slow death for anybody with a business in Arden.'

'I know the problems, Alan,' Father Gerald said. 'But my quick run on my bike isn't going to make it any worse. Anyway, there's little we can do about it now except pray. It's a pity you're not one of my bunch, you know. We could do a quick service right here and now. Father Gerry's fast faith service. Spiels on wheels.'

Janet giggled, and even Alan had to smile at the young priest's quick-fire.

'You'd make a terrific car salesman, Gerry, honest to God. Here, what'll you have'?' Alan asked, indicating his well-stocked bar.

'Never touch a drop before morning prayers. A whisky'll be fine. Not too much water in it either.'

Alan poured and the priest accepted the glass and sipped.

'Nice stuff. There must be something to the car trade if you can afford this kind of thing. Either that or I'm on the wrong side.'

'I don't think anybody knows what side you're on, Gerry,' Janet Said. 'You go about looking like a rocker on that bike, and you spend all your time with those drug addicts. Old father Maguire would turn in his grave.'

'Just as well he's in the dear arms o' Jasus,' the priest said putting on the blarney. Janet shot him a mock frown of disapproval.

'He'd never have understood progress. I've been mad about bikes since I was knee high, and I've been ordered to work with our mainlining brethren, which in any case is fascinating work. When I start shooting up myself, old father Maguire can start spinning.'

'Gerry works up at the drug rehabilitation place in Kirkland,' Alan said.

'I didn't even know there was one. I never thought there was a drug problem here.'

'There isn't,' the priest came in. 'At least not yet. The people at Shandon House are from all over, but mostly from Glasgow. They're brought down here to get away from their normal environment. We've done some good.'

'In between times he breaks all the women's hearts in town, tries to break his neck on that machine, and must have broken every rule in the book at the seminary,' Alan said.

'I'm not as bad as I'm painted,' the priest said with a smile that was supposed to make you think that he really was. 'Just because I wear the collar doesn't mean I can't have any fun. Anyway, they've decided I'm not Satan in disguise. They think I'm just a hyperactive kid, so they've decided to make me work for my money.'

He finished off the small whisky and smacked his lips appreciatively, as he set the glass down on a small table by the window.

'That's what I've come to see you about,' he said. 'They've put me in charge of the parade for the harvest festival. I'm hoping you'll give me a hand with the transport.'

'No problem,' Alan told him. 'I'll get the truck cleaned up like last year.'

'I'll need a driver too.'

'What day is it?'

'The thirteenth'

'OK, I'll have to drive it myself.'

While they were talking, my thoughts flew back to the harvest festivals we'd had in Arden years ago. I hadn't really thought about them in years, but they were great fun, and no matter how I tried, I couldn't remember one when the sun hadn't been splitting the sky.

It was the one day in the year when the whole town was together, the folk from Milligs rubbing shoulders with the rich of Upper Arden. The priests and the ministers getting together, no doubt over glasses of altar wine. A harvest festival isn't common in Scotland, mainly because the harvest isn't much to speak of in most places unless you count sheep flocks.

But in Arden we've had the big day for centuries, maybe even millennia.

Oh, I don't doubt that the format has changed a bit since they sacrificed blood and corn in the ringstones up on Cardross Hill, but it's always been a day for fun and games and feasting. In recent times, and when I say that I mean as far as written records go back (and that's just a blink of the eye by comparison with real history), the festival has been organised by the seminary, the priory, whichever name it had down the centuries.

As I said, the seminary held its unique place in the harvest festival. In times gone by no doubt the self-sufficient monks, who owned most of the land around here, supplied the produce and kept that loyalty they couldn't gain from the fear of God through the barter system. Today, the seminary is still self-sufficient. They've got fields of corn and potato, a watermill for grinding corn, sheep, pigs, bees and whatever, plus an orchard where they grow just about every fruit, as every kid in town knows.

At the harvest festival, most of the food is supplied by the seminary and padded out by donations from the shopkeepers and smallholders and the farmers who still get their corn ground at the mill. Everybody is supposed to give something, then they all try to get it back again in one afternoon's binge. It's tradition.

Alan agreed to give over his truck and drive it himself and the priest seemed delighted to have that off his hands. He shook hands all round before he went and insisted I must come up and see him sometime. Outside, he ruffled the kids' hair and reached into a pocket of his leathers and brought out a bag of sweets. He dished them around before swinging a leg over his big machine and taking off with a roar and a crunch of gravel on the bend.

'Decent chap,' Alan ventured.

'Works on his image,' I said.

'Don't let that fool you. He might be young, but they rate him at the seminary. He's got about half a dozen degrees in things I've never even heard of and he speaks a handful of languages. And he's as rich as sin too. His father owns a string of bars in Glasgow, but despite that he's really pretty down to earth. He does a lot of work for the kids here.'

Dinner at Alan's place was hearty and as noisy as the kids could make it. Janet laid on a fine roast with new potatoes in their jackets and a stack of greens fresh from their garden. Alan didn't say any more about the by-pass and he didn't drink any more either.

I reckoned he'd just been on a downer, and from the way Janet had looked at him I thought that might be a regular occurrence. He'd worked himself hard to get out of the poor side of town and up here on the hill, and that ten-mile stretch of shiny new blacktop was getting set to shove him back down again. When they finished the road that would sweep past Arden, the town would become yet another sleepy hollow, sacrificed in the name of progress and megaton capability.

Oh it would be great for the summer tourists and the yachting set, but for a thriving business like Alan's it meant the difference between staying afloat and going under.

At dinner, though, we talked about the old days, school and such-like. It was nice and easy. I had a good time and when it came to the bit when I had to go back down the hill again I meant it when I pecked Janet on the cheek under the proud gaze of her husband and promised I'd be back again for more of the same.

The walk of half a mile or so down to Westbay helped ease the strain on my belt that the dinner had caused. It was a mild evening at the end of July and the sun was throwing pink off the edges of the high clouds giving the promise of mellow days to come. I sauntered down the tree-shaded roads listening to the evening chatter of chaffinches and starlings in the branches overhead and the screeching of swifts as they tumbled through the evening air.

Back at the house I tried to write a few ideas, but my mind still couldn't focus.

I gave up in disgust and went to bed early. I needn't have bothered. In the early hours I woke up drenched with sweat and hauling for breath.

I'd been in the cave where things crawled out of the stone and where dead men were still alive and their screams echoed through my mind.

I was propelled by some invisible and malignant force towards the pit in the middle of the cave where something waited for me, its hunger boiling out of the hole like a festering disease. I saw it rise a pit that went down into darkness and felt its mind probing for mine and I knew that if it locked to me and I would be swallowed up and become one of those screaming dead men.

The thing turned, and I saw its eyes, pale yellow in the dark. They had no pupils but I could sense them focus on me, pinning me down. I couldn't stop myself from being dragged on unwilling feet towards it.

The dream broke up in fragments when I was thrown out of sleep again. It took me hours before I could relax enough to get some fitful slumber before the dawn.

8

On the east side of Arden harbour there's a shore path that winds its way round the rocks and shingle and past the beech trees that form a windbreak for most of Westbay. Further along the path there's some rough grass near the point that juts out into the firth and on that flat area there's a big standing stone of smooth basalt.

It's been pounded by the wind and the salt spray and, on the south-west side that takes the brunt, the stone is almost as smooth as glass. It's said to be about five thousand years old. It looks as if it has been standing there pointing at the sky since the beginning of time. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been down this way.

Years at least.

It was a couple of days after the dinner with Alan and his family, and since then I'd tried to write with the usual lack of success and that was sapping my confidence. I'd visited Jimmy Allison and he'd handed me a cardboard box filled with papers and books and demanded that I have a good look through them if I was short of ideas. I hadn't got around to them yet, although I did later, and I'll tell you about that further on.

I'd called Barbara Foster - I should say Hartford, but I won't because she'll always be Foster to me - and arranged for a picnic the following day with her look-alike daughter. For some reason, I felt elated about that. I know it sounds like something out of a romantic novel, but I'd found myself thinking about Babs in a way I had never thought about her before, which is hardly surprising since I was only ten at the time.

I stood with my back to the ancient mass of the monolith, thinking about when I'd seen Babs' daughter in the car park.

Today the sky was just as clear and I had to narrow my eyes against the glare of reflection spearing up from the estuary. From where I stood, I could see for miles. Due west the firth disappeared in a heat haze down past where it took its dog leg for the open sea. Closer in, the bulk of the Cassandra, lying on its side out on the sandbank, was like a great beached whale, black and dead in the clear blue.

To the east there was the curved sand shore pushing out from the marsh of Ardmhor bay, then a line of silver where Strowan's Well flowed down its runnel to the bay. Beyond that, the massive bulk of Ardmhor stood like some castle in Tolkien.

Even on that clear, sunny day it looked dark and ponderous. Foreboding. I know that sounds melodramatic, but that's the way it looked. I stood there, looking at the rock and remembering the scare I'd got on the night the Cassandra went down, and my thoughts seemed to get on a weird track. I started thinking about things that had happened since I'd come back to Arden. The two dead farmers, the night on the rock, my bad dreams and my inability to put one word after another for my book.

That dark mass drew my eyes and held them. Ardmhor Rock. It was just a rock: some said it was a volcanic plug and I guess that was so, since most of it was pure basalt spewed up from the bowels of the earth long before the dinosaurs. That core of magma had cooled and solidified before continental drift had swept Arden and the rest of Scotland out of the tropics and into the ice ages, and then the tower of stone that had been born in the heat at the core of the earth started the long battle with the wind and the rain and the rivers of ice that whittled and rubbed and wore it down to a fraction of its former splendour.

Still, it was an impressive piece of the earth's handiwork, for successive rivers of ice and storms and tides had tried to wipe it from the face of the earth and failed. Ardmhor stood like a Colossus right on the highland fault line where the old red sandstone was heaved up and folded into mountain. Even the tremendous forces that had raised Ben Lomond and the Western Highlands had so far been unsuccessful in shifting the rock.

I stood with my back to the standing stone, staring out across the bay. Some gannets were wheeling in the air over the deep water, stalling on the air and sweeping their wings back to plunge like arrows into the firth. Their shrill cries carried the distance.

A hand grasped the sleeve of my windcheater and I leapt about six feet into the air. I turned and saw an old woman. Tall, lean and weatherbeaten with startling blue eyes and greying hair. Her hand still gripped my sleeve.

'Jeesus,' I gasped. 'You nearly gave me a heart attack.'

'You've come back,' she stated, staring right into my eyes. I was still trying to catch my breath and my heart was still doing a drum riff on my ribs. She kept holding on and kept staring.

'I knew you would come back.'

Somewhere in the depths of my memory the old woman's face came back to me. Kitty or Katy something. MacPhee? MacPherson? One of the tinker folk who scoured the foreshores and stayed in corrugated shacks all along the west coast. Displaced crofters from the bad old days of the highland clearances, descendants of outlaws from the time of Rob Roy Macgregor.

The old woman had lived in her ancient cottage on the point since anyone could remember. As kids we were a bit scared of her tongue which would clip a good going hedge on any day of the week. She seemed ancient then. How old must she be now?

The old woman's eyes held mine for a long time.

'Ach, I've scared the living daylights out of you, Mr Nicholas Ryan,' she said, and let out a huge laugh. 'And here I was thinking all the travelling would have taught you a thing or two about surprises.'

She let go the sleeve and looked me up and down, like a farmer's wife checking out the stock.

'You've grown big enough,' she said appraisingly, 'though it's not surprising, the height your mother's father was.'

'You knew my grandfather?'

'Yes, I knew Nick Westwood. Sure, I knew his father too.'

That was hard to believe. My grandfather had died well into his seventies, close on eighty. She must have noticed my mental calculations and laughed again disparagingly.

'I'm eighty three years old, if you must know,' she said. There was a twinkle in those piercing blue eyes that were set in a leathery skin and surrounded by a fine corona of wrinkles.

'And I'm exactly fifty years older than yourself,' she said with a matter-of-fact nod. The old woman swivelled, a bit awkwardly, giving me a look at her profile. She had a strong nose, almost hooked, but finely chiselled, and a good jaw and high cheekbones. Old Celtic stock.

Despite the years, I could tell she had been a stunner in her day. She moved away from me, and I saw what had made her turn awkwardly. Her right leg was bound in a splint that locked her ankle, calf and thigh in a rigid line. Her armpit clamped the seat of a crutch that looked home-made and was tightly whipped with baling twine.

Over her shoulder, as she retreated with a hopping limp towards her hut, she called: 'The kettle's boiled. You'll have a cup of tea.' Curious, I followed.

Her cottage - more like a hut and patched here and there with driftwood - was a scrupulously clean beachcomber's den filled with odd bits of furniture, some of which had been made from the same stuff that had been thrown up on the flood tides, and it was crammed to the ceiling with pots and pans and dried plants. There were odd- shaped pieces of polished driftwood, and smooth stones of different hue from the shore. On a brick and iron hearth, a big, black kettle steamed enthusiastically. In minutes the old woman had made two cups of strong tea.

She gestured me to sit down and lowered herself gingerly into a similar but unmatched chair, easing her rigid leg out in front of her under a rough-hewn table. The tea was good.

'Midsummer's day in the year nineteen thirty,' she said abruptly after taking a sip of her brew. 'That's when I was born. And you came half a century later on the same day. June the twenty first, nineteen eighty'.

'How do you know that?' I asked, feeling a bit stupid as I did.

'Don't ask how I know. It's what I know that is the most important. I am Catriona O'Connor MacBeatha. And my people have lived on this land since forever.'

She nodded her head over the enamel mug and across the cropped grass to the standing stone.

'My people put that there as their marker.'

There was something in the way she came out with that astounding statement that just made it seem believable.

'There's a lot I know about you. Maybe even more than you know your own self. And some things I've got to tell you too.'

She stopped and looked out of the open door, way out across the bay. 'There's things I've got to say. I knew you would be coming down here, you know.' Kate MacBeth looked up sharply. 'And before you think I'm an old widow woman just talking for the sake of it, I'm not saying I know everything. But I reckoned you would come down to the point sooner or later. We've got a lot in common, you and me.'

She drank some of her tea. 'Them at the town, they think I'm a witch, or maybe just a mad old fool. Ha. They don't know. They know I've been here a long time. But they don't know I've been away, just like you. And I had to come back, because I'm the last, you know. The last of the long line of the O'Connors and the MacBeths.

'And I'll tell you something else, young Nicky Ryan. On your mother's side you've the same blood in your veins as I have in mine. That's how I know about you.'

'You mean we're related?' I asked.

She nodded, again matter of factly. 'Yes, but I'll tell you about that later on. It goes back long before my time. Long back. I know you were conceived on the night of the equinox in forty nine. I know that because I knew your lovely mother. What's more, the other two were special too. All born or conceived at the midsummer or on half-night day.

'You all were special.' She looked at me over the mug of tea with a half smile. Inviting the question.

'Who were special?'

'You all were. The three of you. And you still are,' she said.

Then she paused and looked down into the cup, frowning a little.

'This place is going to need you again, and soon.'

'I'm not sure I know what you are talking about,' I said. In fact I hadn't a clue. 'You will, Master Nick. There's a lot I could tell you, and there's some I will tell you, if you've a mind to listen. It won't matter anyhow, because the time is surely coming when you'll be needed again, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.'

Again she stopped and frowned into the dregs of her tea. Mine was almost done, barely a half inch of the thick, hot liquid swirling at the bottom of the mug. I wondered what the hell I was doing here in a tumbledown cottage down at the foreshore listening to an old lady rambling on about God knows what. I suppose in my line of business I've got along fine because I've always had that ability just to sit and listen. It was doing no harm anyway, I suppose, and if it wasn't achieving anything, it was probably less frustrating than sitting over a barren laptop.

'You won the last time, you know,' she said at last. 'When I found you under the rocks. Whatever you did, you sent it away, and it has stayed away for these twenty years and more. But it's stirring now. I can feel it. And there's going to be worse than just a handful of people buried on the hill.'

Her voice was soft, but strong. There was no sign of the quaver that old women develop.

'Ah, there's madness coming, I can smell it in the air. And the walls no longer can hold it back. It comes like the tide and my time here is not long enough.'

'What's coming, Miss MacBeth?' I asked.

'I am Catriona O'Connor MacBeatha, of the Connors of the west and the Sons of Life - if you know your Gaelic, young Ryan, as you should. You can call me Kitty like everybody else did, before I became an old hag,' she said, with a laugh, her eyes dancing in my direction.

'I'll tell you what's coming. I'll tell you in a little while, when you start to believe and when you start to remember. I'll help your memory, boy, because it's there.' She raised up a hand and lightly touched her finger to my temple.

As soon as she touched me I jumped, almost spilling the dregs of the tea on my jeans. It felt like the crackle of electricity along the side of my scalp, and a tingle went right down my spine.

She laughed again. 'That's the touch of Kitty the Witch, so they'd say. But it's not. It's in you my boy, and the others too. You should listen to what that old wanderer Seumas Allison tells you. He knows more than most and less than he ought.'

'Jimmy Allison?'

'The same. You pay heed to him, for he's a fine man with a good head on those strong old shoulders. Ah, he was a fine lad in his day.'

'He's given me some of his papers. He's been doing a history of the town.'

'That I know. And where his history stops, mine goes much further back, and I'll fill in all the spaces for you.'

'I'm still not sure what you're talking about.'

'The Bad Summer. That's what I'm talking about. Like the summer of nineteen hundred and six, and the others. Like the one that started in ninety one, when you were ten, and stopped sudden the night your grandfather and myself pulled the three of you from the rocks.'

She held up a hand to forestall my next question.

'No. Listen. You think Seumas is just an old man with an old man's night chill. He doesn't know the half of it. My history of Arden goes back to the start, when the land was low after the ice, when the people of the west came in their curraghs and mixed their blood with the Sons of Life.

'It was then that they joined together to battle the hordes that flowed in from the south and the east and forced them to the shore between the Langcraigs and the rock. It was there that they fought a terrible battle, but there were too few of them. When they drew themselves into the shadow of the rock, the shamans of the tribes made a ritual on midsummer night and brought to life the Cu Saeng, the dweller under the roots.

The blood they spilled and the words they sang caused the rock to split and from under it came the Cu Saeng and it brought madness to this place. But it fell on the hordes and massacred them all.

'But when they awakened from their madness, what was left of the people and their shamans realised that they might have been better to die in battle, because the Cu Saeng they had raised could not be sent back. There were many more deaths as the demon wreaked its havoc.'

As I listened to the old woman's voice as she told her tale, almost in a sing-song lilt, I couldn't help but be captivated.

This was one legend I had never heard of. I hadn't even heard the phrase 'Bad Summer' until Jimmy Allison had mentioned it a few weeks back, and to tell the truth, I hadn't yet bothered to look through the stack of notebooks and papers he'd dumped on me. The old lady was spinning a good tale, the kind of thing you would expect from the old gypsies. However, I didn't believe a word of it.

So you can imagine how startled I was when she stopped her monologue and said: 'I know you don't believe a word of it. It couldn't be otherwise. But you will, in time, so do an old woman a favour and listen a while.'

I nodded and gulped the last of my tea to cover a twinge of embarrassment, like a little boy who's been caught cursing by his mother. Kitty stood up, still staring at me, limped across to her old iron stove and started to make another pot of tea. When she'd poured two more cups, she brought them back to the table and put one down in front of me. I thanked her and she started talking as if she'd never stopped.

'They tried to send it back to where it belonged but they had no power left, so they used another ritual that served as a cage for the thing, hoping that when they were strong enough they could gather sufficient power to send it from the earth. They used a sacrifice and other words of force that made the Cu Saeng sleep long, and then they ringed it around on the rock with the walls to bind it.

'There were four walls that they made as barriers to form the cage. To build the first, they had to dig a channel from Cardross Hill where the clear spring rose from the foot of a rowan tree, because the rowan had the most power. They called it the Water of the Rowan, but you know it as Strowan's Well. The stream came down the hill where they split it in two, one to the east and the other to the west, and both flowing into the Clutha - the Clyde firth.

'They built another wall, this time of the red sandstone from Langcraigs, that went parallel to the streams. And then another fence, a living one of hawthorn, which they planted one footspace one from the other to tangle together and bind each other.

'And the third wall was a ring of the bones of the dead heroes that had died in the great battle. They buried them in a line, with the heads removed from the bodies and all facing into the rock.'

Kitty looked at me with a half smile. 'That was that. They trapped that beast they'd summoned up from the far side, with spells and chants and their four walls. A wall of water, wall of stone, a wall of wood and a wall of bone.'

'And it worked. It worked so well that the sons of the sons of the men who wrought the spell let it lie, and they forgot, and the ravener passed out of their minds and into stories.

'You think I'm just weaving a story. Well, so did they, the ones who came after. For the Cu Saeng slept for five hundred years and more, and when it awoke it found itself trapped and it raged. And it sent out its mind like grasping fingers to those who lived too close to it and caused them evil dreams and made them fall over the edge of madness. But though it fed, it could not get out, and when it was spent it went back to sleep again.

'But then, the walls were forgotten, and some of them crumbled because there were none who thought to tend them. And when the wall of stone was breached by the newcomers - the Roman legion - it rose again, stronger than the last time, and it was able to reach out further and further. Since that time, the children of the Connor and the MacBeatha put a watcher on the shore, to ensure that the walls remain, at least one of them, to hold the thing until they come who can destroy the Cu Saeng for ever in this earth and send it back.'

I looked up to see the old woman staring right into my eyes with such intensity I thought she was about to strike me. The piercing gaze was strong enough to be felt.

'I tell you now, Nicholas Ryan, that time is coming soon. You and they are the ones. You have to watch the walls, for the Cu Saeng is awake and it will send out its power to those who will break open its cage. It almost succeeded last time, and you beat it for a time. Yes. You and the others, although you don't know it now, defeated Cu Saeng and sent it back into the rock. But it stirs now, and a bad time is coming. A bad time.'

I was riveted. The old woman actually believed every word of what she was saying, just like Jimmy Allison had when he tried to tell me about the Bad Summers.

Kitty stared at me long and hard, then she reached over quickly and grabbed the teacup from my hand, a startlingly quick movement that took me by surprise. She swirled it around and turned and threw the dregs out of the open door on to the path where years of her tread had compressed the earth into a hard-packed track. She turned back and looked into the bottom of the mug and then up at me with a sly smile.

'This is the kind of thing we're supposed to be good at,' she said. 'Reading tea leaves. Ha, there's plenty more ways of seeing what's on the road ahead of us, but it's as good a way as any.'

She bent and frowned in concentration, murmuring to herself softly. The murmur went on in a sort of mantra for some time, a drone that was so low and monotonous it could have sent me to sleep, but then it started to get louder and I looked up at her to see that her eyes were half closed. She seemed almost in a trance.

Then her eyes snapped open and she looked straight at me. 'A long life, Nicky Ryan of the Connors and the MacBeths.

'A long life to you, and that means that I can rest soon. Born on the midsummer and conceived on half-night day. A joining and a rejoining. A life to be saved and a life to be owed. A child of one and a man child awakes. A storm and a battle. There's madness here, and slaughter and there's hate. But there is also love. Hold on to the love for it is for you three and for ever, and greater than you know.'

I didn't understand a word of that.

'You cannot write yet. But you will. You fear for your talent, but you have it. It will come after the bad days are past. The Cu Saeng reaches out to you and the others. It saps the strength, it snares the will, it sends fear. But you will win.

'Take care of the child. The man will grow. The woman will hurt .... '

Her voice trailed off and the fierce look which was drilling into the back of my eyes softened. She smiled again and her whole expression changed.

'The one-and-onlies?' she laughed. 'That was more true than you could have known. And I suppose you now know what a Virginia is?'

'How the hell did you know that?' I asked, really astonished. That last statement, straight out of a ten-year-old's memory, threw me right off balance.

'I told you before. It's not how I know, but what I know. And that you've got to learn. That was just to teach you that you should maybe believe an ancient lady down in a shack at the point.'

Then she laughed out loud at the expression on my face. So an old woman had told me a tale. An interesting and scary old tale. And then she'd looked into the bottom of a teacup and she'd come up with some sort of riddling prophecy and then she'd plucked a memory out of my childhood and a thought right out of my head. I liked the legend, like something out of Slaine MacRoth, my favourite strip cartoon Celtic hero. I couldn't make head nor tail of the riddle, or whatever it was, but the last two threw me, as you can imagine. I suppose that's what they were meant to do. I'd gone down to the windy point to get some fresh air and clear out the cobwebs that were slowly filling my mind with self-doubt and I'd ended up just as off balance as before.

When old Kitty MacBeth had laughed at my expression, she motioned me across to her and put her arm on my shoulder, using me as an extra crutch, and half beckoned, half shoved me to the door.

'Come on, I'll show you something,' she said, still having a great old giggle to herself. She reached behind the door into a bag hanging on a bent nail and pulled out what I thought was a piece of stiff canvas, and braced herself on my shoulder again.

We went along the path that led to the big standing stone, going slow, while Kitty half skipped at my side. She placed herself in front of the monolith, on the south side where the salt-spray-laden wind had weathered the black face to a polished smoothness.

'The old folk knew a thing or two,' she said. 'Look here. It's all smooth with thousands of hard years facing that firth. But you look at every tree you see. The moss and lichen grow on the north side, and on this point the winds never come from the north, only the south and west.

'Come round here,' she said, gesturing me to follow as she did the crab walk round the other side of the basalt spine. 'Look at this.'

I looked. She was right. On the straight, slabbed north face of the stone, a thin sheen of lichen covered the flat surface.

'And look now,' she said, taking the piece of canvas in her hand and folding it around her fingers. It cracked as she wadded the material.

'Dogfish skin. It's better than sandpaper,' she said, reaching up to scrape gently at the slick green covering. She did that for a few minutes, then took the skin away and rubbed with a wetted finger.

On the surface, thin lines appeared, etched in the stone. It looked like some form of script, but what kind I couldn't tell. The whole area, maybe the size of my hand, was completely covered in tightly drawn figures and letters which were cut into the rock and had been completely protected from the elements by the natural insulation.

'They told the whole story, but people forgot how to read it,' Kitty said. 'They told what they did and why they did it, and they wrote down the way to send Cu Saeng back, but there was not enough people to do that, not enough of the right people.

'This part speaks in a riddle. It is a foretelling, and that's why I'm showing it to you, Nicky Ryan.'

'Why, what does it say?'

'If I tell you, will you believe me?' she asked.

'To tell you the truth, I don't know. It all sounds a bit weird to me.'

'Ah yes. That's the right word. It is your weird. And mine. But it will get through to you as time goes on, and I don't think we have too much of that. You can't avoid it, so I might as well tell you.'

She lifted her hand and pointed out some lines. They could have been Greek or runes for all I knew.

'Yet come three, alone yet one, earth-day born.

Awakens one who sleeps and strays,

two return to fight the wrath.

Sacred flow and sacred grow

and sacred stone

to end the rule of Cu Saeng.'

'What does that mean?' I asked, not entirely convinced that the old woman could actually read those scratches on the rock.

'Well it could have many meanings, but I think that you three, your one-and- onlies, fit the first part.'

'How come?'

'Because there are three of you. That's easy enough. Alone yet one, only children, single children, but you were close enough then to be one, at least last time you did whatever you did on Ardmhor.

'And you're all earth-day born. You on midsummer, the girl on the autumn equinox and the boy in spring.

'The chances of that happening in a small place like this are surely millions to one. Especially when you consider that you all have the blood of the Connors and the MacBeths in you, though a touch more diluted than I'd like, but it's there.

'It has to be you, and the other two, and you have to watch the walls. The bad thing's coming, for I can feel it, and I cannot watch the walls.

'Look at me. Broke my leg like a silly old fool down on the rocks. Hobbling around like a shore crab. Set it myself, but it takes so long, and we don't have long.'

She nodded across the bay to where Ardmhor sat squat. 'I can't get over there, and something's happening that I can't see. You have to be my eyes and hands now. It's just like last time, when you were a boy. My mother was dying, and I was away from here. I came back on the night your grandfather was searching for you down at the rock. If I had not been away, maybe we could have ended it then. And now, with this old crippled leg, I might as well not be here.'

Kitty took one of my hands in hers and smiled again.

'Remember, a long life. You can believe that anyway, because I do. It means that you will beat this thing, although how you will do it, I cannot tell. It's hidden. But don't worry about not believing the rest. That's no problem to you or to me.'

I didn't know what to say to that.

'You will, Nick Ryan,' she said. 'And when you do, you'll have some work ahead of you.'

The night after I saw the old lady down at the point, I thought about what she'd said and what Jimmy Allison had told me and wondered if maybe I should take a look at his handwritten history.

Kitty MacBeth had really surprised me a couple of times, especially when she went into that tea-leaves stunt. Now, I have to say I've never believed in that kind of thing, but when she spoke about the one-and-onlies, and when she told me about my writers block, it did put a shiver into me.

The old legend I could take or leave. The west coast abounds with them. I suppose I'd have been prepared to go along with the fact that every legend has a root in some truth, however shallow. Maybe something did happen on Ardmhor way back when the world was young, but I couldn't see the relevance of it today.

True, one or two things had happened recently, like the lifeboat crew who disappeared and still hadn't turned up. There was my tangle with the grasping undergrowth that night, which, though it still gave me the shivers when I thought about it, I had by that point dismissed it as an extra-vivid imagination brought on my tiredness and whisky.

Way back in my childhood, Colin and Barbara and I had ended up in the rock, or under it, and Colin came out ruined. Nobody knew what the hell we'd been doing down there, least of all me. It was a blank.

Later that night I got out of bed to close the curtains.

The half-full moon was beaming directly into my eyes and must have woken me. Outside the window, a silver-blue haze outlined the trees and rooftops. It was still warm, at the start of August, and the summer felt like it was set to stay a good while longer.

I stretched and went downstairs for a glass of water, automatically missing the creaky seventh stair, and into the kitchen where moonbeams lanced through the lace curtain, dappling the water in the basin with amethyst. There was not a sound, except for the quiet creak of the rocking chair in the sitting room and the small drip-plink from the tap where it drained its last.

The sitting room was awash with moonlight which didn't strike me as odd, although it's not on the same side of the house as my bedroom or the kitchen. I padded through on my bare feet and stopped dead.

My grandfather was sitting in the shadows. He looked up from the rocking chair and smiled.

His face was half in shadow and his old, big hands were curled around the smooth arm of the chair. I stood there, paralysed. Just as I started through the doorway, I'd taken a drink of the cold water and now it stuck somewhere between my throat and my stomach and seemed to want to move two ways at once.

'Come in, come in,' the old man said. 'Come in and sit yourself down.'

He motioned me over to the armchair at the other side of the fireplace where the white coals had long fallen to dust since the last fire had been lit. I was rooted to the spot, which is a phrase I've always disliked, but it was nonetheless true. It was as if my whole body was clamped in a block of stone. My heart thudded wildly - I could hear it in my ears - and from way down in my stomach I could feel waves of sheer panic layering up on top of each other, building up to one huge eruption.

That's not what happened.

My old grandfather's eyes caught the moonlight, black and blue under his brows, and he gestured again to the easy chair. Some force took my feet and lifted them one by one off the floor where they'd been nailed down and walked me across the room and sat me down. I didn't do it. It just happened.

'Ah, Nicky boy, you've grown,' he said in that big gravelly voice that I had often remembered with a warm jolt of affection. It now seemed to come from a million miles away, dry and cold.

'And you've come back to stay with me, eh? That's good. Very good.'

He nodded, almost contentedly and his eyes looked into the fireplace.

'But you've been a bad boy. A very bad boy. I've told you not to go down to the rock, and you went down there.'

He paused and seemed to consider.

'I told you not to have anything to do with that old witch, but you've been speaking to her, haven't you'?'

I sat and stared. No sound would come out of my throat. I could hardly breathe. .

'If you want to stay with me, you'll have to be a good boy.'

He raised his eyes from the fireplace and turned his head slowly round in my direction. I could a dry sound like old hawsers taking up strain. And he grinned a huge grin. That wasn't my grandfather. Of course it wasn't my grandfather, for he'd been dead for years.

But whatever this was, it wasn't even him. My old grandfather laughed, or he smiled, or he roared. But he never grinned.

I stared at the apparition. My eyes must have been opened so wide they were in danger of falling right out of my head.

The grin widened until it showed an impossible array of teeth that were long and thin and blue in the unearthly light.

'You be a good boy,' he hissed through the teeth, 'and I'll let you stay with me.'

He giggled then and skin began to flake off his face.

Hee-hee-hee. High pitched. Mad. And the more he laughed, the more the skin shrivelled up like leather on an old boot and split down the seams of his face and his head seemed to swell. The eyes got bigger and paler and the noise of old ropes tearing and twisting got louder. The rocking chair creaked as it swung back and forth as the thing that had looked like my grandfather swelled and split and giggled.

Then the glass that I'd been holding in my right hand suddenly gave way in the pressure of my grip and a jagged edge went straight into my palm with such a force that blood just spouted out. That was enough to get my breath back and I let out a cry that must have been heard from the far side of the firth.

I leapt out of the chair in terror and instinctively hurled the base of the glass and what remained of the water, plus, no doubt, a fair quantity of the blood that was pouring out of the gash in my hand, right at the thing in the chair.

In slow motion I watched the glass tumble, catching that light, and smash right into the writhing, giggling thing. It hit with a muffled thump, and then a crash as it struck through and into the turned risers at the back of the chair which tipped over with a thump.

The thing just disappeared in front of my eyes as if it had never been there, leaving me in the middle of the floor cursing in words that I thought I'd forgotten, a stream of invective that reverberated back at me from the walls until I stopped, gasping for breath, and sank back down into the chair.

The light from the early morning sun awoke me through the space in the curtain that I'd meant to close the night before, and I suddenly jerked awake with the vision of that thing still in my head.

Everyone has experienced that moment of awakening when a dream simply fragments. I rolled over and out of bed, breathing deeply, still shuddering from the visual memory, crossed the room and opened the curtains fully to let as much daylight in as I could.

As I did so, I felt a sharp stab of pain in my hand as it brushed against the curtain fabric. I looked down and there in the centre of the palm was a small, crescent shaped cut that was just beginning to scab over.

Instantly I got a vision of the dream again but I shook it off. I've had falling dreams when I've ended up on the floor, or fire-engine dreams just when the alarm goes off. I couldn't remember cutting myself, but that didn't mean it hadn't happened yesterday, maybe down at the point. I probably just hadn't noticed it.

By the time I got dressed and slunged my face with cold water, the shaky feeling was receding. I told myself it was just a dream.

The day looked fine and clear and I felt like frying up a good breakfast and then getting out into the fresh air and away from the house for a while. I'd fixed up with Barbara Foster to take her and Paddy across to Loch Lomond for a picnic, so I thought I'd go up to the shop to get whatever we'd need for a day out. In the kitchen I had the pan sizzling with good Belfast ham and I threw in some mushrooms and set a couple of eggs on to poach.

The kettle boiled quickly and I had a coffee while I was cooking and another one while I ate. I felt a whole lot better after that.

By the time I'd finished and cleaned up the kitchen, I took a third cup and carried it through to the sitting room.

There I promptly dropped it on my foot, which would have been badly scalded if the coffee hadn't cooled down a little.

For the rocking chair lay on its back at the far side of the room.

And there was a broken glass and shards lying beside it.

The scald was painful enough to make me cry out, which I suppose helped release the breath that was getting ready to back up in my lungs, but the pain quickly receded. All sorts of explanations began to line themselves up in my head, but before I could think of any of them a face loomed into the window frame so suddenly that I jumped backwards in fright.

If I'd thought rationally, I suppose by this time I would have been getting a bit pissed off at the number of shocks my poor thudding heart had been given in quick succession. But when the figure looming at the window lifted a black arm to cut off the reflection and peer into the room, I recognised Father Gerald O'Connor. He wasn't wearing his motorcycle gear, but the normal black suit and white collar. I motioned him around to the front door and he was standing there in the sunlight when I opened it.

'Sorry if I gave you a fright,' he said affably. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost. What were you doing in there? A war dance?'

'No, I spilled some coffee on my foot.' We both looked down.

There was a light red weal where it had splashed. It wouldn't come to anything.

'Ah, I'd love a cup,' said the young priest, eagerly, inviting himself in. 'I've been up since five o'clock this morning. I'm the duty man on the emergency service. I think I'll get a siren and a flashing light.'

'What was the emergency?'

'Oh, nothing serious. Mrs Black found her father at the foot of the stairs and thought he'd had a heart attack. She decided he needed extreme unction. What he needed was extreme black coffee and I suppose he'll have an extreme hangover later this morning. And when you think of the voice his daughter's got, you can expect he'll wish he had died before the week's out.

'What gets me is that she's not even a Catholic, but that's the third time she's called me out in the past year for the old man.'

I put the kettle on and the priest - he said I should call him Gerry - said he'd shoot his granny for a bacon sandwich, so I fired up the pan and put a couple of rashers in to sizzle.

'I just thought I'd drop by in the passing,' he said. 'I never got a chance to meet you up at Alan's house the other day. I'm sorry if I gave you a fright. Most people are glad to see us. We're on the good side, you know.'

'No, it wasn't you,' I said. 'It was something else entirely.'

'Why, what happened?'

'You wouldn't believe it.'

'Try me. I'm a good listener. It's all the hours we spend sitting in a little box.'

I'm not a religious person, but strangely it seemed a relief to talk about it, even to a young priest who ran about on a racing Honda. I sat there and told him about what had happened last night, and how I'd woken up thinking it had been a nightmare, and then come back down and seen the rocking chair lying in the corner. Just before the kettle boiled I took him through and showed him.

'What do you think? Am I going crazy?'

'Not at all,' he said, smiling. 'You've been sleepwalking. I used to do it all the time when I was small. My mother was worrying but my old man said as long as I didn't pee the bed he didn't mind.'

'I've never walked in my sleep before, and I've been getting bad dreams almost every night? '

'You're probably tense. Are you worrying about anything?'

'Nothing that should make me feel like I've seen a ghost. I've not been feeling great, but what happened last night scared the hell out of me.'

'Well, that's pretty normal. But I wouldn't say you're crazy. I'd just put it to the back of my mind if were you. Things always look different in the daytime.'

I made more coffee and fixed up the bacon sandwiches. He started eating them with obvious appetite.

He took a gulp to wash down a bite and said: 'The world's got a lot worse to throw at us than ghosts, you know.

'Look at that poor woman who killed her son and then took her own life. And there's that farmer, Mr Gillon; you were there, weren't you? If ghosts were all we had to worry about I'd be delighted.'

'That's another thing,' I said. 'Those two accidents, I mean. What could have caused them?'

'Accidents happen. No rhyme nor reason. And we've just got to try to help after they do.'

'Have you ever thought that these accidents might not have been accidents?'

'How do you mean?'

'I don't know. Not yet anyway. But I've got a funny feeling. Ever since I've come back to Arden, things haven't gone right. Like those deaths. In a small place like this two freak accidents seem more than coincidence.'

'I could say something trite, like "The Lord giveth", but I won't,' Gerry said. 'These things happen. I can't explain them. Nobody can.'

'What if . . . ' I said, but I stopped.

'What if what?'

'Nothing. I'm just a bit shook up. Shaken up, I should say. I've spent too long in the States.'

'You're a bit too worldly wise for me to give parental advice,' he said, 'even though I am a priest. I know what I'm like after a nightmare. But at least we always wake up. I don't believe in ghosts and ghouls. The Holy Ghost maybe, but that's between me and him.'

'I can't say I'm much of a believer,' I confessed.

'Don't worry about that. I'm not an evangelist. Even priests have their own doubts.'

'So have journalists who aspire to be writers. Lots of them. Let's just hope you're right.'

He drained his cup and we exchanged some chat as he was leaving.

'Will you be coming to the festival?' he asked at the gate.

'I suppose so. Everybody else will be there.'

'Good, I'm looking forward to it. They're getting things ready up at the seminary, so I'll be kept busy with that for a day or so. Listen, why don't you come up and see the place? You'd like it. I'm still amazed, being a city boy, how self-sufficient the old timers have got it. Been doing it for hundreds of years, I'm told.'

I said I would come up sometime, and Gerry suggested Thursday. Not having anything planned, I agreed.

9

'Neat machine!' Paddy yelled from the doorstep as I stepped out of the jeep on the pebbled driveway at the doctor's big solid house.

She'd come bounding out of the front door and through the porchway to leap down the steps, landing with a baseballer's slide in front of me. She was all blue eyes and sparkle and still a dead ringer for her mother.

'Where're we going Nick?' I could tell she was excited at the prospect of getting out and away from the big house. She bobbed up and down on the soles of her running shoes, brim-full of energy and ready for fun.

'Don't know yet,' I said, letting her take me by the arm and pull me towards the house, feigning reluctance. 'Hey, hey, at least let me keep my arm.'

'Are we going for a picnic?'

'Well, I thought we'd go for a drive across to Loch Lomond. Maybe we can have a picnic there. I've brought some stuff to eat.'

'Great. I'm starving.' The little girl's enthusiasm melted away my night creeps like hoar frost under a hot sun. I had only met Paddy that once, the time I'd accosted her in the car park, and I had watched as she'd stuffed her face with Mary Baker's finest. I'd taken to her, which is hardly a surprise, because she was so like her mother that she evoked a whole string of pleasant childhood memories. But she was also a good kid. Bright, intelligent, well mannered and funny. She took to me as well. It was as if she'd known me all her life. In a strange way, I felt really good about that, though I couldn't explain why.

I'd thought about Barbara once or twice since we'd re-met. No. That's a lie. I'd thought about her quite a lot. She was terrific. I mean she was not just terrific looking. She had all the qualities her daughter had, and some that Paddy was surely going to inherit.

Over our Danish pastries we'd talked a lot about this and that and it didn't take long for the small talk to evaporate. Maybe we hadn't seen each other for twenty years and maybe we had been just kids then, but it really felt to me like she was an old friend, as if I knew what she was going to say, just before she said it. Her humour was quick and her brain was agile, and she had poise and confidence.

On top of that, she really was terrific looking.

That estimation was reinforced when she came out through the porch and stood in the sun, the rays that lanced through the chestnut tree gleaming the waves of golden hair.

'Hi Nick. It's a great day for a trip.'

'You betcha mom. We're going to Lock Lomond.'

'Loch Lomond, Paddy. You say it like you're clearing your throat.'

'I thought we'd take a run up there. I haven't been for years.'

'Sounds like a great idea. I need to get out in the fresh air. I've been stuck in with a summer cold.'

'Oh, you should have told me. I could have made it another day,' I said, but glad that she hadn't.

'No, I'm feeling fine. I just haven't been sleeping well at all. I've been waking up with the shivers in the middle of the night.'

For an instant I had the shivers, up and down my back.

'But I slept all right last night, so I think I must be over it. And I wouldn't give up a day like today for anything.'

'I've brought along some things to eat. Juice and crisps and some cakes,' I said. 'Plus some sausages and beans in case we want to light a fire.'

'Great,' Paddy said, jumping around excitedly. 'Can we make a camp fire Nicky? Can we mom?' she said, looking back and forth from me to Babs. Her mother smiled and ruffled her hair.

'We'll see. First I'll get the stuff I've packed,' she said, and went back into the house to reappear seconds later with a load of things wrapped in tin foil. It looked like enough to feed a platoon. Her father came out of the house with her. He'd aged a lot since I'd last seen him, but he still looked like an able old fellow. He took off his horn-rimmed glasses as he came down the stone steps and shook my hand.

'Well, hello there, Mr Ryan. Nick, isn't it? Haven't seen you in a long spell.' His accent was still Scottish, unlike Barbara's which, though not erased, was a mid-Atlantic hybrid. Paddy was strictly American.

'Nice to meet you again, doctor,' I said.

'Take care of those ladies for me,' he said. 'They're all that's between me and senility.' He laughed and I went along with it. He was probably right.

I opened the back door of the jeep and Paddy scampered in, bouncing up and down. Babs eased herself into the passenger seat and belted herself up while I started the engine, reversed and headed back down the driveway. The old doctor waved vigorously as we turned into the street.

We passed through the edge of Westbay and out along the Kilcreggan Road past the Langcraigs, a long ridge of buckled rocks that formed a low cliff parallel to the road. Out beyond that we turned up by the old reservoir and down the twisting leafy road in the valley towards Loch Lomond. It took less than half an hour to be on the main lochside road and heading up towards the hills in some of the country's most breathtaking scenery.

The further we travelled from Arden, the better I felt. Barbara was lively and animated and frankly stunning. I put down my good humour to her presence.

She wore a cotton shirt and a pair of white tight jeans that made no attempt to hide her slim figure. She had a light sweater as well, but it was at her back, with the arms tied around her waist. Every time she moved her head her hair swung and bounced with it. Like her daughter, she smiled a lot and her piercing blue eyes sparkled.

The Lomondside Road twists and turns alongside the Bonnie Banks in a series of chicanes and hairpin bends, which is murderous for the driving tourist who has to keep his eye firmly on the road and therefore misses those stunning glimpses of the deep blue water and the sweeping slopes of Ben Lomond.

Babs and Paddy were impressed with the views and kept up a running commentary for me while I concentrated on passing caravans trailed behind slow-moving cars. I stopped at Inverbeg where there's a nice little inn and an out-of-the-way art gallery that I made a mental note to have a browse through some time. I left the jeep in the car park and we took a farm road on foot behind the inn which led up Glen Douglas. We walked for no more than twenty minutes, which was enough to get us well out of earshot of the road, and then followed a narrow path that took us down to the river.

The walk was worth it for we found ourselves in a clearing at the bank of a crystal-clear stream that gushed down from a spectacular height into deep pot-holes in the rock. The sunlight slanted down deep into the water, giving the dell a fairytale quality. The only sound was the rush of water and the singing of linnets and chaffinches.

Barbara stood entranced while her daughter immediately slipped off her trainers and left them on a narrow strip of shingle while she tested the water with her bare foot.

'Ooh! It's freezing!' she cried out after wading in until the water was just above her ankles. She danced about, trying to get both feet out of the water at once, and failing comically.

'This is a lovely spot,' Babs said. 'I never even knew it existed.'

'I used to come here now and again during the summer holidays,' I said. 'There's some good trout in the water. We used to take a few and grill them over the fire.'

'Sounds good.'

'It was, but if we'd been caught poaching, the gillie would probably have shot us. They don't mind you walking up here, but fishing's a capital offence. We never did get caught.'

'The water looks so clean and cool,' she said, watching as Paddy minced back on to the shingles.

'She's right, it's freezing, but you get used to it.'

I pointed downstream to a huge, water-smoothed rock. 'Just beyond that there's a good pool that you can swim in. After the first shock you get your breath back and when you come out you feel great.'

'I think I'll try it,' Barbara said. 'I haven't swum in a stream for years.'

'Go ahead. I'll pass. It's too damn cold for me.'

'Cissy.'

'Too true. I'm no masochist.'

I did let her persuade me to take a dip later. It was absolutely Baltic and I was blue with the cold. But I was right. After I got out and dried off, my skin tingled and I felt good.

Paddy insisted that I light a fire, so I got some sticks together and put some fair-sized rocks in a circle and got a blaze going. I cooked the beans in the can and put some small sausages on a sharpened stick. It was no gourmet meal, but there's something immensely appetising about anything cooked outdoors over an oak fire. After we ate that, Barbara let her play about in the shallow pool and we sat by the crackling fire.

Barbara had been telling me about her life in America where she'd gone just before her eleventh birthday.

'I was absolutely devastated when my father told me we were going,' she said. 'I remember I cried all night and most of the next day, but nothing I said seemed to matter. He had kept it from me right until the last moment, probably because he knew how I would react. Suddenly I found myself on a plane and away. It was the most miserable time of my life. I must have cried every night for the first year.'

She sat with her back against the stump of an old oak tree. Her hands were clasped together around her knees, which she'd drawn right up almost to her chin. I was stretched out on the short grass, having a smoke. I'd cut down a lot since coming back, but one after a meal was still great.

'I remember being really upset when I went up to the house and found it empty. I thought you'd run out on me. There was nobody left.'

'My father never told me why he decided to leave, but it was quick. He'd been offered a consultancy in Vermont, but he'd had such offers before and disregarded them. His practice here was running well. I've got the feeling he just wanted me to grow up somewhere else. It's strange though, when he decided to move back, there was no question in my mind I'd come back too. And after all that time, it was a wonderful feeling to be coming home.'

'It was just after the accident, wasn't it?'

'What was?'

'When you went away.'

'Oh, you mean down at the point?'

'No, Ardmhor.'

'Ah, that was it. Yes. I think so. Not long after that.'

'Maybe your father thought you were in bad company. But I felt as if I'd been deserted. Colin was in the hospital for months and you were gone to America. There was nobody left.'

Barbara leaned forward, away from the tree stump, trying to see what her daughter was doing further upstream.

'She's all right. I can see her from here. She's as happy as hell, but she must have anti-freeze in her feet.'

Barbara smiled. 'We used to spend a lot of time in the stream, I remember. The one-and-onlies. How did we ever come to call ourselves that?'

'Colin made it up. He thought we were unique.'

'Yes, I remember now. It seemed to fit right, didn't it?'

'Like an exclusive club. We had some great times.'

'Yes, we did. My father didn't approve of you two.'

'I can't blame him. We were a bit wild,' I said. 'But you were just as bad as the two of us.'

'What the hell were we doing down at that place?' she asked.

'Where?'

'That rock. Ardmhor.'

'I haven't a clue. It's strange. I hadn't thought about it for years until I came back, and then a couple of people reminded me. Really, I just hadn't thought about it at all.'

'Neither did I. I just remembered it when I met you down at the supermarket. I mean, I remembered what I'd been told about it, but I can't recall anything at all, subjectively.'

'Have you seen Colin?'

'God yes. I really had no idea. I was walking along the street with Paddy and this big guy lumbered out of a shop and started giggling at her and nodding. He tried to take her hand and I let out a yell. Hell, I didn't even know who it was.

'He jumped back as soon as I shouted at him and then he started to cry. I felt a bit silly afterwards, and a bit ashamed, but I really didn't know about him. He's so... different.'

'They call him Badger, you know.'

'Yes, I heard. I suppose it suits him with that funny hair, but it's a shame. He was really so bright and funny. Paddy and I have passed him by a few times down at the shops. She isn't bothered. He just stands and smiles, like a big shy kid, and she makes a point of saying hello.

'Children are instinctive about that sort of thing, but mothers are different. I know he doesn't mean any harm, but I can't identify him with the Colin I used to know.'

'A damn shame. He was pretty battered, so I'm told. What a waste. I've seen him down in Holly's bar. They give him a lemonade shandy and he sits quietly and watches everything that goes on like a child. I don't know how much of it he understands. It's as if a switch has been clicked off inside his head.

'It could have been you, or me.'

Barbara shuddered: 'Oh, don't say that. I've always been terrified of brain damage. A friend of mine was in a car smash and ended up in a coma. When she came out of it she was pretty near a vegetable. I was so screwed up I couldn't go to visit her, because it really wasn't her any more.'

She shivered again. 'Let's talk about something less morbid.'

'How about Paddy?' I ventured. 'I'm still amazed at how much she's taken after you. I swear that when I first saw her I thought I was in a time warp.'

'She's a good kid.'

'Yeah, I can see that. I wonder if she's as wild as you were.'

'I wasn't wild. Maybe just a bit wilful. I could climb trees as well as you.'

'Probably better. You were an honorary boy to us. That was the greatest praise you could get.' I turned and looked her up and down with a mock leer. 'I suppose I'll have to withdraw that honour.'

Babs blushed. 'I've had twenty years to grow out of it, plus,' she said, nodding towards where Paddy was still splashing in the water, 'somebody to take over where I left off.'

'Just as long as she stays away from kids like me, she'll be all right.'

We both looked towards the stream where a flash of lights sparkled. Paddy was standing in the water up to her knees, and with one outstretched hand she was sweeping the surface of the water, sending up a coruscating curve of droplets.

'Look. Look at this,' she cried. 'I can make a rainbow!'

Barbara and I watched, laughing as the sunlight caught the droplets and laced them with colour. Paddy turned towards us with a wide smile on her face, and suddenly I was ten years old again and Barbara was . . .

. . . standing in the water up to her knees, and with one hand outstretched she was sweeping the surface of the shallow stream, sending up a coruscating curve of droplets.

'Look. I can make a rainbow.'

Colin and I were sitting on a rock that sat in the middle of Strowan's Well. He was whittling the point of a blackthorn stick that he'd cut for an arrow. I had my head in my hands, feeling the sun on the back of my neck. We watched as Barbara squealed with delight, sending up rainbows into the air.

The stream gurgled softly through the glade, murmuring as it meandered through the shallow gully, down towards the bridge and on to the firth. It was one of those days that you could feel and smell and hear. The air was warm and still, sultry with pollen that settled on the surface of the little pools. Bees and insects buzzed in the trees and bushes and an occasional dragonfly would dart out like a fighter plane and buzz the calm surface, scooping up the mayflies as they hatched out.

There was the smell of green that went with the dappling shadows on the water. A cuckoo called in the distance and wood pigeons threw their voices from the branches hanging down from the beech and lime trees that lined the clearing.

Colin was using the sharp end of the stick to scrape off thin lines of moss that lined the back of the stone, and Barbara, with her jeans rolled up over her knees, was a pirouetting sprite, delighting in the play of sun and water.

A fly buzzed up near my ear and I lazily swatted it.

'We could live here, you know, ' Colin said. 'There's rabbits and fish and lots of things to eat. '

'Yeah, we could build a hut. Maybe up in a tree. Nobody would ever know we were here. ' The idea had enormous appeal. I picked up my bow and nocked an arrow on the string. 'I could be Robin Hood,' I said, and let an arrow fly into the air where it curved lazily and landed in a tree. It failed to come down again.

'I'd love to stay here, ' Barbara said, 'but my father would never let me. '

'We'll just have to run away,' Colin said. 'My mum would kill me when I got back. '

'Don't be daft. If you run away you don't go back. '

'Well, I think we should build a gang hut where we can keep all our bows and arrows and stuff and come here anytime we like, even when it's raining.'

'Great, and we can bring things to sit on, and even a bed and pots and pans, and all that. '

'And nobody would ever know, if we hide it well enough.'

'It would be just our place. For just the three of us,' Barbara said.

We found a rock overhang later that afternoon and started piling up logs against it like a lean-to. The gales in the winter had dropped a couple of tall pines that had broken up, and there were any number of big branches that had snapped off the lime and beech trees. It didn't take long to build a shelter that could take the three of us comfortably. We grunted with strain as we rolled up three fair-sized flat stones to sit on and Barbara and I collected clumps of fern and bracken to cover the gang hut with. It was rough and ready and pretty cramped - there was no way we'd get chairs inside, never mind a bed - but it was dry and well camouflaged against raiders.

And it was our secret.

The lean-to in the overhang of the rock in the clearing at Strowan's Water was our place for the summer, our special hideout, our headquarters and our galleon, whatever we wanted it to be in those hazy days, but there was something special about the day that we built it - that day when Barbara had stood in the water and swept up a rainbow, and Colin had caught the fish. It was a day when the insects murmured softly and the stream gabbled its way through the rocks and I felt the sun on the back of my neck and . . .

Somebody shook me gently by the shoulder. I started out of my daydream and Barbara was saying something.

'You were miles away,' she said. 'I thought you'd fallen asleep.'

'Not so many miles, but a long way,' I said, shaking my head. 'I was thinking about the hideout.'

'So was I. That's an amazing coincidence. It must be twenty years since I last thought about that.'

'It was just when Paddy ...'

'Said she could make a rainbow,' Barbara finished for me. 'Yes, as soon as she said that I could see myself doing it down at the stream. The whole picture just came into my head, complete, like a film from an archive.'

'Déja-vu, or something, they call it. No, more like a memory trigger. I was just thinking of that time, remembering how good I felt then. Those were the days.'

'But they didn't last,' she said, almost wistfully.

'No, nothing ever does. You went off to America and Colin was in hospital and even when he came out there wasn't anything left of the one-and-onlies. I stayed round at my grandfather's a lot after that, because I couldn't be bothered with anything else. I suppose I became a bit of a loner then.'

'Me too. It took me a long time to forgive my father for taking me away. I remember thinking then that you two were the best friends anybody could have.'

'I suppose all childhoods are like that. You think you're going to be friends for ever, but it hardly ever happens.'

'I'll tell you something, though,' Barbara said, sitting with her arms crossed over her knees again. 'Nothing was the same again. I mean I've had some interesting times growing up in America, but there was nothing to make it sparkle. I went to school, and then college, and then I sort of drifted into marriage, and it was as if I was just going through the motions.

'And then Paddy came along, and the sparkle came back. It was as if everything was in black and white and then went into full colour. She brought the magic back into my life, like nothing else could.'

'You're lucky,' I said, looking over to where the little girl was wading in the stream, her jeans rolled up over her knees, and her tanned legs cutting bow waves in the water. 'She's a lovely girl.'

'I suppose you're going to say she takes after her mother,' Barbara said, and laughed softly.

'You can hardly deny maternity, can you? Yes she does take after her mother, and if she keeps on going she'll be every bit as beautiful as her mother is.'

'Oh Nick. I believe you just made a pass,' she said. But she was smiling just the same.

10

'Meet Professor Sannholm,' Jimmy Allison said, introducing me to a small, fair-haired man with owlish, round-framed spectacles.

'Arthur, meet Nick Ryan.'

We shook hands. The professor was wiry and had a strong, firm grip. His hands were rough and calloused, surprisingly working-man's hands, on a lean frame with an academic face.

'Arthur's been working on his dig,' Jimmy said. We were in the lounge of the Chandler on the evening after I'd taken Barbara and Paddy on their picnic. It was still warm and sultry. The lager was cool and welcome, and the professor was no slouch when it came to downing half a pint in one swallow.

'Thirsty work,' he said, 'but very rewarding. It's been a good summer. I'll be reluctant to get back to campus, but what we've found on your rock should keep us going for a full term, thanks to Jimmy.'

'Arthur's found another wall,' Jimmy said.

'Not quite a wall. A ring. A concentric ring,' said the professor.

'Really quite amazing, really. It was Jim here who first led me to suspect the Roman fortification which we dug up some years back. Lovely work. A real solid wall.

'What puzzled us then, and still puzzles us now, is that they seem to have built it for no reason. There were no fortifications inside the wall, but there were some minor Roman artefacts outside. They must have just built it and packed up and left. In fact, it wasn't theirs at all. They just built up on top of an even earlier dyke. We think it's from a much earlier time than bronze age. It's got a typical paleolithic layer construction of old red sandstone. Quite fascinating actually.'

The professor was off and running on what was obviously his passion.

'And what's this other wall?' I asked.

'Well, it's hardly that, really. More an upraised ditch, as a matter of fact. It's concentric with the first wall, parallel to the dyke, but at least sixty yards away. If it's an earlier development, then it must indeed be old. I think we could be thinking in terms of about five to six thousand years ago. Much older than Stonehenge. In fact, if I'm correct, this will be one of the earliest fortifications on record.'

'I would have thought that the rock was fortification enough,' I said.

'Well, you would think so. But the dyke goes around Ardmhor in a semi-circle. I'm assuming that it was a sort of stockade, maybe to keep cattle in and thieves out. Like a walled garden. We still haven't found anything on the rock itself. Maybe it was too exposed for actual habitation. Perhaps it was a last-ditch retreat in case the first defences were breached. We don't know yet, but the finding out is sure to be interesting.'

Professor Sannholm - he insisted that I call him Arthur - took a second mouthful of his pint when he stopped for breath. 'Lovely stuff, that.'

I ordered another two and a whisky and beer chaser for Jimmy. Arthur lifted his and sunk another huge mouthful.

'Sweating like a horse, after a day's honest toil,' he said when he came up for air. 'Now, where was I?'

'Up to your armpits in mud,' Jimmy said, winking at me over his glass.

'Ah, no, as a matter of fact, it's all pretty good clay, mixed in with shingle. Polished river-bottom stuff, you know. Probably that part of the peninsula was under water just after the ice age. The land's been rising ever since, you know, since the ice retreated and all that weight was taken off.

'Anyway, the inside dyke is much smaller than the Roman wall. Just a series of small humps joined together and overgrown with moss and what have you. If you go just past the hedgerow you'll see where we've been digging.

'I wasn't convinced that it was a wall until we did a survey of the whole line. It was too parallel. Too much of a coincidence. Possibly the first stockade was too small when the population expanded, and they had to build again much further out to give them more space.'

I suddenly recalled old Kitty MacBeth and her tale. Her story didn't allow for an expanding population at all. Quite the reverse.

'So after the survey, I organised a dig, just to see what was there. Over the last few weeks we've taken off the top soil, and we found the shingle, which made us pretty certain that it was indeed man-made. You don't get shingle so near the surface there.

'The presence of shingle meant that it had been churned up a long time ago, but not as long as it had been since it was laid down initially. There wasn't anybody about here at that time, not unless they could have lived under two thousand feet of ice, that is.'

'Shingle doesn't sound like normal wall-building material,' Jimmy said.

'Yes, you're right of course,' Arthur said, brightly. He turned to me with a smile: 'If I could only persuade Jimmy to come and work with me I could get him a bursary, you know. He knows more about archaeology than my graduates, I'll swear.'

'Is there anything you don't know'? I asked Jimmy. 'You're a one-man encyclopaedia.

'I've just had more time than you to read the best books,' Jimmy said. 'Anyway, I wouldn't enjoy it if I was paid for it. Hobbies are for fun.'

'What about your organ playing?'

'Oh, that's business. The church can afford it,' Jimmy said, chuckling. 'If I get a better offer I'll play the Apollo.'

Arthur was winding up for his next lecture, gulping his lager. 'Today we found the definite proof. We'd dug down about six feet with no sign of anything but the conglomerate of shingle and clay, and then we hit the jackpot.'

'Well, tell us what you've brought up this time,' Jimmy demanded.

'Bones,' I said.

Arthur spluttered in mid-swallow, almost spraying the bar with lager. He turned to me, amazed. 'How the devil did you know what I was going to say?'

'Just a lucky guess,' I told him. Jimmy was looking at me with a strange expression. Arthur just stared.

'Well, you're perfectly right. That's just what we did find. And the remarkable thing about it is that it's unlike any other burial site I've ever worked on.'

'It's a burial site, then?' Jimmy asked.

'We're pretty certain it is, but as I say, it's like nothing else before. This one is an upright grave. The body was bound with reed ropes and buried standing up. It's in a remarkably good state of preservation. Almost every bone is intact and in its proper place, probably because of the cementing quality of the clay. In fact, there are still some remnants of clothing which will give us a fair idea, I'm sure, of what our friends were wearing all those years ago.'

'But the strangest thing is that not only was our neolithic chap buried standing up, but his head was not where it should have been. It was there, all right, but not attached to the neck. 'It was carefully placed at his feet, facing forwards. Don't ask me why, but it was obviously a decapitation before interment. Never seen anything like it before in my life. Wonderful.'

There was the inevitable pause. Arthur was excited, and I could tell that Jimmy was interested.

I watched the two of them, and I felt a shiver. A cold wind played up and down my spine. It was a warm and sultry evening in our indian summer, and for me alone it was suddenly overcast as if a dark cloud came creeping up the firth and settled right over me.

Jimmy and Arthur started talking, but I was miles away. Their voices seemed to recede into the background. Instead, I was hearing Catriona O'Connor MacBeatha, old Kitty MacBeth, gripping my hand and telling me about the four walls. 'A wall of water, wall of stone, a wall of wood and a wall of bone.'

And when Arthur had been about to tell me what he'd found under the ground on his archaeological dig at Ardhmor, I had known, without any uncertainty, what it was.

Arthur had found and breached the fourth wall.

'The Connors and the MacBeatha have always had a watcher on the shore, to ensure that at least one wall remains until those came back who could kill the Cu Saeng for ever in this earth and send it back.'

Her voice came back, clear and sharp.

The tingling in my spine remained. I hadn't given too much thought to what the old woman had told me. It was just a legend.

But I was beginning to feel uneasy at the succession of coincidences. Things were a little too pat.

The world was beginning to get a little blurred at the edges. I wasn't sure at all what was happening. I wasn't sure at all that anything was happening.

But I sure as hell was beginning to get a bit edgy. I didn't like that feeling of unease that was trickling its fingers up and down my spine.

'Have another pint, Nick,' Arthur said, nudging me with his elbow and bringing me back to the here and now. I accepted and soon we were back in conversation, but my brain was still giving me muted alarm signals that I couldn't quite fathom out.

All of a sudden, I had the feeling that I wished Arthur had gone and dug somebody else's cemetery. I didn't care too much for that thundercloud that was hovering just at the other side of my consciousness.

Long after Arthur had gone home to his flat near the university campus, and I'd strolled along the tree-lined street to Jimmy's house where I'd seen my old friend quietly ensconced in his living room, I had some time to think things over.

Something was going on that I couldn't figure out, something that was making me uneasy. I couldn't write worth a damn. I couldn't even order my thoughts properly, which was not true to character.

Yet when I'd taken Barbara and Paddy for a picnic on Loch Lomondside, only twelve miles away as the crow flies, the ideas came bubbling up like a hot mineral spring. Out there in the fresh air and sunshine, I could feel the creativity I knew I had, welling up and overflowing. When we came back over the black hill and along the Kilcreggan Road to Arden, they all leached away like soil on a hillside under a steady drizzle. I didn't even notice it, taken up as I was with Barbara's conversation. It was only when I got back to my house and sat down to order up all those ideas that I found they'd evaporated.

There were a few more things I thought about as I strolled along in the dim twilight. I was in a state of puzzlement; unsure, unsteady and unready.

Certainly, I was unready for what happened next.

I waked round a corner into the main street and came almost smack into Badger Blackwood. Even then I still had to think and stop myself from calling him that, although Colin wouldn't have the sense of self to mind.

Colin pulled himself up short just before he crashed into me and knocked me to the ground. He was breathing fast and heavy, obviously with exertion. An inch or two taller than me, but a bit heavier, Colin would have been a heartbreaker with the ladies, but for his childhood accident. Even the two lines of white that had grown in along the deep lacerations that had raked his scalp almost from brow to nape would not have seriously detracted from his face.

He had a wide forehead and black eyebrows and deep dark eyes that would have set hearts a-flutter.

But there was no sparkle in them. They were all but empty; vapid, docile eyes. The boy had been a devil-may-care, quick-witted adventurer. The adult that he had become was devoid of all that.

At first he didn't recognise me. He just stood there, panting and trying to mumble some apology or whatever, not certain which way to go around me.

'Hello Colin,' I said, raising a hand up to his shoulder. His chest was heaving.

Recognition dawned, if dully. 'N-N-Nicky. It's them!' he wailed, and jerked his hand behind him. I could see some figures coming along the street at a fast walk.

'Who?' I asked, trying to calm him down. 'What's wrong'?

'Th-them. People,' he stammered.

'Hey you,' a voice came out of the gloom between the street lamps. I still couldn't make out the faces.

'Come here, you big daft bastard,' came the voice. Harsh and vicious, and full of drink.

Colin tried to push past me, but I stopped him.

'It's all right, Colin. Everything's OK.'

'You stupid big fucker. I'm going to kick the shit out of you,' yelled the voice, closer. Colin's chest started to heave again in a fit of panic.

'You hear me? I'm going to batter your thick brain in.'

I looked over Colin's shoulder and saw four people just coming into the light. I could have guessed. Billy Ruine and his brother Tommy, along with two young layabouts from the Milligs. They were in their early twenties, a mean little bunch with the kind of low-life spite that seems to be prevalent in small groups in small towns.

The four figures loomed closer.

'Well, well. Look who it is,' Billy Ruine said. 'Fuckin' local hero, eh?'

I stepped around Colin, who flattened himself up against the wall, trying to make himself disappear into it.

'What's the problem, Billy?' I asked, trying to sound calm and reasonable.

'No problem for me,' Billy said. He was a lean, mean little guy, maybe a couple of inches smaller than I, built like string and wire, with a narrow face and a wide mouth with a gap where he'd lost a tooth. The last time I'd seen him he was holding his nose and promising revenge after I'd straight-armed him. 'Big problem for you, and your fuck-wit pal,' he said, and one of the other guys hovering behind him sniggered.

'I don't think we need any of this. Why don't you go and pick on somebody else?'

'Because that stupid bastard got right up my nose. And you get right up my nose. All right?'

I turned to Colin who was still backed against the wall, his face a picture of fright and bewilderment. 'Let's go home, Colin.'

I had just started to move when I felt a hand on my sleeve. I spun round quickly and dug my elbow under Billy Ruine's ribs and there was a fleeting satisfaction in the bellow of air that whooshed out.

It was a good hit, but there was no point in hanging around to see if my luck would hold. The odds were against it.

The three others gathered around Billy who was still trying to suck air back in again, so Colin and I took advantage and ran down the alley. From behind us I could hear yelling. Almost at the end of the alley, and heading towards the turn that would take us down to Elm Street, I heard that Billy had got his voice back.

'Get the bastards. I'll kill them. I'll fuckin' murder them,' he shrieked. Right in my ear I heard Colin whimper in terror.

Then from nowhere something hard came out of the night and hit me smack on the back of my head and everything went straight into slow motion.

There was a shock of pain and I started to pitch forward towards the wall just ahead of us. I remember a sudden instant wave of nausea as my knees gave way from under me. There was a sound of clanging in my ears and the other sounds, the thudding of our feet and the shrieks of the enraged Billy, faded away along with everything else. I took a long dive into darkness.

In the dark, faces loomed up at me coming out of the shadow and flickering in a grey light then fading out again. Processions of them.

I saw:

Andy Gillon lying in the mud under the fallen tree on his farm. His eyes were locked into mine, but they were white and wide and dead. The tree gave a great lurch off his body and everything that was inside him spilled out into the marsh, with a slithering, sucking noise. They coiled and looped I with a life of their own. Too much, too many. Gillon's eyes opened wider and wider; huge eyes with nothing in them, staring straight into mine and I couldn't turn away. The glistening slimy ropes slithered around him like slimy bonds and there was a smell like vomit. They piled up and around, binding his upstretched arms and coiling around his silently screaming mouth, and then they started to pull him into the mud. I could see his hands opening and closing like talons as they disappeared into the marsh and he was gone, leaving nothing but bubbles that oozed to the surface and burst slowly.

I turned and I saw Edward Henson - who I recognised although I'm not sure I had ever seen him before - walking down the farm lane, with no hands at the ends of his shredded arms. He looked at me and his eyes were white, and dark blood spurted from the rags he had instead of elbows and wrists. He walked towards the mound and the ground opened in front of him and a thing of bone and skin crawled out. It had no head. And all the time, I could hear the deep breathing from behind me, a rasp of dry leaves.

Grandfather said: 'You've been a bad boy Nicky. A bad boy.'

He towered over me and his eyes were white and the smell of his breath was foul. He raised his walking stick high and brought it down on the back of my head and made the world spin.

He roared incoherently and the wind took him and his voice and blew him into the darkness of Ardmhor.

Barbara screamed a long scream and I saw fire and a huge bird with a beak like a dagger, and then Colin and I were standing holding her hand on the bank of the stream when a big man in a fur cloak stuck the butt of his spear into the soft earth and disappeared.

'Come back,' Colin yelled. 'Come back!'

'. . . Come back to us, have you?' Kitty MacBeth said, and for a horrible moment I was still in the depth of a dream.

Light was in my eyes, causing needles of pain that orbited on the inside of my skull and set off bombs way at the back where the nausea bubbled. I tried to sit up the world spun.

'No, just lie back and rest,' she said, and put a cool, surprisingly soft hand on my forehead. Her face was a blur.

'You're all right. You're in your own home,' she said. 'You've had a sore bang on your head.'

'What happened? How did I get here?'

'Wait until you've had a drink,' Kitty said. 'I think you'll probably live. I put a compress on your head. The bleeding stopped a while ago, but you've been concussed, I shouldn't wonder, and you've got a lump the size of a pigeon egg.'

'Billy Ruine. He was after Colin,' I said, braving the thudding pain to sit up. I was in my own bed in my own room, which swayed just a little as I moved.

'Where's Colin? What the hell happened?' Recent memory was still in a fuzzy world.

She gave me a large glass of cold water which made me feel slightly better than hellish, but not a lot.

'I sent him home last night after we put you to bed. He's all right, poor soul,' Kitty said.

'He says somebody threw a rock at you. Lucky you're not dead. Could have knocked your brains out, and then where would we be?'

'I remember Ruine and his mates chasing us, then something hit me. But how did I get here? And how did you get here?'

'From what he tells me, he picked you up and carried you. Somebody came out of one of the houses when they heard the racket and chased the others off. I met Colin just at the end of the street, still with you slung over his back. I had to stop him, for I'm sure he would have kept on going until morning.'

'And what were you doing out here at that time of night?'

'That must be one of those coincidences,' Kitty said. 'I was out looking for my cat. I've thrown the crutch away and put on a smaller splint. I think the old leg is knitting together well. I'll soon be out and about like a spring lamb again.'

At the side of the bed were two walking sticks cut from branches, like the blackthorn one I had made for my grandfather as a kid.

'Should you really be walking about yet?'

'Probably not as far as I did tonight, but the exercise is good for me, and I have to get myself in shape again. There's work to be done, and I need to be walking to do it.'

She looked at me with that wild, piercing stare. 'What was all the trouble about anyway?'

'Oh, Billy Ruine's been giving Colin a bad time for a while now. I just tried to get him away. Something hit me, and then I woke up.'

I didn't mention the dreams.

'Well, you've been thrashing about and shouting at the top of your voice as if all the devils of hell were after you.'

'Maybe they were. Concussion's a bugger. My head feels as if it's been pulped.'

'You'll heal. You'd better. I need you,' the old woman said matter of factly. 'We all do.'

I phoned Barbara in the morning, just to let her know what happened, and probably looking for a bit of sympathy too, but there was no reply. I was hoping she might come down and minister to me while I bravely suffered. I had to make do with Kitty who hobbled all the way from the point about mid morning and shushed away my concern for her healing leg.

She forced me to drink something that tasted like liquid bramble jam with cinnamon which, despite being a witch's brew, was the nicest experience of the day so far. Whatever it did, it also brought back my appetite, and within the hour I was on my second plate of thick broth.

Despite the sticks, Kitty worked quietly and efficiently with an economy of movement, although she favoured the damaged leg. She didn't say much either. I'd only met her once before, really; that day down at the point when she'd told me all those strange things, so I didn't know that much about her either.

When she saw I'd finished the soup, she took the plate away, and somehow made it downstairs, which I shouldn't have allowed.

Then she came slowly back up again. There was a pause after six slow steps, then she must have eased herself over the seventh, because there was no creak. When she came into the room she looked at me and said: 'You wanted me to miss it. So I did.'

I had no reply to that. Kitty sat on the bed for a minute then she asked me if I'd thought about what she'd told me down at her shack. I told her I'd thought some, but it was all a bit mixed up and fantastic so far.

'You'll be thinking more about it, then when you're ready, I want you down to my place, so I can tell you some more,' she said. 'I found my cat. It was on your front doorstep when I got back.'

'Must have followed you,' I said.

'I don't think so. Some of it was on the doorstep. Some on the grass and some on the pathway. It's been torn to pieces.'

I was about to say something. Some platitude or whatever you say to somebody who's just found their pet ripped to bits, but Kitty didn't let me.

'Before you say it's a coincidence, it's a message,' she said.

'From who? I mean whom?'

'Ah, you don't listen, do you? It was torn apart by some animal and left where we would see it. That's what happens you know.

'Hate and violence is coming. You have to be protected.'

I sat forward quickly before I remembered about the pain involved in sudden movements. Whatever Kitty's brew had contained, it certainly helped dull it.

'I don't know what you're talking about. I remember what you told me the other day. About Ardmhor. But what's that got to do with your cat?'

'The cat's nothing. I don't keep familiars. It was just a stray that wandered in last year and stayed the winter. I looked after it and it kept me company, that's all. But now it's dead, and in your garden. And I'm in your house.

It can't get out because of the walls, but it sends out its hate and infects.'

'Who does?'

'Cu Saeng. The sleeper. It made the dogs kill the cat to let me know it wants you. It wants revenge.'

'For what?'

'For what was done to it. For the binding. And for what you did.'

'What the hell did I do?'

'You stopped it.'

'How?'

Kitty sat at the edge of the bed and stared at me.

'You've a lot to learn, you know. And little time to learn it. Listen to me, and I'll tell you something.'

I leaned back against the pillow and Kitty told me about 1991. She told me how the summer had started warm and dry and how Hugh Henson - father of the boy I'd dreamed about- had ended up under his plough with his hands cut off. And there was the dog fight down at the Milligs when the pit-bulls had gone mad and savaged one of the men to death. And there were fights and accidents and a suicide. There was the herd of cows that had gone off the top of the cliff at Langcraig.

It was a summer when the town itself seemed to go bad.

'And then it stopped. You stopped it with the girl and the boy. It stopped on the night we took you from the jaws of that rock, and it has been gone ever since.'

'But I don't remember a thing about that.'

'Maybe you don't. But Cu Saeng does. That's what I've been trying to tell you.'

'Look, Kitty, I feel as if I'm caught up in one of these farces. I haven't a clue what's going on. I remember the legend you told me, but it's all Greek to me. This Cu Saeng. This spirit. What is it supposed to be, anyway?'

'Cu Saeng. The ravener. It is a force of hunger and hate. That's what it is, and all your computers and cell-phones and televisions won't change that. I told you how they raised it, and how they bound it with the walls.

'But I have to tell you now that the walls are wearing down. The Cu Saeng gets stronger and its force reaches out. It reaches for you. It will twist and turn everything against you. Just Watch.'

Kitty smiled, but it was no smile at all. 'Already you've taken a blow. And so have I. That is the start.'

'Those walls you were talking about,' I said. ' Remember? The water, stone and wood and bone . . .'

'Yes?'

'One of them's already down.'

'What?' Almost a gasp. 'What do you mean?'

'I was speaking to the professor who's doing a dig there. You were right. They did find bones where you said they had been buried. And the corpse had lost it's head.'

Kitty's eyes blazed blue.

'Fools. Damned fools. And damned more than they know.' She put her head in her hands and rocked backwards and forwards.

Then she stopped rocking and looked up. 'That's what's made it stronger. It reaches out through the gaps.

'You must get better, and soon,' she said. 'I think you are going to need all of your strength.'

Over and over, parts of what Kitty said came back to me, chipping away at my natural scepticism. The more I thought about it, the more I came to believe that something was definitely wrong.

Cu Saeng. The Ravener. The Sleeper.

I wasn't convinced. But I knew the old woman was convinced, and despite local rumour she seemed pretty steady on her feet, no matter how strange her tale.

But some spirit? Some age-old monster trapped by cave men? I don't think I was quite ready for that yet. I've covered stories in South America where healers claim they have taken tumours out with their bare hands. I couldn't disprove it, so I can't say they don't. On Haiti I was shown a horrible something that a contact swore was a zombie. I couldn't say, one way or the other.

I believe there could be a sasquatch or a yeti or whatever, and I don't laugh at people who believe in the Bermuda Triangle although I don't subscribe myself.

But a monster spirit? Here in Arden? In the new millennium?

I would need more to go on before I put my money on it.

I thought about the dreams that were still scaring me out of sleep. I thought about Andy Gillon and what he said to me as he spilled his life out in front of my eyes.

I recalled that horrific thing that I had imagined, the one that looked at first like my grandfather.

And I thought of that night down on the rock when the wind was blowing the rain hard into my face and the bramble thorns had reached out to catch me.

I seriously considered the possibility that good old Nick Ryan was quickly and quietly cracking up.

Then I spent a couple of days reading through the wealth of Jimmy Allison's work on his history of Arden. That did me a whole lot of good.

On Thursday morning I woke up out of a dreamless sleep.

Sometime in the night a whole lot of the information I had churned around in the past couple of days had settled itself into some sort of order.

I decided I wasn't cracking up.

I wasn't exactly sure I knew what was happening. But I knew there was something awfully bad going on around here.

And I knew that for some reason I was part of it.

11

According to Jimmy Allison, Arden is older than all hell. That's probably how he would have put it, but that's not how he wrote. I was amazed at the depth of his research in geography and history, archaeology and palaeontology. He'd studied just about every major work ever written to find out what he could about the place of his birth.

As he once explained to me, it had started with him a long while back when there was some dispute over whether the Priory - as it was then - was older than Westbay church, and Jimmy's research for the newspaper had settled the issue one way or another.

'It was the finding out of one fact that led to questions,' he would tell me. 'The more I knew, the more I realised how little I knew.'

So it had gone. The more Jimmy Allison discovered, the clearer became the pattern. Every now and again - and there was no clear regulation, no set timescale - Arden went through a period of disaster and destruction. Oh, the town stayed on, older than all hell, but there were times when it took long to recover. There were times when it almost never recovered.

Jimmy's history starts way back when the great volcanoes were cooling down. Ardmhor, Dumbuck, Dumbarton Rock, Dumbuie.

Those vents of towering volcanoes that had spread their ash and dust all over the centre of Scotland. Just at that junction where the basalt welled up against the old red sandstone, a fault developed which lifted and twisted the hills into the highlands, while everything south was a shallow sea filled with sharks as big as a train and shelled monstrosities that have left their fossil shapes in the shale. Out of that sea poked the volcanoes that thrust up from the mantle of the earth and drained off the water to form the level plain that would become the central lowlands of Scotland.

Arden was right at that point where the plain butted up against the ancient mountains that marched north. There were swamps, dragonflies as big as birds, centipedes that were six feet long and more. Later on there were reptiles and then mammals and then came the ice sheets that covered everything and bore down the earth with such a weight that it sank. And when the ice melted the water came back, flooding the plain again; then the land started its slow rise with the weight gone, shuddering its way up from the depths around the dead volcanoes. And when the land came back, man came with it.

The man they found in the dugout canoe on the mudflats, so well preserved, had been one of the early explorers. Short, squat and strong.

Jimmy Allison's view is that these people, who hunted mastodon and elk, were of the same people as the Fir Bolg, the Irish tribes that lived throughout the west.

They were stone-age people, who made spears out of rowan and axeheads out of basalt. Their needles were bone and their hammers were antler. They killed the bear and the wolf and their descendants put up stone markers to show that they had been here and had gone.

In more recent times, only four thousand years ago, there were more people from the west, from Ireland. The descendants of Bryan Boru, Conchobhar and Cu-Chulain, sailing in their big curraghs up the Clyde and mixing their blood with the old people. They cut the ring stones and started the harvest festivals, burning their sacrifices in the wicker man at Samhain.

Then came the Romans and their legions, building their wall that split the country north and south and sending raiding parties into the hills to quell the Picts, and the Scots, those blue-painted barbarians. Some of those legions never came back again. The Ninth Legion has been a mystery since it left Old Kilpatrick, the most northerly outpost of the Pax Romana, and walked their hob-nailed boots past Dumbuck Hill and into legend. They were never seen again.

St Columba came and St Kentigern, with their new way and their new god, and won over the chiefs of the western isles, the warriors of Argyll.

The Normans came next. They didn't conquer Scotland, but married it and wore it down that way until one Scot, Robert the Bruce, defied English rule and sent them home to think again. The Bruce and the Wallace won their wars, and the King of Scotland came back to the west to live by Arden. And when he came here he sickened and died. He was not the only one.

The clans rose against the oppressors and the Colquhouns marched north into Glen Fruin just above Arden and were massacred. There was plague, and there was famine and there were killings.

Arden took it all and stayed put.

Every now and again, in all the records since written history began - pieced together fact by careful fact - was the evidence that Arden harboured some sort of curse that inflicted it with madness or war, or sickness or death.

Kitty MacBeth called it Cu Saeng, the ravener, the evil entity that lived under the roots, brought into this world by terrible spells in terrible times.

The monks called it the wrath of God. Jimmy Allison and the old people said it was a bad summer.

Whatever it was, an ancient scribe, writing on a goatskin, summed it up in his runic script, in a word that everybody would agree with. He called it a Bane.

Father Gerry came roaring along the narrow street in his speed machine and did a wide sweep to the other side of the road to point the front wheel through the narrow space and right up to the front door.

I was watching through the window as he curved in, wrenching the throttle hard to bump the front wheel up on the pavement and dart, in a cloud of exhaust, between the stone pillars with only an inch on either side of the handlebars. The sun gleamed on the shiny black helmet and reflected from the tinted visor that came down over his face like a huge insect eye.

In the kitchen, he unstrapped the skid-lid as he called it and took several minutes to free himself from the black leather jacket.

'Great gear for the road,' he said, 'but too damned hot when you stop.'

The kettle hadn't long boiled and I poured him a cup of instant which he drank, leaning back in the pine chair with one boot crossed over the other on the top of the table.

'I heard you needed last rites,' he said after the first sip.

'That was days ago. I need the rites that come after the last ones.'

'Well, you look all right to me. Mr Bennett told me you'd been nearly killed.'

'By the time the story gets to the other side of town, I probably will have been.'

'What happened, then?'

'Some idiot threw half a brick at me. Nearly took my head off. At least that's what it felt like next day.'

'Jimmy Allison said you were feeling better. He's looking a bit unsteady on his feet with that bug he's had. Anyway, you look none the worse for it.'

'That's just my image,' I said, and he laughed.

'Listen, what are you doing today?'

I told him I'd planned to plough through some paper work. I was still reading Jimmy Allison's stuff, but I hadn't been out in the last few days and had been toying with idea of a stroll down the shore or up Cardross Hill.

'I brought another helmet,' he said. 'Just in case you fancied coming up to the God spot.'

'God spot?'

'The big house. I've been planning this damned harvest thing for weeks. It's about time I had a day off. Come up for lunch.'

He saw me hesitate. I didn't really feel like socialising, especially with a bunch of old priests, or eager young acolytes.

'Aw, come on,' he said, dark eyes flashing and mischievous. 'It'll get you out of all this. And I'll tell you what . . . we'll throw in some altar wine as well, blessed or unblessed.'

He nudged me on the shoulder and winked like an honest to God car salesman.

'Or are you still sworn off the drink after your last case of the heebie-jeebies?'

'Okay, I'll come on up, as long as I don't have to sit through a service or preaching or anything like that.'

'Come on, times are changing. Anyway, they don't let me preach. They think I'm the red under the bed trying to subvert the youth.'

'You probably are.'

'That's right, and they know it. I'm the devil's advocate. A walking example of what a priest should never be.'

'Amen to that.'

'And here was I thinking you never prayed,' he said, raising his eyes skyward. 'There's more rejoicing for one sinner.'

'After the last couple of weeks I've had, I reckon I should start,' I said.

'Why? Are things still not going right for you?'

'You could say that. I don't think things are going right for anybody.'

'That sounds pretty deep,' he said, taking his boots off the table and swinging forward towards me. 'How do you figure that out?'

'I know you're going to think it's stupid, but I think something's going wrong around here.'

'Go on,' he urged, leaning forward even more, giving me his full attention.

'All right. Take the night when the lifeboat from the Cassandra went missing at Ardmhor. They haven't found a sign of it ever since. Nothing, not a trace.'

'Accidents happen at sea. They'll find something sooner or later.'

'Oh, you think so? I don't. It's happened before, you know, years ago, and there was never any trace. An oar, or a hat, or a boot. Something that floats. Not nothing.'

'I'll concede that. All right, you have a disaster that takes place at night, in the middle of a storm, and a lifeboat goes down with all hands. Mysterious that they haven't found it, but not impossible. It was a bad storm, you know. So now what?'

'I'll tell you what. That fishing boat disappeared in exactly the same way, from the same stretch of water, back at the turn of the century. Calm sea and a bank of fog, and it's gone. Nobody knows where. Like it's just been spirited away. Again, not a sign.'

'So what you're saying is that we've got a Bermuda Triangle in the firth. A local disaster zone?'

'Wait until you hear more,' I said. 'We have the lifeboat, and the fishing boat years ago. Then we have Andy Gillon. I was there when he died. It was bloody awful horrible. But what's been preying on my mind ever since is what he said, just when he died. He told me the tree jumped. And I swear to God, when I looked, it must have. I just don't know how that tree could have fallen on him. It was yards away from where the roots were planted.'

'Wasn't there a fatal accident inquiry?'

'Formal verdict. Accidental death,' I said.

'And didn't you mention any of this?'

'I wasn't called to give evidence. I wasn't needed. But even if I had been called, I don't know if I would have said anything at the time. It was just too way out. And at the time, I thought I must have been mistaken.

'I'm sure Sergeant Morrison wondered, but when it came right down to it at the inquiry I don't think even he wanted to say anything. I can't blame him either. It's just when I look at it in the light of all those other things that I begin to see a pattern, and I don't like what I'm seeing.'

Gerry was about to interject, and I held up my hand to forestall him.

'After that came Edward Henson, who took off both his hands with an outboard motor. His mother shot him and then she shot herself. And before you say anything, I've got to tell you that his father lost both hands way back in 1991 in another weird accident. And that was the year there were a whole lot of crazy things happening in this town, although I didn't realise it at the time.'

'It seems to me you've strung together a lot of unfortunate coincidences and come up with some sort of reason for them. You must have seen a lot of disasters in your travels; a whole lot worse than this, I don't doubt. So allowing for the fact that these accidents have happened, and it's terrible that they have, why should there be any reason for it?'

'Some people believe this place is cursed,' I told him, watching his eyes for the merest hint of amusement.

'Cursed? Like in black magic? That sort of thing?'

'Yes, something like that.'

'And you believe it?'

'I didn't say that.'

'Well, what are you saying?'

'I'm saying that there's something weird going on here. There have been times when there have been chains of disasters in Arden. Whole bunches of them one after another.

'And they've been going on for a long time,' I said, pausing to spoon sugar in my coffee.

'They call it a Bad Summer. The old folk do. The last one was in ninety one. Before that it was 1906. There was another in the eighteen fifties, and yet another in 1720. And more, going back a hell of a long way?

'How do you know all this?'

'I've spoken to a few people. And I've got a friend who's spent years studying this place.'

'Maybe it's just an unlucky town. But I imagine if you study any town's history you'll find terrible disasters, natural and otherwise.'

'Maybe you will. But in the old times, they believed there was some sort of creature, a demon or whatever, that woke up and haunted this place, and caused accidents and death.'

The look he shot me was one of total incredulity.

'Demons, eh? And you an agnostic! Do you really believe in all this?'

'Listen, Gerry, I don't know what to believe. I don't want to make a complete arse of myself, but I've got to tell you, I feel everything going wrong. I've got a real feeling of oppression, as if I'm at the centre of a cyclone, and just waiting for it to hit and blow me away. I know that sounds crazy. Really I do. But I've got a real bad feeling inside me that something bad is going to happen.'

'Maybe it's you,' he said, qyietly. 'Maybe everything that's happened has unsettled you.'

'That's a nice way of saying I'm cracking up.'

'No, it's not. In your job you report on disaster. My job is to handle it when it happens, and try to prevent it happening. I think you may just be under a lot of strain. I've seen it happen. You need to give yourself a break, and just stop thinking about all this for a while. If you don't, then you will start to crack up. Believe me, it's hard enough, even for a priest, to hold on to his spiritual integrity with what the world can throw at us. We see the disasters all the time, at first hand, and every time we ask: how does He let it happen? But they happen all right. No curses, no demons. Just a crazy world and too many crazy people.

'You're not crazy. Not even nearly crazy. But you could do with a break. ' He pushed himself up from his seat. 'Come on, let's go for a ride and get some fresh air. Nature's best cure.'

Gerry spent five minutes lacing and strapping himself back into his splendid leather jacket. He was dark and good looking and I could readily imagine the ladies of the parish, no matter to which denomination they leaned, seeking out the young priest for spiritual comfort. Or any comfort they thought might be available.

He looked charming and roguish and clean cut and piratical all at the same time. The one thing he did not look like was a priest. I wondered why he had become one, and asked him straight out.

'Haven't a clue. I just woke up one morning when I was sixteen and knew that's what I was going to be. I hadn't thought about it before. I've thought about it since, though. Wouldn't be human if I didn't. My mother was delighted. Dad was furious for a while. I was supposed to take over the business. He's as rich as sin, you know. But they let me go ahead.'

'How about the vows?'

'Ah, you mean the vow. The big one?'

'I suppose I do.'

'Well, to be frank, it's like chronic haemorrhoids. A real pain in the ass. And all the time. Being a priest doesn't interfere with your hormones. It just makes them feel more acute.'

I laughed, and he joined in ruefully. 'It doesn't help to have this face, either,' he said, still grinning. 'The number of the blue rinsed brigade who have told me it's a total waste, you wouldn't believe.'

'And you've never . . . ?'

'Broken my vows? Have you ever revealed a source? That's between me and Him upstairs,' he said, bobbing his head to indicate the direction of the third party. 'And He's not telling.'

When he was finally strapped in, he pulled on his gauntlets which completed the slightly menacing ensemble, and clapped me on the shoulder.

'I won't ask you to trust in the Lord,' he said, 'because that would be a waste of time. Just trust in yourself. Don't dwell on things. They give you headaches and constipation. And remember the final commandment.'

'And what's that?'

'Thou shalt not worry about things you can't do anything about.'

'Up yours too, padre,' I said. Before I knew it I was sitting on the back of the big Honda and roaring behind the Prince of Darkness past Mr Bennett's smallholding on the smooth tarmac that led to the seminary. He handled that machine as if he had a death wish, but his control was superb. We slewed into the gravel forecourt of the big ivy-covered main building, kicking up half a ton of small stones. I'd left my breath and my stomach a quarter of a mile behind. Gerry took off his helmet and his face was flushed and alive. He might have made his vows of chastity and obedience, but he hadn't made any promises about speed.

'I'll probably walk back,' I said, when I gathered enough saliva to make my voice work again.

'Rubbish. I was only doing seventy. That beast goes all the way up to a hundred and eighty.'

'Not with me in the saddle. There's a law against suicide.'

'Trust me. If we come off, I'll hear your confession on the way up and give you absolution on the way down again.

'And who'll hear your confession? For manslaughter.'

'God takes care of his own,' he said with a laugh. 'That's sacrilege, I suppose, but I hate waste, and it would be a waste of that lovely machine not to let her go now and again. The good Lord gave me good reflexes and told me to go forth and rev up. And if the monsignor heard me talking now I'd be on bread and water on my knees for a week.'

'Make it a month, young blasphemer,' came a voice from the arched doorway, 'and clean your mouth out in the font on the way in.'

Standing in the dappled light against the worn sandstone was a tall, thin priest with a serious, forbidding face that was deeply creased on each side of a sharp, hooked nose. His hair was iron grey and cut short in what would have been a navy crew-cut if it had been taken any further. He had strong dark eyebrows and deep set eyes and his mouth, between those two furrows, seemed set in a line of grim and un-fun-loving determination.

He looked like how I would have imagined a latter-day Torquemada would have appeared. Self-righteous, virtuous, a man with God's message, and with God's personal permission to nail it home.

'Monsignor Cronin, meet Nick Ryan,' Gerry said brightly, totally ignoring the stern-sounding admonition of his religious superior. 'I've invited him up for a look around the place, seeing how I'm bored out of my brains running your daft harvest festival.'

The monsignor's eyebrows arched up, hauling away the shadows under the crags and revealing a bright blue pair of eyes that fastened on me. I was prepared for the wrath of God to come and strike one or possibly both of us.

What I got was a deep rumbling laugh that was totally out of place in such a forbidding figure.

'Bored? Bored? I'll tell you young feller, you've got the best job in the place,' he boomed. 'There's priests here would fast for a month for the life of Riley you've got.'

I couldn't have been more wrong in my at-first-sight assessment of Monsignor Cronin, christened Michael, but known as A.J., for reasons fairly obvious to anyone who reads good books. He was a hugely humorous, witty man who, I was soon to discover, took great delight in almost everything he came across. He had a face that would scare an orphanage but a sunny nature that seemed incapable of taking offence or seeing anything but the best in people.

'Come away in, Nick. And you too, you rapscallion,' he roared in his deep opera singer's voice.

The vigorous handshake all but jarred my shoulder from its sockets. The handshake and the voice were completely incongruous in the slender figure. Both belonged to someone ten stones heavier. Underneath that elongated robe, I assumed the monsignor must be all bone and steel.

I heard Gerry snigger as I almost stumbled under the friendly pat on the back and entered into the atrium. It was clean and smelled not of incense, as I'd fancied, but of flowers. There were stacks of them around a little votive statue to the virgin, beautiful chrysanthemums, fuchsia and freesia, arranged with loving care.

A.J. ordered Gerry to give me the grand tour and disappeared in a brisk swish of black, his long legs carrying him along the corridor at a swift pace.

'Terrific guy,' Gerry said. 'He scared the hell out of me the first time I saw him. I thought 'God, what have I let myself in for?'

'I thought he looked like Torquemada when he stepped out of the doorway,' I said.

'Oh, that's beautiful. He'll love that one.'

'Don't you dare,' I warned.

'Oh, don't worry about it. Old A.J. is aware that his face was never his fortune. He says it has outlived four bodies. His heart's his best feature. Big enough for all of us and more besides. He's a real hero.'

'How do you mean, a hero?'

'Just that. He's my hero. Everybody's hero. I mean, he's the boss here, and short of just about a papal decree, he can do what he likes. But he treats everybody so well, from the youngest student up. He sees good in us all. He loves us collectively and individually. That's what I call a hero.'

Gerry paused for a moment, then laughed to himself. 'I suppose that's the kind of guy I want to be when I grow up. But A.J. swears I never will.'

The guided tour was a delight. As a youngster, I had trespassed on the seminary's extensive grounds, stealing fruit from the orchards and trapping the occasional rabbit. To me it was just a big school-type building with a farm around it, but it really was a model of self-sufficiency. There were acres of ripening potatoes almost ready for a main crop harvest, and lines of turnips mottled yellow and green in the light breeze. The orchard was smaller than I recalled as a boy, but still huge, and still filled with apple and pear trees that were getting heavy with fruit. There were plums turning that deep red of late summer and a vast greenhouse filled with an ancient twisted vine that was bearded with great black grapes. Not a weed dared poke through that hallowed soil in the walled orchard. Beyond the wall, fields of corn and barley gleamed gold in the sun in a bountiful harvest.

In the distance, a big red combine harvester was cutting its swathe through the gold and shooting the ears on to a massive mound in the truck that moved alongside. There were men working in the fields, on tractors and on foot, young and old, sweating as the sun rose high towards noon.

We took a lane down to the mill at the stream where a wheel turned slowly in a sparkling crescent of bright water. Inside an old priest delighted in showing us the ancient wooden machinery of cogs and wheels that turned the giant millstones. He pointed out the beech and oak, the ash and elm woods that were used to make the individual parts of the mill's elaborate workings. It was old and efficient and beautiful.

'Be sure to be at the harvest festival,' said the dust-covered priest. 'Father Lynn promises to be working overtime to make the best bread you ever tasted from all of this,' he said, gesturing to the bulging sacks with a white hand. His urging brought back the taste of that fresh bread in those long ago harvest festivals. Bread still warm from the ovens, delicious and soft where the butter melted through. I almost watered at the mouth.

At twelve o'clock a bell rang in the far away tower in the main building and in the fields, everybody stopped, dropped their tools and switched off engines and got down on their knees in the field and faced the slender cross that topped the tower. Gerry, who had changed into a pair of cavalry twill smart trousers, did the same, regardless of the dust underfoot.

After a few minutes, he got up and dusted his knees off, sending up little light clouds.

'Sorry about that,' he said. 'I forgot to tell you about the Angelus. It's a bit of a tradition here. Everything stops at twelve.'

'You do that every day?' I asked.

'Only on the premises. We don't get down on our knees if we're elsewhere, although we're supposed to say a prayer no matter where. But here on the farm, it's just part of the way of life.'

'What happens if it rains?'

'Well, we don't actually have to grovel in the mud. But some of the others do just that. It's their own way.'

We walked down towards the seminary, and Gerry pointed out interesting parts of the farm. The Jersey cows with their huge promising udders; the big Aberdeen Angus beef bull that snorted and stamped in a paddock of its own. He explained that the farm itself was a mini-ecology of its own. No added chemicals, no preservatives. They made honey and jam, and flour and cheese and butter, and took care of their land as the priests and monks had done for centuries before them.

Lunch in the big, bright refectory was plain, but hearty. A good thick broth, followed by exquisite steak pie - and if you have never heard steak pie described thus, believe it - with new potatoes drowned in butter, and fresh peas and carrots. Everything, I was assured, was completely home-grown and organic. There was a delicious red wine which the monsignor said was elderberry, but tasted like a full-bodied French vintage, and which he swore he'd made himself and bottled some years back. I had two glasses and that was enough, even though I wasn't driving. It had a kick like a jack-hammer.

During lunch, AJ insisted I tell him all about my adventures, as he called them, and I regaled him with one or two tall tales from my roving days.

He laughed uproariously at all the funny bits and never seemed to notice how every time he did so a wave of silence swept through the ranks of young, clean shaven faces at the long trestle tables down each side of the refectory. When the monsignor's booming laugh bounced off the plain walls, the low, murmured conversations halted abruptly and a few of the more inquisitive turned to see what the hilarity was all about. I gathered that AJ must be the light entertainment in amongst all that serious talking that seemed to be going on among the recruits.

The monsignor countered with a few tales of his own from equally far-flung places where he'd worked. He parried any light probes into his former profession with quick wit, telling me he'd joined the staff of the Great Brigadier, and expected a transfer any year now.

Later, he asked me to join him in the flower garden, which, it transpired, was one of his passions. He, I discovered, had grown the flowers for the array around the Virgin's statue, and had arranged them himself.

When he told me that, I suddenly got a picture of a Samurai warrior, hard, and tough, and deadly if necessary, but with a love of beauty and nature. He seemed a man who had come to terms.

As we strolled through the gardens, the tall priest pointed out his flowers that burgeoned in riots of colour. Walking through the garden, I wondered what I was doing here. All right, I had accepted a casual invitation , then reluctantly allowed myself to be virtually hijacked by a suicidal, but likeable maniac, and found myself surrounded by a bunch of priests who I'd never met before.

And now I was in a flower garden with an ex-commando who was explaining the joys and rewards of horticulture. It may be strange, but I was enjoying myself. For a short afternoon I seemed to have found a hideaway from the anxiety and chill that had crept up on me. It was as if that cyclone had died down and dissipated, leaving me in a calm stretch of clear water.

AJ was telling me something which, in my momentary reverie, I missed.

'Pardon?' I begged.

'Our dark knight mentioned to me that he thought you might need some help?'

So that was the reason for the hijack.

'Dark knight'?' I dodged gauchely.

'Father Gerry. Our caped crusader.' He wasn't fooled.

'He seems like a good guy,' I said.

'Oh, he is. One of the best. I worry about him, you know.'

'Why, in case he crashes that bike?'

'No, I trust in his reflexes and hope for the best. He's so gifted and dedicated. The motorbike is just his way - his lock on the world outside the cloister, his bridge to the other side. If he didn't have that I don't know what he would do.'

'Why do you worry about him, then?'

'Doing too much, working too hard. He never stops. I can't stop him. He just keeps pushing himself, and tries to carry everybody else. I gave him this harvest festival thing to organise, hoping it might make him drop one or two other things he'd got involved in, but no. I fear he's going to burn himself out.

'I expect he'll settle down, but until then I'll have to keep praying for him, otherwise he'll exhaust all his energies and his talents.'

The priest turned and beamed from under the craggy eyebrows.

'I gather he's adopted you as one of his causes. I asked him to bring you up to lunch.'

'I think I know what you're talking about. I told Gerry something which should perhaps be left unsaid.'

'Yes, he told me what you said, and he asked me what advice he should give you. On the question of curses and what-not.'

'He thought I was heading for a nervous breakdown.'

'Yes, I imagine he did. And does. I told him to bring you here for some peace and quiet.'

'That was really nice of you. I've enjoyed myself a lot,' I told him, genuinely.

'That must have come as a surprise,' he said, with uncanny accuracy.

'Well, I suppose you're right. I expected a lot of prayers and religious tedium.'

'That makes two of us. I expected that when I came here too,' he said, and laughed again.

Then his face went all serious again. 'Tell me about this curse,' he said quietly.

'Why do you want to know?' I asked.

'Let's say I'm curious,' he said, and one side of his mouth turned up in a half smile.

'Do you believe in curses?' I countered.

'I believe in a lot of things. Like you, I've travelled, and I've done some things that man shouldn't do to man. All a long time ago, of course. But I believe in good and I believe in evil.'

'I'm not sure what I believe in.'

'I also believe in history. And we have a lot of it here. This place has been inhabited by religious orders since the time of St Kentigern. They kept records, you know.'

'Records of what?'

'Oh, the usual things. Births, deaths, marriages. Harvests. Battles. Very efficient record keepers, were the old monks. Had a mania for writing things down.'

'Go on,' I urged.

'We have them all here. In our library. It's a hobby of mine, since I've been here, to acquaint myself with everything that's gone before. And in reading through all those old records, I've discovered that this place has had more than its fair share of turbulent times.

'I've got a roll of parchment skin that was written by a monk who was one of the few survivors of a famine in the seventh century here. He spoke of a plague of madness that afflicted the villagers, and said that the survivors had gathered here in the chapel to escape the curse. It is written in Latin mixed with Gaelic, so I dare say he was a local man. He said the ravener had awoken to steal the minds and souls of the people. At the time he wrote, there were sixty survivors in a village of seven hundred.'

'The bane,' I said.

'Yes. That's how he described it. A bane.'

'And do you take it seriously?'

'Let me say I don't close my mind to anything.'

'I'm surprised,' I told him.

'Oh, don't be surprised. I'm not superstitious, or a religious fanatic. Suffice it to say that I'm a man who has seen the effects of both sides and have chosen one.

'I believe in good, and I believe in evil, and there are many things that I cannot explain. And the trail of devastation that has centred on this little place is one of the things that I cannot explain.

'But if I believe in a good, and a God, then I must believe in the converse.'

'An evil force?'

'If you will. The archbishop would probably have me sent to Rome for decontamination, so I'd be obliged if this conversation was kept strictly off the record, for the moment, as you journalists like to put it.'

'I don't think anybody would believe it.'

'Quite.'

He paused again, gathering his thoughts.

'Father Gerry said you were concerned about some recent happenings.'

'Yes, I am.'

'Why?'

'It's a long story.'

'Well, if you're not in a hurry, sit down and tell me,' he said, taking my arm gently and leading me to a rustic bench that had been put together with natural branches of yew, and we sat down.

I told him everything. He just sat and nodded encouragingly as I started right at the beginning, the dreams, the deaths, the disappearances. My conversation with Kitty MacBeth and my study of Jimmy Allison's work. The dig and the discovery at Ardmhor. The legends, and the history. He soaked it all up like a computer assimilating data. At the end of it I asked: 'Do you think I'm cracking up?'

'No,' he said. 'I don't.'

The monsignor stood up when I had finished, and we started to wander around the flower beds again in the bright sunlight. The bees were toiling busily amongst the flowers in that little haven of serenity where I had spilled my soul about things that could not possibly be true in that place and on that day.

'Cu Saeng,' I said. 'Could such a thing be true?'

'Is there life beyond death?'

'I don't know,' I confessed.

'I do. Otherwise I wouldn't be a priest. But I don't believe that we have the monopoly on such knowledge. Christianity is such a young religion. But my God is not young, and neither is man in this place.

'If good and evil existed from the start, then even primitives were entitled to believe and worship. It does not matter to me, nor, I suppose, to God, what they called Him, or any manifestation of Him. The same goes for the dark side, and when a minion of evil is in the world, it is difficult to get him out again.'

'You believe that?'

'Read your Bible laddie, with an open mind. I don't expect anybody to take in the Old Testament word for word. But some of it must be true. The old legends have a basis in fact. Arthur found the secret of melting metal, and gave his people the sword that vanquished. Wotan climbed his tree to flee the wolves and hallucinated in thirst and became Odin. The legends couch what is true. Jesus Christ struggled with the Devil himself, and the Gazarene swine became lemmings.

'I ask you, what, under God's miracle that we call life, might not be true? Does the old battle still rage, or have good and evil so pervaded man that all is grey?'

'I don't know what to believe,' I admitted.

'Neither do I. But I am uneasy about what not to believe,' he said quietly.

'I've heard the phrase 'Bad Summer' before. Twice this year, from old people to whom I've given extreme unction, on their death beds. I'm aware of what has happened in this place of late, and it so resembles other times that I fear there is more than coincidence.

'That is why I am talking to you, alone, of this. Because I am afraid that there is something bad that must be fought, and I am considering how best to fight it.'

'You mean with prayer?'

'With whatever. I cannot say your Cu Saeng exists and that it is an evil entity. But I can say that there have been times when this place has suffered with an intensity and an agony that has recurred like a dormant disease, and something tells me that the illness is coming back with a vengeance.'

'That just about sums it up for me.'

'There is another reason that I asked Father Gerry to bring you up here,' he said, staring intently at me.

'I dreamt about you two nights ago.'

'About me?'

'Yes.'

'But we have never met before.'

'That's true. But I don't ask for a reason. I just accept the gift.'

'What did you dream?'

'I dreamed that you were standing by the bed of a stream with no water. Not as you are now, but as a child. But I knew who you were, and I knew that you needed my help, you and the others. A boy and a girl. There was a wind that was blowing trees down and I had to get to you to give my blessing, but my feet were stuck in mud and I couldn't reach you before the darkness came down and swallowed you up.

'I awoke in fear that I had failed.'

I stared at him in surprise.

'What were the others like?' I asked, stupidly.

'A girl with golden hair, and a boy with dark eyes and a bow in his hand. But I knew you.

'When Father Gerry spoke to me, I had a certainty that you were the child I had failed to reach. There's a miracle for you. When I met you today, I realised the truth of it. That's why I insisted that he bring you here to see me, especially when he told me of your troubles, and asked how he could help you.'

We had reached the wooden doorway of the walled garden, and the monsignor opened it to let me through. The gravel crunched under our feet as we walked towards the arched doorway of the main building.

'Now I've been given another chance,' the priest said as we walked inside and into the shade where the little statue of the Virgin was enthroned in beauty. He beckoned me over to a little font set in the wall and dipped his hand in. I could hear the splash as he raised his dripping lingers to my head and marked a cross on my forehead.

'Bear this blessing and take strength in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,' he said with a strength of feeling and such conviction that even the agnostic in me felt the power. It was like being charged with force.

The water dripped down between my eyes, but I ignored it. It was a strange moment, one that I will never forget, ever. At that moment there was a bond between me and that tough old, joyful, fearful, grizzled priest that was more than words could describe.

He had given me something. I didn't quite know what, but it was something special, his backing, and the backing of Whoever was backing him.

'Thank you, father,' I said.

'Call me AJ,' he said, chuckling. 'They all do behind my back. But remember, not a word to a soul, or they'll drum me out of the Brownies.'

I walked home. Gerry had disappeared somewhere and had not come back to give me a hair-raising ride home, for which I was duly thankful. As I strolled past the pillars which marked the entrance to the long drive, I thought about what the monsignor had said to me. Really, it was hard to believe that he had actually said it.

He had told me that I was not cracking up, not having a nervous breakdown. He, a man of God, mentor to dozens of young men who wished to become priests, had actually put some credence in the curse, the bane.

I didn't know whether to be elated that I had a fellow traveller, someone who was as rational as anybody can be, but who was prepared to say he believed there might be something happening in this place that was way beyond reality. I didn't know whether to be happy, or to be truly shit scared.

My strange talk with the priest, had left me a little bewildered, but a little stronger. Something bad was happening, something I couldn't identify, no matter what I'd been told. I still didn't really believe in the Cu Saeng, or demons or spirits. But like the priest, I had a certainty of foreboding badness seeping into Arden. Now I had an ally in that certainty.

Whether this made things better, or a whole lot worse now that somebody else had put credence in it, I was unsure.

As I walked in the sunlight, the water bottle banged against my hip.

Monsignor Cronin had blessed me, then taken me to his study and given me the old, worn, canvas covered bottle.

'Here take it. It's a memento of mine from the bad old days. It has seen me through a lot of dry spells. We get our font water from the spring at Strowan's Well. I've blessed you. Pass it on to the others if you can. I hope you won't need it, but it can't harm anybody.'

I took it, a bit nonplussed, and thanked him. I hadn't a clue what I was supposed to do with it then, but hindsight is a great clearer of mysteries.

12

The new road that would soon by-pass Arden was taking shape. Along much of the fifteen-mile length, rocks had been blasted and hardcore laid. It would become a two-lane dual carriageway to be used by the Ministry of Defence as their main transport route to the Trident base on the Kilcreggan peninsula.

On that sunny day, men were preparing to finish work on phase four, a two-mile stretch that skirted Cardross Hill to complete the sections between Levenford and Kirkland.

It had been a long and hard day for Bert Milne, a big, grizzled digger driver who had been at the controls of his yellow monster since lunch-time when he'd sat with his mates round a brazier that they'd made out of a fifty-gallon drum, punctured with a pickaxe and loaded with wood chips and any debris left from the land clearance. They had made thick tea in their smoke-blackened cans that hung over the flames, bubbling and frothing over in the red heat.

Bert Milne had sat down on a plank that was raised up on a couple of concrete kerb-stones and he had taken off his cap and mopped the sweat of his brow.

He had waited for his tea to infuse then he'd wolfed his big box of sandwiches with a fervour known only to those who work in the open air. Cheese and pickle, corned beef and pickle, and a great treat - tuna and pickle. The sub contractors, earning huge wealth from the defence work, were paying handsomely. Bert's wife could afford tuna.

He sat with his mates, big and bulky in his chequered shirt, savouring the tea and the sandwiches, the sun and the heat from the fire. He belched loudly and satisfyingly and swapped jokes. He had another cup, lifting his can off the coals with a deftness born of experience and thickly calloused working-man's hands which defied the scorching. He enjoyed the tea, and two unfiltered cigarettes, and when he'd finished he and his workmates went back to the job. Some to lay pipes for drainage, some to manhandle the heavy kerbs into position, and Bert to his JCB backhoe.

He sauntered along the dusty road to the end of the built-up section, then out on to the hardened mud where all morning he had been clearing debris from the base of a blasted rock face.

The engine roared into life seconds after he had heaved himself into the dusty and oily cabin and the shovel clanged down into position for the first thrust.

Bert liked his work, he could handle this big machine. It suited him. He was conscientious and drove the digger forward and backwards, pirouetting like a forty-ton ballet-dancer, moving mounds of rock.

His hands juggled with the controls as the sunlight streamed through the plexiglass window that was smeared with dust.

Bert worked and sweated all afternoon, feeling the throbbing of the great diesel engine underneath him. A slight case of haemorrhoids would start to give him gyp, no doubt, later on, a condition caused by sitting in his sweaty box all day long, but one which he bore with relatively cheerful stoicism.

Late in the afternoon, Bert's stomach started playing up. The muscles spasmed tightly, causing him to suddenly wince.

'Bloody pickles,' he muttered to himself in between trying to belch to ease the gripping pain. This action did not prevent him manoeuvring his big machine and lowering the jaw down for another foray into the mound of rubble.

The pain did not go away, and Bert began to feel nauseous. He started to sweat, not in the way he had been perspiring all afternoon, but coldly, all over his face and at the back of his neck and on his chest.

Then suddenly there was what felt like an enormous wrench deep inside his rib cage, a huge pain that caused him to lurch forward over the controls. Bert was dead before his face hit against the screen as the rupture in the big artery leading from the top of his heart spilled everything into his chest cavity.

The JCB had a life of its own.

Unguided, with Bert's body sprawled over the levers, the machine lurched forward, its jaw raised high. Instead of digging into the base of the mound, the flat plates of the caterpillar tracks carried its immense weight right up the side of the slope without faltering. Then as it neared the top, it began to slew sideways.

It seemed to pause on the crest, then with a screech of metal on stone it turned and started to tumble. The jaw slammed against the crumbling face and a welter of rock broke away, big jagged stones that battered against the cab. The machine just rolled over in a slow motion action and hit the near edge of the face, bringing down an avalanche. Then it and the rocks that had dislodged crashed down into the little stream below.

When the dust cleared, the men who had started running even before the digger had started to topple, were sliding down the scree of the new slope, in the rubble that half covered the JCB lying on its side where the stream had flowed. By the time they had prised off the loose rocks and hauled Bert Milne's body out of the wreckage, the water was brown with silt and had started backing up in a deepening pool.

The yard-wide steel and concrete pipe that had carried the water from further up the gully cut into the hillside was plugged tight with stones and shattered rock, mixed with mud and clay.

By evening, after the ambulance had come and gone, the backed-up water spilled over the low edge of the gully and found a new way out into a drainage ditch that had been cut and cleared along the length of the roadway to carry off the spill water from the hill. The ditch travelled more than half a mile, taking the extra load easily until it reached the Kilmalid Burn, the largest of the four streams that passed within the boundaries of Arden.

The silted water soon cleared and the Kilmalid took the water of both streams now instead of one, down its steeply etched valley past the grey concrete council houses and under the bridge on the Kilcreggan Road. It meandered more slowly now alongside the pigeon huts and shacks of the shore side of the Milligs, and out into the flat expanse of the mudflats, midway between the long rifle barrel of the sewage pipe and Ardmhor Rock. Then it drained into the firth and was dissipated in the salt water.

Below the backed-up pool, downstream from where the plugged pipe, the clear waters of Strowan's Well ran more slowly, became a trickle that quickly drained away, leaving a punctuation of shallow pools that trapped some small trout. Through the good farmland the waters diminished and died away, and the silver fork of the stream that cut across the Ardhmor peninsula east and west became a patchy ditch of still water that began to evaporate as soon as the sun rose in the morning.

By nightfall on the following day the bed of the stream was just muddy and moist. Two days later it was dry.

Kitty MacBeth would have been the first to notice the disappearance of the water of Strowan's Well from her vigil watchpost on the point. But on the night that Bert Milne died in the cabin of his digger, the old woman took ill with what she thought was a summer cold, and took to her bed. Two days later, racked with a cough that seared her throat, and running a fever, she could hardly move.

That's how I found her in her neat little shack, shivering and coughing under the pile of blankets. There was no fire under the kettle and no air in the cramped space.

I knocked several times on the hardwood door that had in a former life graced a more imposing homestead, but there was no reply at all. I assumed the old woman had gone beachcombing and was about to leave when I heard a weak, rasping cough. I stood on some of the logs that she had collected for firewood and had to rub the dust off the glass to peer inside.

It took a few moments for my eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom, and at first I saw nothing, then I noticed the shape under the pile of blankets. I knocked on the window with a knuckle, but there was no further response, not even a cough.

The big door looked as if it was going to take a lot of shouldering to get it open, but it didn't. I turned the handle and it opened with hardly a creak. It wasn't locked.

Inside, the air was foul, reeking of damp and sweat and more besides. I crossed over to where Kitty's pallet was tucked in against the wall and pulled a blanket back from her face.

Ghastly is the only way to tell you how she looked. In the couple of days since I'd seen her she had lost a deal of weight, and her eyes were sunken into sockets that seemed much too large to hold them. They had lost their sparkle, and only stared in a dull, confused way. Her hair was lank, and her neck was like a chicken, scrawny and scraggy. A pulse beat in one of the blue veins that stood out against the pallor of her skin.

I took hold of her right hand that was up close to her neck and she tried to grip mine, but there was no strength at all in the grasp. The movement ended almost as soon as it began. I could feel the heat from her body coming off her like a radiator.

'Kitty,' I said, bending low to speak.

Her eyes swivelled in their sockets, coming to rest, slowly, on mine. For a moment there was nothing, then a brief, tired moment of recognition before they glazed over again. She coughed, and the sound seemed to be coming from way down deep inside.

'Sick,' she murmured. 'Got sick.'

'Yes, I know you're sick. I've got to get a doctor,' I said quickly.

'Doctor. Yes. Please.' The words were just a dry whisper, but again I felt the pressure of her hand tighten on mine. I pulled away gently and tucked the blankets around her as tightly as possible. In the few moments it took, the old woman had drifted off to sleep.

The mile from Kitty's shack to my house was possibly the quickest I've run since I was a kid. By the time I got there I was panting like a dog, and I had to lean against the lintel to get my breath back before I could get my key into the lock. I barged in and ran through to the study where the phone was, and picked up the receiver to dial.

I just got straight on to emergency services and asked them to send an ambulance, then I ran all the way back down to Kitty's place, albeit at a much slower pace, promising myself that I must do something to get myself as fit as I should be.

The ambulance managed to get within a quarter of a mile of the shack, and quite quickly too, before the two men had to get out and foot the rest, carrying their stretcher between them. I had told the operator that an old woman was dying and needed a stretcher. For all I knew she was, but I didn't want to take any chances. Once inside the shack, the men were briskly efficient, checking pulse and heart rate almost at the same time as they lifted Kitty out of the bed and on to the stretcher.

'Dehydrated,' the older of the two said. 'She's pretty weak.'

'Any idea how long she's been like this?' asked the other. I shook my head.

'We'll get her on a drip as soon as we get to the van. Do you want to ride with us?'

'Yes, of course. Thanks.'

I helped spell the older man along the track and through the beechwood to where the ambulance was parked. Kitty didn't stir.

As soon as we got there and put Kitty inside, one of the men ran round and started up immediately, while his partner hauled over some sort of intravenous array and affixed it to Kitty's arm. It looked yellow and thin, and the veins were sticking out clearly from the surface. I suppose that it made the job of getting the needle inserted a lot easier.

'What is that stuff?' I asked.

'Just a saline solution with some vitamins. I can't give her anything else until she's been examined, but saline will thin her blood. Make it flow easier.'

The journey to the little cottage hospital on the west of Westbay took ten minutes at the most, and within fifteen minutes Kitty was getting checked out by the youngish doctor. His work took less than half an hour, and when he came out he called me across from where I was sitting in the little waiting room. Through in his tiny office, he told me that Kitty had a temperature of a hundred and four, was thoroughly dehydrated as the paramedics had suspected, and had swollen lymph-nodes in various locations on her body.

'Too early to say at the moment, but possibly some sort of virus,' he said. 'We'll have to keep her here of course.'

I nodded.

'I'll need some personal details,' he said.

'I don't know how much I can help you there.'

'Oh? I thought she was your .... '

'Friend. No relation. I can tell you how old she is, and where she lives, and her name. Not much more than that.'

'Well, it'll do for a start. Do you know if she has any relatives in the area?'

'No, she has none that I know of. But if there's anything that's needed, I'll be available. You can put me down as next of kin for practical purposes.' '

'I thought you said there was no relation,' he said, looking bemusedly over the top of his bi-focals.

'Well there isn't really, but I suppose I'm all she's got.'

That seemed to satisfy the bureaucrat in him and he filled in a little form as I supplied him with what little information I had. Later he let me in to see the old woman. She was cleaner than before, but just as pallid against the white linen of the hospital sheets. I could see the orbs of her eyes move under the delicate thin eyelids. I sat myself down by the bed and was just looking at her when the eyes slowly opened.

She raised a hand that was pinned with the intravenous drip, so I leaned forward and held it still, hushing for her to relax in the way they do on television. She eased her head round slowly to face me.

'Wooden box. Under bed,' she whispered hoarsely. 'Take it. Use it.'

'Later. Talk later. Just rest now.'

'No. Now. Take it. Use it!' she said, with as much vehemence as she could muster. I could see that even that effort drained her.

'All right, Kitty. I will,' I assured her. Her eyes started to close, then they snapped open, gleaming brightly for an instant, beaming the full blue straight into mine.

'The walls,' she hissed. 'You take care of the walls!'

For the third time that day, I went down to the point. This time I walked, feeling depressed and oppressed. I knew inside myself that the old woman was seriously ill, and for some reason I found a weight of responsibility on my shoulders, although I was unsure what I should feel responsible for.

I wandered, hands deep in the pockets of my bomber-jacket, in the shade of the beech trees, along the path that skirted the shore. I stopped for a few minutes beside the big standing stone where the old woman had shown me the inscription on the standing stone. The small part she had scraped away with the dogfish skin was still lighter than the rest, but already the lichen was returning in a thin sheen of green. The script was invisible again. Had it been real?

Had it?

Kitty's shack door was open. I must have forgotten to close it in my haste to get her to the ambulance. Inside, the little packed room was well aired. The stench of sweat and illness had blown out of the door and had been replaced with a fresher air brought in on the light sea breeze.

To tell you the truth, I felt a bit ghoulish, but I had made a promise. I tend to keep them. Kitty had told me to find her box. It was under the bed where she'd said it would be.

It was small and very old, made of a polished hardwood that had been etched in a Celtic pattern all over its surface. There was a hole for a key, but the box was not locked. I lifted the lid a fraction, then lowered it again. I didn't feel like poring through the old woman's possessions inside her home.

I decided to take it back to my place although, in fact, I would have preferred to leave it where it was until the old woman came out of hospital.

There was a big key hanging on the back of the door, which fitted the mortise lock. I turned it twice, hearing the clicks that would secure Kitty's home from any but the determined, and I gathered there would not be many of those in Arden. I hefted the solid little box under my arm, and was about to head back along the track to the stone and up to Westbay again when I heard a shout in the distance. Someone was calling my name.

'Hold on, Nick,' the voice came from the shore, carrying clearly from halfway along the curve, close to where the sand gave way to the marshes.

I raised a hand over my eyes to ward off the glare, and saw the figure striding towards me. I didn't recognise him and I remember thinking he must have bloody good eyesight if he could make me out at that distance. I watched as the man walked steadily across the sand, his feet kicking up little plumes of the line grains. At about half the distance, I recognised the major, Donald MacDonald, the old soldier, and Gaelic singer, who was a friend of Jimmy Allison.

He waved when he was closer, and there was a smile on his broad face.

'Housebreaking or socialising'?' he asked.

'A bit of both ,' I said. 'The old woman took ill today. I got her up to the hospital.'

'Och, that's sad. She's a fine old one, that,' Donald said, 'despite what they say about her.'

'She asked me to come down and collect something for her.'

Donald nodded, accepting my explanation. He was wearing a peaked hunter's hat that was camouflaged just like his sleeveless jacket. Around his neck hung a pair of Zeiss binoculars that looked powerful and heavy.

'I often drop in to see the old lady when I'm here,' he said. 'Makes me a nice cup of tea and doesn't complain when I put a wee dram in it neither.'

He hefted the binoculars. They explained how he'd been able to recognise me from the far side of the bay.

'The birds, you know,' he said by way of explanation.

'Oh, I didn't know you were an ornithologist,'

'More just an observer. It's been a passion with me since I was a boy on the islands. And here is a wonderful place for the birds.'

He nodded back in the direction from which he'd come. 'Do you know we have an avocet there?' Noting my expression, he went on: 'No, you wouldn't. And nobody else does, either, except for the old lady. She knows them all.'

The major reached into one of the dozen or so pockets that patched his jacket and pulled out a little silver flask. He offered me a taste and didn't mind when I declined. He sat himself down on a flat stone a few yards from the shack, where the grass of the point gave way to the stone dip that led down to the water's edge, and took a little swallow, smacking his lips with relish.

He gazed over the water of the bay out into the firth. The hulk of the Cassandra was a black curve in the silver blue, a reminder of the big storm. Between the shipwreck and Ardmhor, the water was calm, with hardly a ripple from the light sea breeze. Much further out there were two black buoys that marked the north sides of the shipping lanes for the boats heading for Glasgow.

Nearer in, about a mile offshore, a small dinghy was moored at anchor. I could just make out the yellow jacket of the angler, sitting hunched in the thwarts, and if I strained hard I could see the rod he held over the side.

'That's the life,' Donald said. 'That and sailing and the wildlife. Give me them and a dram and some good singing company, and I'll never need anything else.'

I nodded in agreement. There were a few other things in life that I would have thrown in for good measure, like books and women and cold beer, but Donald was on the right track anyway.

'Oh, by the way,' he said, 'I'm planning to sail up to the islands in a couple of weeks. Do you still want to come with me?'

'Yes, I'd love to. I could use the break. When are you planning to go?'

'Soon. Soon. They're just putting a new skin of paint on the old boat, so I'm planning to be away by the end of the month. Mind you, you'll have to work for your holiday. I need some young muscle.'

'Well, if you don't mind showing me the ropes. It's been a long time since I did any serious sailing.'

'Och, I'm only joking.' he said. In his accent, it came out like 'choking'. 'I don't believe in all that heave-ho stuff. I've got a diesel engine in that beauty that would drive a bus to the islands. No, you come along for the company. Just as long as you can put up with my singing.'

'I think I'd rather be keel-hauled,' I told him, and he laughed so hard he almost choked on his whisky. When his laughter subsided, and he wiped his eyes, Donald was about to say something else when out in the bay a movement caught his eye, and he raised an arm to point it out to me.

'Look, over there,' he said. 'The gannets. Just off the rock.'

Again I had to strain against the glare, looking out to where his finger was pointing. At first I saw nothing, then a flash of white silver twinkled out over the water. A small flock of gannets were wheeling in the air over what must have been a shoal of sprats.

They spun and turned, then, with their wings folded, they dropped like arrows, plunging into the blue water, sending up tiny explosions of gleaming silver.

'Ah, the lovely birds,' Donald said. He had his binoculars up to his eyes and was staring intently across the water, gently turning the focusing ring with his linger.

'Oh, look at that,' he muttered. 'Beautiful.'

To me they were just white dots in the distance. He was getting a close-up view. He stared for a few minutes, then realised the scene was practically lost on me because of the distance.

'Here, you have a look,' he said, handing the glasses over.

I put them up to my eyes, and the white dots swam into focus as big white birds. The binoculars were truly powerful. At that distance I could make out the yellow spears of their beaks and the black lines across their eyes as they wheeled in the air, catching the sun on their snow-white feathers.

With the glasses, I could easily follow the trajectory as one bird wheeled then dived to spear the water like a missile, leaving nothing but a spray of spume. Perfectly designed bodies and beaks hunting through the shoal, the gannets were a beautiful sight.

'He won't be a happy man,' Donald said.

'Who?' I asked, still taking in the wheeling, plunging scene.

'The fisherman,' he said. 'He's in amongst them. They'll be scaring his catch away. He'll be cursing the birds.'

I handed Donald back the glasses and he swung them up to his eyes. Looking out, I could make out the flock - how small they were in the distance without the Zeiss's powerful magnification - now hunting close to the boat. '

'Ha, I was right. He's trying to wave them away,' Donald snorted. From out across the bay I could hear a faint noise. The angler was shouting at the birds that were wrecking his day. I saw some splashes close to the boat and turned to Donald, hoping for another shot of the glasses. The man's face could probably be picked out by the lenses.

But even as I turned, the expression on Donald's face suddenly changed. His jaw dropped open and he let out a grunt of surprise.

'Good God would you. . . ?' His voice trailed away. 'Dear God ... it can't be .... '

'What's wrong?' I asked.

'The birds. The birds. They're . . . they're .... '

'They're what?' I asked. I hadn't a clue.

'Look. Oh dear God. I don't believe it.'

I snatched the glasses out of his hands. In the split second before I raised them to my own eyes, I caught a glimpse of Donald. His face was white. His mouth hung open in a slack circle and his eyes were wide.

Again the white birds zoomed into view against the blue of the sky. I followed them down again and what I saw made my heart lurch so hard I almost dropped the glasses. Out there, nearly a mile from where we sat, the birds were spearing down out of the sky, but their target was not the shoal of sprats.

Their wings folded against their sides, they were lancing down with those great stabbing beaks and spearing into the fisherman in the boat.

As I watched, one bird plunged, its neck outstretched, and hit the man on the shoulder with a thump that I could feel across the distance. The beak drove straight through the coat and into the flesh and a gout of blood spattered both coat and the bird's feathers. The wings beat for a second, and stopped, beak still stabbed inside the man's body. Through the glasses I could see him waving his hand frantically as more gannets lanced down.

One of them hit the boat with a thump that I did hear, rolling in across the distance. Another shot down and hit the man's stomach, and a scream, faint in the distance, but loud as all hell in my ears, came rending across on the wake of the other sound.

My eyes were jammed up against the glasses, mesmerised with the horror that was going on out there on the bay. Beside me I was dimly aware of Donald muttering curses and prayers, all in a jumble.

A white bird shot across my field of vision, driving its beak into the bottom of the little wooden boat that was now rocking violently on the still water. The muffled thump of the impact came again. The man in the boat was jerking about, all red and yellow. I couldn't make out his face, which was turned away from me, but I could see his jaw working, stretching his mouth wide in what must have been a scream. Just then his head turned towards me, splattered with blood, and as it did there was a flurry of white as another gannet plunged down. Its spear of a beak plunged straight across my line of sight, driving with phenomenal accuracy into the circular target that was the man's open mouth.

The angler's head snapped back.

I dropped the glasses from my eyes, the spell broken. Something inside my stomach gave way and my lunch promptly expelled itself, on to the rock where I sat.

'Oh, fuck,' I said, helplessly.

Donald was staring out across the bay. His eyes were still wide and he was shaking his head slowly, as if to deny the reality of what he had just seen.

Bile burned in my throat.

'They can't do that,' Donald said in a voice that was just a moan. 'Gannets don't do that.'

I couldn't think of anything to say. There were just no words, just pictures in my head, instant action replays of what we had just seen. My stomach lurched and heaved again, but there was nothing left.

Out in the bay, the action had stopped. Donald reached over and slowly took the glasses from my hands, prising them slowly out of my numb fingers, and raised them again, almost fearfully, to his eyes.

'It's stopped,' he said. 'They're all dead. And so is he. It's all wrong. Just wrong.'

He stared through the glasses for a long time, then he said: 'It's sinking. The boat. It's going down.'

He handed me the glasses again. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't stop myself.

The scene swam into focus. Only minutes before it had been a picture of nature's beauty. The wheeling and diving of the beautiful white birds, so fitted for their way of life.

Now there was a little boat, listing to one side, and in it was a red and white and yellow mess, tattered feathers and tattered clothing, the bodies of the birds and man bent and broken and torn.

As I watched, the boat sank further in the water, tilting slowly until one gunwale was beneath the surface. Then it seemed to heave and in seconds it had disappeared, leaving a faint streak of pink in the water.

Them the surface became calm again.

There was nothing there, except for a few white and red feathers floating on the surface, and soon scattered by the gentle breeze.

'Here. Take the glasses. There's nothing left,' I said, handing them back to Donald. He was still shaking his head numbly.

'How could that have happened?'

'I don't know,' I said. I was lying. There was no coincidence in this at all. Right at that moment I almost got a full-focus glimpse of the big picture. Almost, but not quite.

'We'd better go and tell them about this,' Donald said.

'I don't think they'll believe us,' I told him. 'But we have to, anyway. We have to.' Donald's face was chalk white. That terrible scene had robbed him of his appreciation of the wonders of nature. It had stolen his picture of the rightness of things, the beauty of the natural world.

It was only adding to my picture of one that was not natural at all.

Murdo Morrison, the sergeant up at the little police station, took our statements, slowly writing down everything we said in his neat, painstaking way, occasionally looking up, and glancing from Donald to me and back down at his sheet.

'And you say the birds attacked him?' he asked.

'That's right,' Donald said. The shock had begun to wear off a bit. 'Gannets.'

'Gannets actually flew down and, er, hit him? Stabbed him with their beaks?'

'That's what happened.'

'But seabirds don't do that.'

'Well, they do now,' Donald said, almost angrily. 'I've been watching the birds for forty years and they never did that before, not until today. But it happened.' Donald's voice had risen steadily during that statement.

'All right, don't get yourself all worked up. I didn't say I don't believe you,' Murdo said. He hadn't said it, but he certainly didn't believe it.

I noticed when he was questioning me that he leaned in very close, as if to pick out every word. It was only later I realised he was trying to smell my breath. He probably caught a sniff of Donald's whisky, but there was nothing on me, and I knew, and it should have been apparent, despite the tale both of us were trying to tell him, that Donald was as sober than he'd ever been in his life.

Murdo took our statement, then said he'd be in touch. Donald asked him what he was going to do, and the policeman said he'd send out the inshore lifeboat to have a look round. He was as good as his word. Dave King took the boat out and quartered the calm bay for hours, and came up with nothing, not a sign. Murdo had quite wisely told him only that a boat had been in difficulties. He hadn't mentioned anything about gannets. Donald and I told the lifeboat cox exactly where the fishing boat had sunk, and the orange inflatable crisscrossed the area in ever widening circles until it had checked out the whole of the bay.

But they found nothing.

Murdo called us back to the station that night and asked us to go through it with him again. We did. He asked us straight if we had been drinking, or smoking anything unusual. No, we told him, we hadn't. He looked as bewildered as a big, canny village policeman could manage. What we had told him took a lot of believing.

The next morning we were back in his office at his request. He wanted us to describe the boat, which we did in a limited fashion. You don't remember paint colours when a flock of birds are breaking all the laws of nature and spearing a man to death. We could tell him roughly what the boat was like, and what the man seemed to be wearing.

He wrote all this down again on the forms, nodding to himself as he did so.

When he had finished, he looked up and said: 'It's a strange tale to be coming to me with.'

'I know that Murdo. A terrible tale. But it's the truth,' Donald assured him.

'Aye, well maybe it is. And before you say I'm calling you a liar just let me finish,' he said, and Donald sat back in his chair.

'I can't say you didn't see something out there, but I've got to tell you I'm not happy about sending this report to the fiscal. Not yet anyway, until there's something to show from the search. So I'll hold on to it for a day or two, just in case.'

'That's fine with me,' I said, wearily. 'I didn't think anybody would believe us.'

'Well, that's another matter. But in the meantime, we've got a search going on. It seems that one of Davy McGlynn's boats was hired out yesterday and the man hasn't brought it back. A Glasgow fellow down for a day's fishing. Davy tells me he was wearing a yellow oilskin.'

'That'll be the man,' Donald came in. 'A yellow coat with a hood.'

'Aye, that's what it seems like. We'll keep looking, but as a favour to me I'd like you to keep your story just between the three of us, just in case there's been a mistake.'

I agreed for the both of us and got Donald out of there before he started on the sergeant. The island man was stocky and strong, but I could see he was still carrying the vision of what had happened out there on the bay, and he didn't like anybody telling him he'd made a mistake.

The search went on and Davy McGlynn's little dinghy didn't show up. There was not a trace of it, or the Glasgow man who had hired it for his fishing. Nobody was reported missing.

But other events left the incident behind.

It was not until November that the currents threw the boat up on the rocks at Kilcreggan, some miles away. And on the same rocks, a bunch of children found the remains of the fisherman, and the remains of the birds, still tangled and nailed together in death as they had been on the day when Donald and I had watched the man die in agony and terror.

By then, there was no point in telling Murdo we had told him so.

13

Kitty's box lay on the dresser beside my bed until the night after Murdo Morrison told us about the missing angler.

In the afternoon I had visited her in hospital, but she was asleep the whole time, lying gaunt and frail, still with a drip connected to the vein in her hand, and a new tube that they'd put in her nostril. Doctor Goodwin, the man I'd spoken to before, met me in the passing in the corridor outside, just as I was leaving. I stopped him briefly to ask about Kitty's condition.

He hummed and hawed a bit, taking off his glasses and putting them back on again. 'We're not quite sure yet,' he finally said. 'My first diagnosis was some sort of meningococcal infection, or inflammation, but the tests haven't shown anything so far. She's got a high temperature and a severe loss of body fluids, and of course, she's very weak. I'll need some more time before we know for sure.'

He hurried away and disappeared beyond two fire doors that swished shut behind him.

I went home and opened her little box.

Inside, it was plain red wood, and it contained an odd jumble of bits and pieces, objects of interest that she had no doubt picked up along her way.

There was a little book, bound in leather, with pages written in a neat, tight script, the early ones faded to light blue and even brown in some cases. The newer entries got bolder until, towards the end, they were sharply delineated in black.

There were some small, water-smoothed stones, of varying colours, that had been beautifully etched with patterns of animals. I wondered if she had worked those stones herself, or found them on the shore. There was a piece of amber, which I recognised, for amber is one of my favourite stones. This one had been cut in a flat cabochon, and at first I thought there was a flaw on the major, fiat plane. But I was wrong. Inside was a fly, embedded in the clear stone, perfect and undamaged as it had been at the moment of its death millions of years before.

It was the name on the white envelope that caught my eye, as I curiously rummaged - still feeling graverobber's guilt - among the contents.

My name, written again in that neat script. The words had rung in my subconscious even before I had actually looked at them, in the way that a phrase will stick in your mind as your eye flicks over a newspaper, caught in a flash of peripheral vision.

Nicholas Westford Ryan

I picked out the envelope and looked at it, blankly, for a moment or two. There was no other message, just my name.

In my drawer by the bedside, there was an old horn-handled penknife that my grandfather had given me as a youngster. The blade was still sharp from years of honing, and the curved handle was smoothly worn from a lifetime's handling. It had a small, silver shield embedded in the horn, with the initials N.W. intertwined in flowing calligraphy. I'd had that knife on or about me since I was little, when my grandfather had overruled my mother's objections about little boys with knives, and had presented me with the knife I had envied.

The biggest of the three slim blades snicked open with a flick of a thumbnail and I eased it along the top fold, slicing the envelope cleanly on the edge. Inside there were a number of pages of plain white paper, and I started to read.

Nick,

So much to say and so little time to say it. You are reading this, so therefore assume that I am gone on the long journey. Tonight, my bones ache and I'm cold. It will not be long. I have seen it coming, and seen other things besides.

The long night is beginning in this place, as it has before. I fear the morning will be long in coming. But if you are the one, then the dawn will come.

Watch the walls. Watch the walls, as I have watched them these eighty years. They are for you and the others, the rings to bind the Cu Saeng. Those fools that dig do not know what they do.

Put back the stones, as I did. Plant the haw berries as I have. This is important. Watch the walls.

Now. You still see but your eyes have no vision. The vision will come. Read the book, it has my history. And that is your history. If only I had the time to teach you the writing on the stone. Then you would see.

In 1991, when I lifted you out from the rocks, you and the others had almost died. Look in the box and you will find the stone that you had in your hand. Remember! It is an old stone. It is yourstone.

Take it.

Take also the torc, that was my mother's, and her mother's back to the time of Cu-Chulain. The torc protects. Take it.

Remember. You watch the walls. You are the walls. And I will watch you from where I am.

Your friend.

Catriona O'Connor MacBeatha

I read the page over again a couple of times. Kitty obviously thought she was dying. From the look of her, pale and still on that hospital bed, she was in no great shape.

But what did the letter mean? I knew what she was getting at. But what did she really want me to do? After watching those seabirds out there on the water, I was stunned and shaken and horrified enough to realise that my feeling of impending doom was rapidly racing towards proof. What I had seen had shaken my belief in the rightness of things, as it had with the tough little soldier who had witnessed it with me.

The unnatural had happened, the unthinkable.

But what was I to do about it? I must confess that I was still floundering in a miasma, feet clogged in the mire.

I folded the letter neatly, and slotted it back into the envelope, which I put on the dresser. As I leaned across, something else caught my eye among the tangle in the box. Gold. I reached down and lifted it from the odds and ends. It was a thin, gold rod that had a ball at each end and had been curved until the two golden spheres almost met each other in a near-complete circle.

A torc. A Celtic circlet. Beautiful in the simplicity of its design.

I had seen one similar to this in the museum in Glasgow, but that one had been slightly dented and scratched from eons underground. This one was gleaming and glowing with a purity that spoke of real, unmixed gold, delicate and strong. It could have been made by a craftsman only yesterday.

I had no reason to doubt that this was the torc that Kitty had told me to have, and I had less reason to doubt that it had been in her family for generations. How many I couldn't begin to count. And it had been passed on to me by that old lady who was lying sick and maybe dying in the cottage hospital. I laid it beside the letter and went back to the box.

I moved aside some of the polished stones, granite and feldspar, maybe a smooth garnet. There was an old, gold wedding ring that looked its age. Was it Kitty's? Had she been married?

The box tilted slightly, and something heavy and black slid from one corner to the other, clunking solidly as it connected with the wooden side. I picked it out, hefting its weight in my hand. It was a flat, black stone, almost the size of my hand, smooth as glass and wedge shaped. The thinner end of the wedge had been smoothed and worked to a sharp edge, just like a spear-head.

Just as I thought that, I realised that was exactly what it was - an obsidian spear-head, worked by a stone-age craftsman from volcanic glass, shiny and perfect. A work of art, warming in the perfect fit of my hand.

I had seen one of these before, somewhere. Where? When? I could not remember, but there was something stirring at the back of my mind. I stared at the beautiful stone in my hand, and there was a soft click deep inside, as a door opened in my mind and light started to shine through.

14

Summer 1991.

Sausages sizzled in the bottom of the old, battered frying pan, sending up a delicious aroma that combined with the oak twigs that hardly smoked at all as they burnt in the little circle of stones.

'Sausages is the boys,' Colin said, sniffing the tang of crackling fat. He was stirring the embers on the other side of the fire to make a flat space for the equally battered little saucepan that was filled with baked beans.

'I'm starving,' I said. 'I haven't eaten for hours.' That wasn't exactly true, but it sure felt like it.

'Real commandos can go for days without food, and still fight,' Colin asserted. Today he was a commando. Today, we were on a three-man mission of derring-do. Our gang hut was now our foxhole beside the stream. Sausages and beans were iron rations. My bow was a rifle. Colin's spear of rowan was a bayonet. Barbara was so far unarmed, because her father had confiscated her slingshot after he'd lost a pane of glass in his greenhouse. That miss-hit had almost put paid to our adventure in the woods at Strowan's Well.

Doctor Foster disapproved of his daughter hanging around with the likes of us kids from down the hill, but we kept a diplomatic distance between ourselves and him, and the one-and-onlies were still a threesome.

'They live off the land, ' Colin said. 'You can send them anywhere and they can find their own food, rabbits and deer and everything.'

'And berries and mushrooms, ' Barbara said. 'I can find berries and mushrooms. '

'Berries don 't go with sausages,' I chipped in.

'But mushrooms do,' Barbara said. 'I know where there's plenty. I could live off the land. '

'They're probably poisonous toadstools,' I told her. Barbara was already starting off down the path. 'Some of them can kill you just by looking at them,'

'Naw, you have to touch them first, ' Colin argued. 'And then you can make a cut where you've been touched and suck out all the poison.'

'What about the poison in your mouth? '

'That's easy. You just spit it out. '

'I don't fancy that much. If you touch one of them, you can suck your own poison out. '

'Some commando you are, ' Colin snorted. 'They're supposed to defend each other to the death. '

'What if your tongue got poisoned when you sucked it out? '

'Then you'd go dumb, dummy. 'And then you wouldn't be able to ask a lot of stupid questions.'

He got a slender stick and started rolling the pink sausages over, exposing the dark brown, sizzling undersides. Then with the same stick he stirred the beans. They were just starting to bubble.

'Look what I've got, ' Barbara called from a little way down the track. 'There's hundreds. '

She came striding up, bright and smiling, her hair bobbing with her gait. She had an armful of big oatmeal-capped mushrooms.

'They're toadstools,' I said. 'They'll make you dumb.'

'Don't be daft, that's only after you suck the poison out,' Colin retorted.

'No, they're mushrooms,' Barbara said. 'They're just the same as the ones my mum gets. Isn't that right, Colin? ' she added, looking to him for support.

Colin stood up, backing away from the fire, and he wiped the smoke out of his eyes. His face was streaked with the tears from when we first lit the fire and the smoke had billowed into all our faces.

'Let me see, ' he said. Barbara knelt down and let her load spill onto the grass.

'They look all right to me,' Colin announced. 'My Aunt May picks mushrooms up here, and they 're just the same as them. They're okay.'

To prove it, he picked up one of the big mushrooms and sniffed it, then bit a piece off chewing quickly, like an expert tasting truffles.

His tongue didn't go black at all and that settled it.

I used my penknife and sliced up the caps and we threw a lot of them into the fat with the sausages. They quickly went from white to grey, fat mushroom steaks that added their tantalising smell to the already mouthwatering mix.

We ate the lot, along with the beans and the sausages, scooping them out of the pans and on to the enamelled tin plates that formed part of our survival cache in the little hidden lean-to. Every mouthful was a delight. Afterwards, Barbara brewed up some tea in an old tin with a wire handle. We debated as to how much tea we should put in, because none of us were experts in that field, and there was a brief argument over who forgot the milk, but the argument faded as we sat in the shade and scalded our mouths on the tarry brew.

We decided to wait until it had cooled dawn. The plates were lying at the edge of the stream, lightly covered in the gravel which would help scour them clean of our outdoors dinner. Colin asked to borrow my knife and I warned him not to lose it and he promised to guard it with his life. He strode down to the stream edge and cut off a stem of saxifrage that swayed over the water of a sunlit pool. He brought it back to where Barbara and I were gingerly taking sips from the smoke-blackened tin.

'Making a peashooter?' I asked. Colin cut the corrugated hollow stem into a little open-ended tube.

'Nope.'

'What then? ' I asked.

'Wait and see, nosey,' he said, cutting the fragile tube with the sharp blade. Barbara and I watched as he took a piece of bread from the slices I'd filched from the kitchen and nipped off a morsel between his finger and thumb. This he jammed into the base of the tube.

'Right, now watch this,' he said. Colin took the bag of tea and poured some out into his hand. He concentrated on the delicate task of funnelling the tea into the open end. When he was done, he reached over to the fire, shielding his face from the heat of the flame, and stuck the thing into the red base where the coals gleamed red. It immediately started to smoulder and he hissed as the heat started to sear his hand. He pulled back quickly.

'Right. Watch this.' He sat back against the bole of the tree and put the end in his mouth. From where I sat, only a foot or so away, I could smell the aniseed aroma of the smouldering plant, and another, bitter-sweet smell which I assumed was the tea. Colin sucked hard through the plug of bread, and we watched in amazement when he blew out a thick cloud of blue.

'Great smoke,' he said, and then coughed a little.

'Where did you learn that?' I asked. 'I didn't know you smoked.'

'Trade secret, ' Colin said. 'Want to try it?'

Barbara screwed up her nose, then reached out and took the smouldering stem from Colin. She sucked in hard, and then went into a paroxysm of coughing.

'Too much,' he said, and started pounding on the back. As far I could see it wasn't helping the cough any. Colin took back his home-made cigar and said, 'Watch this.' He put it to his lips and his cheeks caved in with the vacuum. Then, to our astonishment, he blew out two blue plumes of smoke from his nostrils. It reminded me of a picture in a book where a dragon puffed out jets, and I started to giggle.

'Here, you try it, ' he said, and handed it to me. I did. There was a definite aniseed taste from the smoke, and another that was strange, and not at all unpleasant. As soon as the smoke filled my mouth, I could feel saliva welling up, and when I blew out the cloud, I had an immediate need to spit. It landed on one of the hot stones and sizzled loudly.

Barbara had another try, and this time she didn't cough, then we all had shots each, passing it around like I would much later in sociable company.

'Right. Take in some smoke. Not too much,' Colin said, demonstrating. His voice was wheezy when his cheeks were full of fumes. 'Then, suck in.'

He took a big breath and it all disappeared inside him. When he blew it out again, it was grey, not blue. I wondered how that happened. It took Barbara three tries, and me five, to get the hang of it. The smoke burned my throat, and I could feel my lungs starting to swell, but it was a nice sensation. The saliva ran, and we all spat intermittently into the fire.

I blew a smoke ring, and the other two fell about, helpless with laughter. I tried, but I couldn't repeat the action. We giggled together, sharing the tea-filled steam, and didn't notice at all that everything was getting hazy.

'Great shmoke,' Barbara said, and Colin nearly wet his jeans.

'Triffic, ' I agreed, to another gale of laughter. Colin laughed so hard he fell over, and lay staring up into the trees, his belly shaking in spasms. I leaned back against the tree and wondered why everything went in and out of focus. Barbara, who had been sitting on a gnarled root, slowly slid off landing with a gentle thud on the dry grass, and that set us all off again.

And a few moments later, the world started to sway and spin and I shot away from it in a blaze of colour that swirled and sparkled in front of my eyes and ....

...I squatted at the edge of the stream, watching the sunlight catch the expanding rings from where the fish had risen to dapple the surface.

Rings of gold, ever moving outwards. I was in a glade where the sun shone between the tops of huge trees. In front of me, the field was gone. Instead there were big beeches and massive firs, marching up and over the hill and on for ever. I could see between their great trunks, but only for a little distance, into that forest, for it was gloomy in there, dark and shadowed.

The sun shone where I sat by the edge of the water, watching the slow movement of trout, big and fat, lazy in the pool.

I looked around me, curious, yet accepting that I was alone. This was a strange place, yet not strange. Familiar and unfamiliar. The big stone where Barbara had sat like the little mermaid was still there, but the stream was different. The trees were tall, bigger even than the gnarled beech that we'd been sitting under.

Somewhere downstream a bird called, a hooting cry that echoed among the trunks, and there was a reply from further away. Behind me, something crashed through the trees, and I turned to look into the forest behind me, but there was nothing but shadow. I sat still for what seemed an age, and then a movement caught my eye, a flash of dark in peripheral vision.

For some reason, I did not move, only sliding my eyes to where the movement was. Out of the trees, slowly and majestically, came a huge stag, the king of all stags, bigger even than the huge Clydesdale horse that towered over the hedges up at Kilmalid Farm. If I had stood up, my head would not have even reached its belly. I stayed rock still, and so did the deer, standing like a dark shadow as it surveyed the glade. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed the air, and its ears turned and twisted, quartering for danger. Satisfied, it slowly emerged from the gloom, one step at a time, grand and dignified, and as it came out into the light.

I almost gasped in wonder. For its head bore an impossible spread of antlers that I hadn't noticed in the background shade and tangle of branches. They were immense, a two-handed sweep of pronged bones that were almost, to my eyes, as wide as a road. The far edge of one of them lightly scraped against the trunk of a fir tree, cutting a gash that started to drip resin.

Out into the light, one silent step after another, the giant stag came towards the stream. And behind it followed another huge beast, though by comparison much smaller. Walking carefully behind the second beast was a slender fawn, tawny and speckled, picking up its dainty hooves with light, jerky motions of its spindly legs. The stag was magnificent, the fawn simply beautiful.

It followed its mother down to the waterside where the stag scanned the clearing, then, satisfied, bent down to drink. The doe and the fawn followed suit, lapping thirstily. Then something seemed to startle the baby. With a smooth, clean jerk, it raised its head up from the water, its ears fanning like radar, and it looked round. Then one huge black eye found mine, and stared. It was like looking into a pool. For long moments we watched each other, the fawn standing stock still, and me afraid to breathe. Then it bent back to drink.

Finally, the stag lifted its magnificent head and shook its mane, sending droplets of water scattering, then it walked across the bed of the stream, its hooves clattering on the hard rock. The doe and the fawn followed and the three moved into the forest and were lost in the shadow.

Only the glistening water that their hooves had splashed on the stones of the stream, now quickly evaporating in the sun, marked their passage. For a long time, my eyes were fixed on the spot where they had entered the shadow, hoping that they would come back, but they must have been far away. From somewhere in that general direction, far in the distance, a deep, bellowing roar, that kind of rumbling growl that you hear from lions in the zoo, came rolling through the trees, muffled by distance, but powerful and hard. There was a tearing screech and another bellow, this time a lowing, high and despairing. The lowing sound suddenly stopped, cut off. Silence seemed to go on a long time, and then the birds in the trees started singing again.

I turned back to the stream and looked into the water again, and in the water I saw a shape looming, wavering on the surface. It was a reflection, and when I looked up, a man stood there, staring at me. Tall and broad, wearing an animal's pelt.

He carried some sort of satchel and in his hand was a long curved bow and a straight spear. The man's hair was long and tangled, just like his beard, and his arms were matted with a thick pelt.

Our eyes locked. I felt no fear. For some reason this was not a man to be afraid of He looked at me, right into the back of my mind, reading all of me that there was to be read.

Then he nodded, big and broad, and as dignified as the stag that had come gliding out of the gloom. With one hand, he hefted the spear. The sun sent shards of light from the long, black head. He stared at me, without malice, but with an expression of infinite wisdom; then he swung his arm up high and launched his spear towards me.

And still I was unafraid. The wind from that spear tousled my hair in the passing, and I heard the hissing as it cut the air. There was a loud thud and I didn't turn round. I could hear the shaft thrumming as it vibrated with the impact. I kept looking at the man's eyes, and he kept fixed on mine for a long time until the reflections of the sun on the water made mine water and the world blurred in a riot of gold and green and then went right out of focus.

Everything slowly started to emerge from grey and I opened my eyes again.

The sunlight danced up from the ripples. The field, with its short, cropped grass and the buttercups and clover, was back, with its hoof-tracks and its cowpats.

And I was back again.

Colin was sitting with his back against the the beech tree. His teeshirt had risen up as he'd slid down against the bark.

His feet were splayed out and one baseball boot was slowly swaying from side to side. Colin 's eyes were half shut, and I could see a glimmer in the dark where his iris was throwing back the light. There was a half smile on his face.

Barbara was lying down, spread out on the short grass next to him, her arms wide and her feet together. There were leaves in her hair and, though her eyes were closed, there was a radiant smile, an expression of joy that lit up her whole face. Her jeans, newer and better kept than Colin's, had muddy patches on the knees.

My head felt full of cotton wool, clouds that were very slowly dispersing. There was a buzzing in my ears, a deep tickly vibration that was more of a feeling than a noise, as if a bee had got into the back of my head and was busy spreading honey in there.

Colin muttered something, low and jumbled, the way children do when they talk in their sleep. I couldn't make it out, but as I turned to look at him. His eyes were glazed at first, then seemed to find their focus. He shook his head, and put his hands up to his temples and screwed his eyes up tight, very much the way a man with a bad hangover does at the moment of awakening.

'Jeez-O,' he said softly. He looked around him, looking a little shaken and a bit bewildered.

'Where are we?'

I was about to answer when Colin said: 'At the gang hut.'

He nodded, confirming it to himself getting his bearings. 'The gang hut. I must've fell asleep. '

'Me too,' I said, and my voice was all cottony, sticking at the back of my throat. My lungs felt tight.

'Weird, ' Colin said. 'What a dream! A knight in armour with a big gold sword. Like Lancelot. Or Galahad. A black knight. He was terrible. '

Colin stopped and looked around. Barbara had made a noise, and she was trying to raise her head up from the carpet of green. It slumped back sleepily at first, then she too seemed to shake her head to clear it. The radiant smile was still there.

'Ooooh. Beautiful,' she murmured with a sigh. 'She was beautiful.'

'Who was?' Colin asked.

'The lady with the flowers. '

'What lady?'

'She came to me with flowers. Golden flowers, just like her hair. Didn't you see her?'

'Nope,' Colin and I said together.

'You must have,' Barbara said. 'She was there. Right there.'

Barbara pointed at the bank. There was nothing there.

'You've been dreaming,' Colin said. 'We must have fell asleep.'

'Fallen asleep, 'Barbara corrected him absently, her voice still soft and dreamy. 'Oh, she was so beautiful and kind. She put the flowers round my neck, like a daisy chain, and smiled at me.' Barbara's hand slipped up to her neck, feeling the skin.

'It was there,' she said, and her voice lost the dreamy quality. Now it had the tinge of ache of a lost dream.

'I dreamed I saw a knight with a sword,' Colin said. 'And he was riding around waving it and shouting at people. He was fighting everybody and chopping at them and they were screaming. He was terrible.'

'The hunter,' I said, and they both looked at me. 'A hunter. That's what he was. He came here, to me, out of the trees, over there.' I pointed.

'What trees? ' Colin asked.

'There was trees. Big forest there. 'He came out and stood there and looked at me, and then he threw something at me.' I paused. That wasn't right. 'No. He threw something to me. A spear.'

I had been sitting down. In my mind's eye, the man in the furs and skins was still standing on the far bank. I heard the swish and felt the wind again as the long spear raked the air. I heard the thud and the thrumming vibration, and I knew where the spear had hit.

I scrambled on to my knees and crawled a few feet away from the others towards the bank. The turf was dry and hard.

'It landed right here, ' I said, feeling the grass and earth.

'What did?' Barbara asked. The dreamy tone was gone from her voice. Colin was just staring at me as if I'd gone crazy.

'The spear. He threw it here. He wanted me to have it.'

'It was just a dream, ' Colin said. 'I'm not smoking any of that stuff again. It gives you scary dreams.'

'Mine wasn't scary, ' Barbara said. 'And it must have been the mushrooms. They give you a belly-ache and you get dreams.'

'That's cheese,' Colin said. 'Cheese makes you dream.'

'And mushrooms too, ' Barbara argued. 'I saw it in one of my dad's books.'

All this was going on in the periphery. I was still on my knees, and there was something inside of me that knew, with clear certainty, that I had to rip up the turf right here where I was kneeling. I opened my old penknife and started cutting a square of the turf

'You'll break the blade, idiot features,' Colin said. He'd recovered from whatever was scary in his dream. I hadn't quite recovered from mine. Barbara's was real enough for her to watch me non-commitally.

'Don't care. It was here. I saw it,' I said, sawing away rapidly, up and down, not caring if the old treasured blade was rasped down to a blunt nubbin. When the square was cut, I grasped the grass at the edge of one of the lines and started hauling, feeling my nails bend backwards under the strain.

'Oh, let me,' Colin said resignedly, as if he'd decided he wanted to humour me. The two of us tugged and then the turf came up with a rip, like wet cloth, and we fell backwards. The square of earth underneath was just earth. Nothing more. I started to dig again with the blade of my knife, but Colin stopped me.

'That'll break the blade. Here, use a stick, ' he said, handing me the one he'd cut for an arrow. He'd whittled a sharp point on one end and I started to hook the dirt out of the hole. In a few minutes I'd gone down about six inches

'Let me at it, ' Colin said. His arms jabbed up and down, hooking at the hole.

There was a little clicking sound and the stick broke halfway up. Barbara and I scuttled across to the hole. The broken arrow had reached rocks, two big quartz stones. Between them, jammed upright, there was a thin, black, smooth stone, lodged in the narrow space between the two rounded boulders.

I reached past Colin and grasped the stone and tugged.

'That's it! ' I yelled. 'That's what he had!'

'What is it?' Barbara asked.

'Just a stupid lump of rock,' Colin said. 'Not worth all that hard work.'

'No. You're wrong,' I said. It had been there. I walked to the stream, right to the edge where I'd been sitting, mesmerised by the sun in my dream, and knelt down with that flat stone in my hand.

It was long and smooth, and rimed with caked-on dirt. I plunged both hands into the clear water and rubbed at the black stone's surface, watching the water go cloudy and brown as the earth washed off It took only moments of rubbing with my thumbs to clean it, for the dirt had no crevices to cling to.

Then I lifted it from the water and turned to Colin and Barbara, holding the stone like a trophy.

The sun ricocheted off the polished surface, making it gleam bright and black.

'Hey man,' Colin whooped. 'It's a stone axe. A real cave-man's axe.'

'No, it's a spear. A point for a spear. And that's where he threw it in my dream.'

'I don't believe it!'.

'Me neither,' I said, and although I held the weight in my hands, marvelling at its smooth surface and beautiful simplicity, I didn't believe it.

'But it's ours,' I said.

15

There was a click in my head, and I was back in the present again. But when I'd picked up that piece of smooth volcanic glass, it was as if I'd walked through a door into summer, taking the short route, a seven-league step right back to childhood.

I had flown back to then.

I was there. Small and skinny, with Colin and Barbara, the original one-and-onlies. The image was so clear I could feel the grass under my feet, and smell the clover and hear the gurgling of that clear stream in the valley.

Where had Kitty MacBeth found the stone? It was the same one, I was sure.

Twenty years and more had passed, and there must have been many polished spearheads lying under the dirt for people to dig up or turn up with their ploughs in this place that was steeped in human history since the dawn of time. There must have been others that were like it.

But this stone from Kitty's box wasn't just like it. Not merely similar, crafted in the same simple fashion.

Something in me knew that this was the same stone. The one that the big man with the wise eyes and the animal skins had come in a dream to give. This was our stone. Our magic stone.

It was the one and only.

I sat and felt its smoothness, warm and hard where it picked up the heat of my hand and radiated it back to me. More than two decades later, I was getting some sort of pre-cognition, a feeling of foreboding.

Prescience is a terrific faculty in hindsight. Everybody gets the occasional feeling of déjÃ -vu: Jimmy Allison had a feeling that a Bad Summer was creeping up on Arden. The monsignor in the seminary, the old soldier turned crusader, had that premonition too.

Kitty MacBeth had gone much further. She named the beast. The Cu Saeng. The ravener, the dweller under the roots, an old earth power that the people had brought into the world to fight their battle. Cu Saeng, trapped between the earth and what lay underneath it by chants and magic and powerful boundaries.

Yes, Kitty MacBeth knew a thing or two, and as I held that smooth black stone in my hand the juggernaut, the engine of darkness, was rolling towards Arden, and it hitched up into a higher gear, gaining speed all the way.

Kitty MacBeth, Catriona O'Connor MacBeatha, the last of the Children of Conchobar and the Sons of Life, whose people had been in this place since forever, died in the cottage hospital. She never regained full consciousness since the time she'd told me to go and find her box.

Doctor Bell, the resident who ran the two small wards, could do nothing for her at all, except pump in antibiotics and vitamins. Kitty just burned up with a fever that he couldn't identify despite the tests for bacteria and virus. There was no real reason, he told me, why she should have died, but she did, and that was that.

The nurse on the ward, a round and ruddy-faced smiling girl, told me that she'd been there at her desk, working on her notes under the swan-neck night-light, when the old woman had cried out.

The girl had got up from her seat and gone to the bedside. Kitty was lying on her bed, heat radiating from her body and her head twisting spasmodically from side to side.

'She kept asking me who sang,' the nurse said. 'Who sang?' all the time. I told here there was nobody singing and that she must have been dreaming. Then she grabbed at my wrist, really tight. So hard I had a bruise the next day.'

The nurse unconsciously rubbed her hand over her arm.

'But she kept on asking me. Then she opened her eyes and looked right at me, but I don't think she saw me at all. 'Who sang is here,' she said. And then her eyes just closed. She seemed to go back to sleep, but about an hour or so later I went back to check on her and she had slipped away. I'm sorry.'

I thanked the nurse and went out of the hospital into the bright sunlight. From the front steps, I could see past the houses on the other side of the street and across Westbay to the firth. I felt a sense of deep loss that I couldn't explain. I jammed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and went down the steps, blinking hard to hold back the upwelling. Big boys don't cry. The little boy in me, the one who had been evoked when he held Kitty's black stone, did cry.

The harvest festival came a week later, four days after Kitty MacBeth's quiet funeral in the little cemetery between the north side of the Milligs and the wood at the hill that led to Upper Arden.

This was where the old parish church had stood until the fire of the reformation. The walls were a jumble of rocks, but the churchyard remained inside the dry-stone walls. Kitty's grave went unmarked as yet, but I ordered a polished granite. It would be another four weeks or so before the stone was cut and put in place, so Kitty went into an unmarked grave for the moment, but it was a grave that she herself had owned, according to the parish clerk.

I had expected a quiet funeral. After all, Kitty had no family, and what friends did the old woman have here in Arden?

So I was gratified - and surprised - when I followed the hearse from the little undertaker's parlour and saw a line of cars following on behind. Jimmy Allison stood beside me at the graveyard, still a bit red-eyed and snuffling from the cold or flu that had sat on him for these past days. The major was there too, saying farewell to his fellow nature lover. The monsignor came and, along with the Reverend McCluskie who ran the parish from the opposition, said a few quiet words over the grave.

But what really surprised me was the number of the townswomen who came to the funeral. Women from Milligs and Westbay and even a few from Upper Arden.

Wearing black hats and veils, young and old, they must have represented every household in the town. What had Kitty MacBeth been to them? The old witch-woman from the point, with her lotions and her potions, and her reading of the tea-leaves.

I don't know why the women came, but as I stood there and watched them crowd into the little cemetery I remembered what the old woman had told me about the time when I was born. '

'I know you were conceived on the night of the equinox in sixty nine. I know that because I knew your mother,' she had said, cradling her mug of hot tea and smiling mischievously at me. What, I wondered, had she done for my mother, that would give her that knowledge?

And what had she done, over the years, that these women would leave their jobs and kitchens to come to her funeral?

Summer stuck with us, promising a typical festival of sunlight and song. All around the area, the farmers were harvesting their corn and barley in the yellow fields. Up at the seminary, the big red combine had been out all week with hardly a break, razing the stalks and leaving a stubbly beard that the field squads burned.

Now, at this time, unknown to anybody, the priests were reaping something that they had not sown in the wide fields that were bordered by their close-clipped hawthorn and privet hedgerows.

They had planted in the spring on the red rich earth that they had turned over with their ploughs, and fed with the great heaps of manure that they swept out daily from the milking sheds. All organic and self-sufficient. A lesson in ecology.

The priests were the masters of husbandry on the land that they had cared for since the time of Kentigern and Columba. Not for them the modern wonders of insecticides and chemical fertilisers. They did it their own way, the old way.

Good strong corn, they planted, not too tall that it would bend and break in the rains that never came. Thick, heavy ears that threshed easily and made the best wholemeal bread with its light frosting of flour on top. Good corn.

But not just good corn. Sometime in that summer, on one of the breezes that came and eddied around Arden, something drifted in and settled.

Tiny almost infinitely microscopic spores came down in an invisible mist when the winds dropped. It landed on the grass and died; on the potato crops and just dissolved.

But on the corn at the seminary, the spores landed and found somewhere they could live and grow. And when they had grown, they spored, and those spores repeated the process.

On the other farms, where the crops were sprayed with chemicals that killed the bugs and the threadworm and fungus, the spores were wiped out. But up at the seminary, the old way, the best way, held sway. The light fungus that grew from the spores was a thin dusting of yellow on the ears of corn, and nobody noticed it until the doctor, who had puzzled over Kitty MacBeth's death, finally put some of the fungus under his microscope. He had reasons for doing so, but the fact that there was reason meant it was too late to do very much about it.

The fungus was ergot, a primitive parasite of wheat and corn, known all over the world for its effects on the human psyche, on the consciousness of man.

Why it grew in Arden, nobody knows, for certain.

But I now believe that this was yet another in the string of coincidences that were not real coincidences.

Kitty MacBeth's last words, the nurse had said, were 'Who sang?' That's what they had sounded like, but that's not what she had said.

The old woman had warned right to the last: 'Cu Saeng. Cu Saeng is here.'

And if anything had brought the ergot and its madness to Arden, it was that stirring power.

The first to feel the effects was Father Byrne, a short, swarthy priest, the one who had shown us with pride around his mill where the water from the well had turned the wheel that had made the heavy wooden machinery creak and groan and turn the big millstones rasping on each other to trickle out the stream of flour.

The Kilmalid Burn, with its extra load of water from the dammed-up runnel at the new road, splashed over the top of the wheel and the flour poured out. The red-faced little priest hefted his sacks and the open cart came and took them away, some for distribution to some of the local bakeries, and some to the bakehouse that was tagged on to the seminary. Father Byrne toiled for two days with breaks only to eat and sleep, say his breviary and kneel for the Angelus.

The mill ground wheat for most of the local farms on a contract basis, and was in operation almost all the year round, but the seminary's own grain was milled in one operation, almost from the first cut of the combine harvester. In the two days he breathed in flour dust and his face was caked, ghostlike, by the time he swung the doors on the mill at night.

On the third night Father Byrne was not surprised at all to be speaking to his mother as he ran through his inventory in the little upstairs storeroom that also served as his office. He had buried her thirty years before, his voice cracked with grief as he recited the Latin, despite his knowledge that his dear devout mother was almost certainly in the bosom of the Lord at that instant, and looking down joyously and kindly over her son.

But there she was, dressed in her long black skirt and cotton blouse, the way she had been when she had bathed him as a little boy. Father Byrne was not surprised at all.

He had a long conversation with his mother, and then she went away again, her skirt trailing on the dry boards, and Father Byrne went back to his ledger and wrote away for some time.

In the morning, when he did not appear for early mass, or breakfast, and was not found in his room, there was some minor alarm, and someone was sent to the mill.

They found him, still writing in his ledger, but none of the writing was legible, or could even be described as handwriting. Father Byrne had studiously covered every single page of the thick lined book with drawings of naked, crucified women.

They took him away from the book and he cried a little and called for his mummy, and they gave him a sedative and put him to bed in the infirmary.

Obviously, Father Byrne was overworked. The harvest had taken its toll on him, they said.

He'd be as right as rain in a day or two.

16

Barbara called me on the morning of the harvest festival and I was enormously cheered up to hear the sound of her voice.

Kitty's death had hung over me like a pall of heavy cloud and the last couple of nights had been less than good. I had woken up from dark and frightening dreams every night. My writing had gone right out of the window.

'Hi Barbara,' I said, trying to stifle a yawn, and still muggy and shaky from lack of proper sleep. 'What time is it?'

'Oh, I hope I didn't wake you up. It's past ten o'clock.'

'No. Yes, well you did. But I should be up by now anyway,' I told her.

'I just thought you'd want to come to the festival with us today. It's been years since I've been to one and I thought Paddy would love it.'

'So would I. I was going to ask the two of you anyway,' I said. 'She'll stuff her face and be sick all over the place, but every kid has to go through it every summer anyway.'

'You better believe it,' Barbara said. I could hear the start of a laugh in her voice. What a nice way to be woken up from bad dreams.

'Right, I'll come up and collect you, if you like, and we can stroll down. About three?'

'Why not make it for lunch?'

'Sounds even better. I haven't tasted woman's cooking for months.'

'Well mine isn't that great, but I can rustle up a salad.'

'Cheat.'

'Suit yourself, greedy guts. Come up at one.'

I told her I'd be there. The day took on a slightly brighter aspect, and for once I managed to slip out from under that cloud.

This was one harvest festival I was going to really try to enjoy.

On the way up to Upper Arden, I dropped in at Jimmy Allison's place and found him looking better than he had the other day in the cemetery. He was planning, he said, to drop in at the Chandler with Donald and old Duncan Bennett for a few light refreshments before the festivities.

'Just to get in the mood,' he said. 'It's become a tradition, don't you know?'

'Yes, every night, I reckon,' I said.

'Well, when you get to our age, you take what fun you can get whenever you can. Anyway, it's good to be up and about again. That was a bugger of a bug.'

Jimmy paused for a bit, lost in thought, then he seemed to jerk back to the present. 'Anyway, did you read that stuff I put in the box?'

'I did.'

He looked at me, checking to see if I was bull-shitting him. 'I did, honest. From start to finish,' I said, and he nodded conceding that I might have.

'It's a remarkable history. Tell me, Jimmy. Have you ever heard of a Cu Saeng?'

'Cu Saeng? The beast?'

'Yes, that's the one.'

'Of course. It's an old legend.'

'Where does it come from?'

'Who can say? But it's common to both the Irish and the Scots sagas, which show they go back to the same origin sometime in the past.'

'Do you know what it is?' I asked.

'Sure. It's the spirit of madness. It lives under the ground, or the underworld, take your pick. Probably the god of darkness symbol. Anyway, it's supposed to drive anybody who sees it as mad as a hatter, or turn them into stone. Like the Gorgon, I imagine. Why do you ask?'

'I'll tell you in a minute. Go on,' I urged. 'What else do you know?'

'Well, it's supposed to be the spirit that haunts lonely places, waiting for the unwary. Comes from under the ground, or caves to drag people down into the dark.' He stopped to light his pipe, sucking in the flame that dipped down towards the bowl with every pull, and blowing out a plume of blue. 'Now tell me why you're asking.'

'Kitty MacBeth told me it was a Cu Saeng that caused the Bad Summers.'

Jimmy Allison's eyes flicked up from where they had zeroed in on the glowing bowl of his pipe, and fixed me with a hard stare. He stared so long that the match he was holding burned right up to his fingers, and it was only the heat as the flame scorched his thumb that made him jerk away, dropping the blackened match on to the floor. He jammed his thumb into his mouth alongside the stem of his pipe and sucked on both.

'She told you what?' he asked, his face serious.

'She said that the Cu Saeng awoke every now and again to ravage the place,' I said, and I must confess I felt a little bit foolish, no matter how much I had thought about it over the past week or so, and what conclusions I had reluctantly arrived at.

'And how would that happen?' Jimmy asked.

'She said that sometime in the past, the people here had brought something to life - into the earth, she said - to help them stave off some sort of invasion. But once it had done the job they couldn't send it back again, so they trapped it in the rock and put up walls around it. It's all written on that stone down at Kitty's shack.'

'What rock?'

'Ardmhor.'

'And the walls? What were they?'

'Water and stone, and wood. That's the hawthorn hedge. She said she had to keep re-planting it whenever one of the hawthorns died or got broken. Oh, and there was another wall of bone where they buried men with their heads cut off, just like .... '

'Just like the ones Arthur found,' Jimmy said, very quietly. There was a strange, half-puzzled, half-knowing look on his face.

'Well, what do you think of that?' I said.

'I don't know what to think. Seems a bit far-fetched to me, but I'll tell you, I can't gainsay it. I've seen too many far-fetched things in my time to say yea or nay. I know that the Bad Summer happens every once in a while, and some of them are worse than others. I've never heard of any explanation of them before, except to call it a curse or a bane. Like recurrent bad luck. Real bad luck.'

He stopped off a frown of concentration pulling his brows down over his eyes.

'Could such a thing be true?' I asked.

'Who can say? It's a new one on me. I mean I've gone over all the old records, probably more than anybody has. But I've never heard or read of anybody saying why these things happen. Only that they do, and they pray to God that they don't ever happen again. What about you? What do you think?'

'Well, I've got to confess that I'm beginning to believe that something's wrong. And Kitty shocked me with some of the things she knew about me. She knew she was dying and there was something else. She said that I had something to do with stopping it.'

'Stopping what?'

'The Bad Summers. She said that I almost stopped it before, and that this time I would have to finish the job. The only thing is that I haven't a clue what she meant. I wouldn't know where to begin.'

Jimmy looked very thoughtful as I left. He hadn't said one way or another what he thought of the things I'd told him except to say that it might not matter what had caused the bad times in the past.

'I think she was right about it coming again,' he said. 'And so soon. It's been only twenty years, near as dammit, since the last string of troubles, but I can feel it in my bones again. Who knows, maybe she was right. Maybe it would be better if she was. Anything that can be conjured up should be conjured right back again. That's a lot better than waiting for the curse to strike again and not being able to do a damned thing about it.'

I told Jimmy I'd better get a move on to Barbara's place, and he told me to go on up, dropping the opinion, with a grin, that he thought she was a fine looking woman and just my type. It was as close to a nudge-nudge, wink-wink as he'd ever get, but I got the message that he would give his blessing to any advances I might make on that front.

He saw me to the garden gate, still pulling hard on the big briar pipe, and told me he'd see me in the beer tent later on in the afternoon. Just as I was leaving, he thanked me for reading his stuff.

'Do your think there's a book in it?' he asked. 'Can you use it?'

'Yes and no. There is a book in it. But it's your book. You've done all the work on it and it reads well. There's no need for me to write your book, you lazy old bugger.'

'Less of your cheek, young toe-rag,' Jimmy said, all the time beaming with pleasure that his protege, the one he'd encouraged all the time to get out there and write, had been the one to praise his own work.

'Anyway, I won't have the time. I don't have the gift.'

'Prove me wrong, then. I'll give all the stuff back to you, and you can send it off to a publisher. I gave give you a few names. I bet a case of Glenlivet they snap it up.'

He said he'd think about it and I told him to do more than that. Just as I was leaving, he said it would make a better tale if there really was such a thing as Cu Saeng.

'I didn't think you'd believe it,' I said.

'Oh, I don't say that. You've sort of sprung it on me. I'll toss it around a bit and think it over. What I think doesn't really matter anyway,' he said. 'There's not a damn thing I could do about it.'

As it transpired, there wasn't. But there was something I was supposed to do about it, so I'd been told, except I didn't have the foggiest idea of what, or how, or where, or when.

I had decided, even before my talk with Jimmy, that I would just wait, and watch and see what happened.

One thing was certain, if it turned out to be a whole load of hogwash, nobody was going to be more delighted than me. Then I could get out from under the raincloud and get on with my life, get on with my work and sleep well at nights.

Both Barbara and Paddy met me on the steps at their front door as I climbed down from the jeep, both of them sparkling with excitement. It showed more on Paddy, who had got to the jumping up and down stage.

'She's been driving me crazy since she got up this morning,' Barbara said. 'It's as if she was high on something.'

'And you can't remember being just the same? Shame on you. The mother hen's got a convenient memory.'

'Oh, go on with you,' she said, giving me a light punch on the shoulder. 'I was never as bad as that.'

'Worse, if my memory's right. But don't worry about it. We were all like that.'

'Well, I must say, I've been looking forward to some light relief,' Barbara said. By this time we were at the top of the steps and Paddy was running around my ankles like a frisky pup.

Barbara planted one on my cheek and then I had to bend down for the same treatment from her daughter. When she gave me the required peck, I didn't let her spin away, but instead took her by the waist and swung her up to sit on my hip. I grabbed her free hand and spun her round.

'Can I have the pleasure of this dance, miss?'

'Yessir!' she cried, laughing right in my ear.

'And you're next,' I called to Barbara, looking past her daughter's bouncing pony tail. Barbara did what would have been an elegant curtsey except for the fact that she was wearing a pair of slimline Levis and a halter top under which things were moving in that kind of way that takes your mind of dancing altogether.

She caught my eye and I would have blushed but for the wink she flashed at me, and that overcast feeling suddenly went slip-slidin' away.

Barbara shooed both of us into the kitchen where she'd made a big tossed salad with pepper and celery in a wooden bowl, along with boiled eggs in mayonnaise and a ham cut so thinly you could see through it. I ate more than I should have, but I suddenly found I had an appetite and Barbara didn't seem displeased to see me demolishing it. In between stuffing her mouth with eggs and ham Paddy kept up the usual excited barrage of questions about what would happen at the festival. Her idea was the American dream.

Would Mickey and Donald be there? Did they have majorettes? Would there be pop-corn and candy?

I said there would be something like that, but different. Better, I said. Yes, there would be a band, and a parade and lots of things to do. Paddy still couldn't picture exactly what was going to happen. I think in her mind it was a cross between a rodeo and a fairground, but in any case she knew it was going to be fun and she was getting herself right into the mood for having plenty of it.

After lunch Barbara sent Paddy out to play in the garden while we sat in the living room watching from the bay window over the expanse of lawn that rolled away towards the vegetable garden and the trees beyond.

'She plays in our tree,' Barbara said, 'She told me only yesterday she'd found people's names carved on the bark, and wanted to know whose they were.'

'What did you say?'

'I told her that they were ours. Yours and mine and Colin's, and she said "Golly, they're ancient",'

'They are ancient. From another age. 'Do you remember . . . ?' I said, just at the same time as Barbara said the same thing. I broke off and she laughed and insisted that I go on first.

'All right,' I said. 'Do you remember the day we had the picnic? Down by the stream?'

Barbara frowned a little, obviously trying to picture it, failed and shook her head.

'It was the day the three of us found the .... '

'Mushrooms! Yes. I do remember. And we smoked some concoction that Colin made up. Yes I remember that.'

'I had this dream about a man with a spear, and he stuck it into the ground.'

'Oh yes,' Barbara said. 'You were so convinced it was for real that you started to dig and Colin got really pissed off.'

'Yes he was a bit, but it was true, don't you remember'? I dug and

Colin helped and .... '

'And you found something. I can't remember what it was. A stone or something?'

'Yes. A stone spear-head, just like the one I saw in the dream.'

'I remember now. And the lady in the dream gave me gold flowers for round my neck. Oh, I remember I was so disappointed when I found they were gone. It was like gold, so beautiful.

'Colin dreamed of a black knight with a sword,' I said.

'Did he?' Barbara asked in a small voice, she was still miles away in her memory. Years away, remembering the woman who had given her flowers in her dream on the bank of Strowan's Water.

'I found the stone.'

'What stone?'

'The one I dug up.'

'Really? The same one?'

'I think so.'

'Our treasure! Do you remember? That's what we called it. The buried treasure. You said it was a magic stone that gave us special power, didn't you?'

'No that was Colin's idea. He was always the imaginative one.'

'Poor soul,' she said with compassion. 'He was, wasn't he?'

I remembered something else just as Barbara said that, and I reached into the inside pocket of my light nylon jacket.

'Look at this,' I said, and pulled out the slender golden torc that Kitty MacBeth had bequeathed to me.

'Oh,' Barbara said, evoking yet another memory. 'It's beautiful.'

I reached out to give it to her and she took it. Our fingers brushed lightly, and I felt that delicious little sparkle, the vibes I would have called it in my teen years.

'Is it gold?'

'I don't know, but I'd bet it is.'

'Oh, it's the loveliest thing.'

'You like it?'

'Like it? It's exquisite,' she said, holding up the torc to the light so that the sun sparkled off the golden orbs that finished off the arcs.

'I'd like you to have it,' I said, surprising myself. I hadn't put the torc in my pocket for any reason that I could figure out, and I hadn't intended to come here and give it to Barbara, but all of a sudden, I just did it as if I'd been pushed from behind.

'No, I couldn't Nick,' Barbara said, shaking her head, with her eyes still fixed on the gilded glint. 'It's far too expensive.'

'Well, actually, it's probably never been valued. It was given to me by somebody who doesn't need it any more, so I don't think she'd mind if you had it. No, I don't think she'd mind at all.'

What was it Kitty had said? 'The one-and-onlies?' and she had laughed. 'That was more true than you could have known.'

No, with a brief flash of certainty, I knew that Kitty MacBeth would not mind at all.

'I don't know what to say Nick. It's so gorgeous, I really shouldn't take it.'

Just then Paddy came into the room and leaned over her mother's knee. Her eyes had caught the flashing light from the torc.

She stared at it, with wide, unblinking eyes, as if the reflections had snagged her hypnotically.

'That's pretty,' she said, dreamily. 'Is this a present from Nick? Can I see it?' She reached out a small hand and clasped the circlet and Barbara just let it go. I thought Paddy was going to put it on her head, but she just stared at it, entranced. Then, in one easy movement, she put it up to her neck, pulled apart the two golden balls and slipped it on.

It sat there, gleaming bright.

'Can I have it, Nick?' The question was more like a command.

Not like a little girl's appeal for a plaything. The torc sat perfectly on her neck.

'Paddy, that's not very nice,' Barbara said.

'Can I have it, Nick. It's for me, isn't it?' Paddy said, as if she hadn't heard her mother speak. The sunlight caught off the gold on her neck, beaming it back into my eyes, and for the briefest instant I saw rings of golden light, spiralling outwards on water.

For a slender moment of time I heard the buzzing of summer insects and the clattering of deer-hooves on rock. I smelt the pungent sap of pine.

Then my mind switched to the more recent past, and the words in Kitty MacBeth's letter. Take the torc. It protects.

And for some reason, it just seemed right that Paddy should have it. I don't know now, and didn't know then, what made me think that, but I just nodded my head.

'Yes. It is yours. If your mother says so.'

Barbara scolded me gently for falling for Paddy's plea, but she didn't object.

Later she said: 'It's strange. When Paddy put it around her neck, I suddenly thought of golden flowers.'

The festival was just winding up to full swing when we got down to the field at Duncan Bennett's smallholding. The whole town was there, Upper Arden folk rubbing shoulders with the people of the Milligs, and the Westbay crowd rubbing shoulders with everybody.

Barbara had changed Paddy into a summer frock, which probably wasn't practical and caused a mother-and-daughter feud that died down as quickly as it flared, and the little girl bore the indignity with relatively good grace.

I parked the jeep in the only free slot in the supermarket car-park, and we strolled along the main street towards the sound of the brass band that was belting out an enthusiastic but tuneless jazz number. Barbara was stunning in a white cotton dress and sling-back sandals, and she'd put her hair up in a neat French roll that showed off the clean arch of her neck and did amazing things to my hormones.

She cleaked her arm through mine and Paddy grabbed my hand, swinging it to and fro to match her bouncing step.

The marquee was blue and white, jammed in a corner against the hedge and in the opposing corner, furthest from the main road, the beer tent was a square box of green canvas that seemed to be bulging at the sides. I knew that in there it would be hot and smoky and jostling with bodies and swimming with beer. Ideal for the Arden men on festival day. I thought a beer would go down just fine on a warm afternoon.

Along the edge of the hedgerow, there were stalls with cakes and sweets, home-made jams and butter shortcake. There were little cuddly toys in profusion, baskets and pottery, all for various charities.

When we arrived, the grass was already trampled flat under Arden's feet.

Paddy saw the slide and swings that some of the townsmen had put up under the trees the night before. She slipped her hand out of mine and was off like a rabbit, with a quick wave of her hand.

'She was probably right about wearing her jeans,' I said.

'Don't you start.' Barbara said. 'I had a bad enough time with her.'

I held my hand up in surrender. We strolled into the marquee that was bustling with the women of the WRI and the Round Table and what have you.

The trestle tables were creaking under the weight of the home baking and garden produce, fruit wines and preserves.

Contest was in full swing and, when Barbara met one or two matrons who insisted that she get a guided tour, there was nothing for it but a quick dodge through the flap. With almost one bound I was free of all that.

I headed for the beer tent by way of the playground, where Paddy was in a crowd of squealing and laughing youngsters who zoomed down the slide or soared on the swings. There was a muddy mark on the back of her dress, I noted with some small satisfaction. Most of the other kids were in jeans.

In the beer tent it took my eyes a moment or two to adjust to the gloom and the fumes. It was sweltering in the green half-light that filtered through the canvas, and there was that convivial hubbub of male voices, shouted orders and laughter. This was man's country.

Jimmy Allison and the major with Duncan Bennett and a few of the older guys were sitting in a circle on upturned aluminium beer kegs. I beat my way through the fug and crowded bodies to join them and somebody poured me a lager that was so cold it froze my throat deliciously at the first swallow.

'You'll be wanting a whisky, I fancy,' Donald said, producing his trusty hip-flask from the pocket of his tweed jacket that must have been killing him with the heat.

'No, beer's fine for me.'

Jimmy didn't pass up the opportunity and Donald poured him a fair measure before charging his own glass.

'Slainte,' the islander said, raising his whisky, and we all said cheers and good health.

Jimmy's hands were not so twisted with the arthritis, I noticed, and I thought the summer warmth must be doing him good. I made a mental promise to bully him into seeing a specialist before the winter set in and made them useless. He was in a mellow mood, as indeed we all were. Some more mellow, I'll grant you, than the others who hadn't been drinking since the beer tent flaps opened at noon, but that's the way of it at the festival. Outside, the band screeched enthusiastically and nobody minded nor cared whether it was off-key or out of step.

Behind our group, World War Three, as they were affectionately known in the Chandler, Brigadier Watson and two of his forces friends who apparently joined him every summer for a yachting holiday were arguing in loud, plummy tones, adding their military wah-wah-wah to the conversation. They were drinking pints of dark beer and smoking cigars and having a jolly good time, their old war-horse faces getting rosier as they went.

Most of the farmers from the surrounding area were in the tent, with their caps shoved back on their heads and sticks with worn, knobby handles tucked under their armpits. Along the side, in the shadow where the pegs held the canvas down to the grass, their border collies waited, panting, sides heaving.

At one of the tables, a crowd of young lads were taking turns at arm wrestling, rocking the little trestle back and forth with their effort. Beer cans hissed open, and big John Hollinger, who had run the bar every year as far as I can remember, roared out with robust bonhomie to all and sundry, the sweat beading his brow and his customary bar cloth slung round his neck.

'Right, who's next?' he would bellow. 'No, not you Bert, you're third. Willie? Three pints, right. No, no whisky. You bring your own,' and so it went on.

Somebody choked on his beer in mid laugh and somebody else slapped his back. Somebody stumbled and stood on one of the dog's feet and jumped back when it yelped with a high-pitched squeal of pain and surprise, and the owner cautioned him to watch the bloody dog. One of the arm wrestlers fell down when his elbow slipped in a slick of ale and the whole tent laughed. Everybody was getting juiced up for a real good time.

I stayed for another beer, sitting in that mixed company, just taking in the conversations that were going on all around. Donald challenged me to a clay pigeon shoot. Another of the barrel-sitters professed that if his wife didn't win a prize in the home-baking section then it wasn't worth his while going home tonight. A crony said it would be nothing short of a miracle if he was sober enough to get home tonight, and again everybody laughed.

Once outside I was garrotted by the sunlight, jerking back as I emerged from the gloom into the bright. The field was a riot of noise and colour. From outside, along the main street, I could hear the honking of horns that heralded the arrival of the parade, and as I walked toward the marquee, the big trailer did a wide swing to negotiate the gate and scraped through.

On the back, the harvest queen was done up like a dish of fish, with a bright yellow cloak and a long dress to match.

She had the corn-crown, woven by one of the townswomen from stalks and ears into a delicate, dainty headpiece, and behind her, slightly to the right, dressed in a jacket and a hat made of cornstalks, was the reaper-king, a tall, fair-haired teenager, with his shiny, curved scythe.

All the corn maidens were pretty as a picture in their colourful dresses, and the whole pageant was finished off with dollies and animals, roosters and intricate shapes made of straw. Everybody cheered as the leading trailer made a circuit of the field and then came to a stop in the centre.

Following the leader came a horse-drawn flatloader pulled by two immense Clydesdales, great plodding beasts that were tricked up to a glossy shine, their burnished harnesses gleaming and jangling. Their heads bobbed up and down majestically with every step, showing off their pleated manes. The flatloader was piled high with the harvest gifts, stalks of corn and barley, tied together in the traditional hour-glass shape.

There were barrels of apples and early pears, mounds of potatoes that were so white they must have been dug up that morning. There was a forest of rhubarb from the smallholdings and pots of honey from Duncan Bennett's apiary and the other hives around Arden. There were round, soft cheeses and gallons of buttermilk, but most of all there was the bread. Big humped loaves with golden-brown cracked crusts, square loaves and crescents, cottage loaves salted with flour. You could smell them in the eddying breeze, warm and sweet and mouth watering.

The produce float pulled up behind the pageant and everybody cheered again. In the front trailer, the harvest queen and her escort and their crowd of pretty little backers stepped down for their royal parade around the field, waving and smiling at the applauding crowd.

By this time, I had found Barbara, and Paddy had come running with all the other kids as soon as the horns of the pageant had beckoned. We had a good position at the centre of the field where the queen would give out the bounty of the harvest. I'd been there once when the poor girl had been bowled back in the rush of eager children and had ended up on her backside stuck.

Paddy couldn't see what was going on, so I lifted her on to my shoulders. Barbara gave my arm a brief hug that said thanks, and I got another of those little warm glows you get at such times.

Just when the queen had arrived back at the middle of the field, there was another wave of horn-honking, and the deep growl of an engine.

The crowds parted and up the line came Father Gerry on his Honda, resplendent in his shiny hard-top and black gear. He zoomed past the cheering crowd and hit the ramp at the back of the pageant trailer at such a rate that, when he got up to the loader level, the bike actually leapt into the air, its front wheel spinning.

He stopped dead centre, and with a flick of a thumb he killed the engine. He turned to face the crowd. Great entrance, I thought, watching him standing there, his arms raised high, willing the crowd to silence.

It obeyed him. A hush swept over the farmers and their wives and all the kids.

And in the silence, Paddy, from her vantage point above my head pealed out: 'Look mommy, it's Darth Vader!'

Everybody heard it, even Gerry, who was unlacing his helmet, and a wave of laughter swept through the crowd. It made a mess of Gerry's entrance, but nobody cared. Beside me, Barbara was having a quiet fit of hysterics.

Gerry got the lid off and beamed a big smile down at her.

'Don't I wish, young lady,' he told her, and everybody laughed again.

He was still smiling widely when he lifted his hands up again for silence.

'Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, everybody,' he called. 'Once again, it's our own harvest festival and we're all here to have a good time.'

He paused and looked around.

'But first, let's remember why we're here. To say thanks for the summer, and to say thanks for everything that's grown so well to let us have a festival today.

'So, boys and girls,' he said in his strong, clear voice, 'let's join hands and say thank you.'

Above me, I could hear Paddy clap her hands together, following Gerry's exaggerated gesture of encouragement. Beside me, I noticed a few other children doing the same.

'Dear God, we thank you for making things grow, for making all the nice food we like to eat. We thank you for making the sun shine on our harvest festival and for giving us this wonderful day. Amen.'

'Amen!' piped up shrill voices and adult tones all around.

'Now let's all have some fun!' Gerry yelled, and everybody cheered.

'Who is that'?' Barbara asked.

'My friend, the hot-shot priest,' I told her. 'Father Gerry O'Connor.'

'He's delicious,' she said. 'What a waste.'

'Sorry kid, he's spoken for,' I said, gesturing skywards with my eyes.

She laughed and hugged my arm again, leaning in towards me so that I could feel the softness and warmth of her body.

Paddy asked to be let down and I swung over my head, spinning her so she landed on her feet.

'Can I go and play, now?' she asked, squinting up against the sun. Barbara told her to run along and be careful. As Paddy turned, her mother noticed the muddy patch on her skirt and was about to say something but Paddy slipped through the crowds and was gone.

'Oh, I forgot to tell you,' she said, still holding on to my arm, 'I've got an interview at the Western Infirmary on Monday.'

I told her I was delighted, and asked if she wanted me to drive her up to Glasgow.

'No, I've borrowed my father's car. He doesn't really use it much. I've got used to the fact that the wheel's on the wrong side.'

'Best of luck,' I said. 'I hope you get it.'

'Thanks, me too. I need to be working at something now that Paddy's going to school. I don't want to be cooped up in the house all day.'

I said something phoney and masculine like they'd be crazy not to hire her, but she just smiled and took it as a compliment.

'I wonder if you could do me a favour, though,' she said. 'My father had arranged to go down to London to meet some friends this weekend, so .... '

'So you want me to babysit?'

'Well, yes. If you don't mind.'

'Not at all. I'll come up and pick her up and take her out somewhere, if you like.'

'That would be nice. Really.'

'No problem. She's a great kid. I'll be having a good time,' I said sincerely. Paddy was one of those kids you just took to, although I suppose her strong resemblance to her mother was more than just an added bonus.

'I'll take her along Strowan's Well, and see if the gang hut is still there,' I said, on impulse.

'She'd love that. But don't you tell her about the things we used to do. I want her to grow up to be a lady.'

'Didn't seem to do you any harm,' I said.

Back in the centre of the field, the harvest queen was handing out goodies to the children who surrounded her. Everybody got their little round loaf, and a piece of cake.

Close to the beer tent, the barbecue was warming up nicely. The trench had been filled with coals and over the red heat there was a whole pig turning on a spit that was spun by a brawny young fellow with a painful-looking sunburn. Beside it slowly rolled what looked close to a full side of beef, and there were about two dozen capons going crisp and sizzling over a long hot trench that had been dug parallel to the main fire.

I left Barbara in mid-afternoon to have another vital pint of lager in the tent where I found everybody at that mellow stage of good fellowship and bonhomie. A pint was thrust into my hands and this one was a heaven-sent stream that slaked the back of my throat like a blessing.

Suitably refreshed, I strolled out to find Barbara. I was passing the big square tent when something caught my eye in the narrow space between it and the canvas of the hoopla stall. There was a crowd of men fooling about in the shade there, drinking out of bottles. I was about to pass on by when a flash of white on black drew my attention, and I did a double-take.

There was Colin Blackwood, in amongst the crowd, which immediately struck me as being strange, and just as I looked saw that he was being pushed about by a circle of men.

I started up the narrow canvas alley and saw that Colin was drunk as a lord. He could hardly stand on his feet, and the circle of guys were shoving him about, from one to the other. The poor guy looked sick and drunk and terrified, and he didn't seem to know where he was.

'Look at him,' one of the men said. 'He's as drunk as a skunk.'

'Here, Badger,' another one said, and Colin was shoved across the circle. The man pushed at him and Colin staggered backwards and fell in a heap. Everybody laughed.

Colin tried to get up and one of them stuck out the toe of his boot and sent him sprawling into the grass. Just as he had got to a kneeling position, on all fours, he was suddenly sick, and a gout of vomit splashed out and spattered over one of the men's shoes.

'Fuck sake,' the young lout said, jumping back. 'He's puked all over my boots.'

Somebody laughed and the man told him to shut the fuck up.

'Stupid bastard,' he grunted and swung one of his soiled boots forward and got Colin right under the ribs. He let out a whoosh of air that was mingled with a sharp yelp of pain and rolled sideways.

'You can have it back again, fucking idiot,' the man said. It was one of the toughs who'd ganged up on Colin before, that night I'd been floored by a half-brick. Billy Ruine, the mean little gang leader, was there too, smirking on the other side of the circle.

I couldn't hold back any longer.

'What the fuck do you bastards think you're doing?'

I came out from between the tents. All the heads turned.

'Oho, here comes the fuckin' hero,' Billy Ruine sneered. 'You better fuck off before you get it too.'

I was almost speechless with rage.

'You cretins. Look at you. Bloody animals.' They'd obviously got Colin tanked up on their cheap booze.

'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to, big mouth?' Billy Ruine said. 'What you want to do, take the whole lot of us on? Eh, that what you want?'

He stuck his chin out and made a come-on gesture with both of his hands. His team of hoods spread out beside him, their faces flushed with drink, dark with violence. Behind him I could hear Colin snuffling his misery.

'Come on then, wise guy, let's be havin' you.'

I could feel my hands shaking with that burst of adrenalin you get with confrontation.

But I braced my feet and prepared to hit out at the first one that moved. There was no way I could run away from this one, but I was too mad to care. I'd take a few casualties with me.

Billy Ruine took a step forward, with that sly, arrogant look on his face.

'Well, well now,' Donald said, from close by. 'This is a fine wee party we have going on here, do we not?'

Billy Ruine turned and saw Donald standing off to the side. 'Now, is it a private party, I'm wondering,' Donald said in his mild, slow way, 'or can anybody join in?'

'Fuck off, old timer,' Billy said, and one of his troops giggled. 'This is nothing to do with you.'

'Well, if you put one hand on him, then I'll have to make it something to do with me, now,' Donald said. There was no hint of anger or menace in his voice.

Billy turned away from him. 'Ignore that old fool,' he said and ran towards me, swinging his boot up to catch me in the groin. I jumped back and Billy's foot missed. I grabbed it and pulled hard. He went down, but he twisted and came back up again like a cat and swung a roundhouse that clipped would have hurt if I hadn't blocked it.

That was the last swing he got in. An arm lashed out and caught him right on the chin. I turned, surprised, and saw that it was not Donald who had thrown the blow. Monsignor Cronin had his sleeves rolled up. There was a bellow of pain from one of the others. Donald stepped forward, spun and his foot came up in a tight arc and connected with one lout's temple. He went down like a sack.

Donald continued the movement and turned like a ballet dancer and his hands moved like pistons. Smack, smack right and left, and two of the hoods doubled over. The monsignor swept past me and stepped over Billy Ruine who was lying still on the fallen leaves. He caught one of the guys and spun him around on his heels with a blow to the solar plexus, and grabbed another and head-butted him straight on the nose, like a bar-room brawler.

But there was nothing of the streetfighter in the fluid grace with which the two men cut a swathe through the line-up.

It was over in seconds. The two remaining men turned and ran. The rest of them writhed and moaned on the ground under the trees.

Monsignor Cronin rubbed his hands together. He was breathing lightly, and his solemn face looked as placid as ever.

'Silly boys,' he said, shaking his head. He turned to me and raised his finger to his lips: 'Shhh. Not a word to a soul.' I was too surprised to do anything but nod.

Donald helped Colin to his feet and dusted him down. His nose was running and tears had streaked his face. He looked very unsteady.

'Bloody animals,' Donald said. 'That's what they are. Come on, laddie, let's get you away from here.'

We helped Colin into the beer tent and sat him on the grass beside the barrels where he snuffled a bit before falling asleep, lying sprawled and ungainly beside the patient dogs.

'He'll be all right once he sleeps it off,' Jimmy Allison said after I'd told him what happened, or some of it. 'It's a damned shame, picking on that poor soul. You would think they had better things to do with their time.'

'Och, they're no better than pigs,' Donald said loudly and vehemently. 'Animals is what they are, and no mistake. It does them good to get a taste of their own medicine. I'm thinking we were a bit soft on them.'

Donald was still in a fury over what Billy Ruine and his boys had done to Colin. I must say I was enraged as well, but I was still very grateful to Donald - and to the monsignor - for their timely assistance. Grateful and, frankly, amazed. Those two men, well past their prime, had made mincemeat of those young toughs with such ease that if I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have believed it.

If it hadn't been for them, no matter how many casualties I'd have taken, I would have been one of them.

My pulse had slowed by the time they started carving up the barbecue. Tommy Muir, the local butcher, and his son, both big and beefy men, set about with a marvellous deftness.

The beer tent emptied, giving John Hollinger a break, and I saw him strolling off with a plate of beef and pork and potatoes that would have done a bear proud. He was a bear of a man anyway, so it made little difference.

Barbara and Paddy joined Jimmy and Donald and a few others with myself in the shade of a weeping ash, and we had our own banquet, washed down with some white wine and more beer.

I was on my fourth beer of the day - and that was just enough for me - washing down the gargantuan meal, when Duncan Bennett remembered he hadn't got his free harvest loaf. I couldn't have eaten another morsel, but Duncan wandered off to get his fair share, saying he hadn't missed his loaf in all the years and that, he said, was a whole lot of bread. Barbara told Paddy if she ate another thing she'd be sick, and that's just the way I felt too.

She and I sat back against the tree, enjoying the lethargy of a big meal on a hot day. All around the field, families and couples and groups of friends were doing the same thing. It was the festival's equivalent of half time. Paddy fell asleep, and I almost dozed off too, while the murmur of conversation and laughter washed over me.

Later on, when it was beginning to get dark, they lit the huge bonfire with the straw man lashed to the centre pole. The last job of the harvest queen was to put her crown on the straw man's head, then they lit the fire and he was gone in minutes - his and her hour of glory gone in one burst of flame.

Everybody applauded. Father Gerry had got in a spectacular array of fireworks that lit up the night and we watched as Donald passed round his miraculous flask.

Paddy fell asleep, and I took her and Barbara home. It had been a good day.

But, it was the last good day of that summer.

17

Barbara invited me in for a nightcap and Paddy insisted I come up and wish her goodnight, waking up briefly but dopily for as long as it took to get her bundled into her pyjamas, and then she smiled and her eyelids drooped and she was fast asleep in the way that only small children and drunks can do.

Down in the living room, Barbara see-sawed the cord on the blinds and shut out the dusk. She poured me a Drambuie and made herself a brandy with ice, and we sat down in the broad armchairs on each side of the hearth. The liqueur sparked on the tip of my tongue and blazed a hot trail down my throat.

We sat and sipped and spoke about the fun of the festival and other things, the conversation just rolling along nice and easy. Barbara had liked all the old guys that I liked, and she did a quick take-off of Donald's island accent, which was so like him I had to laugh.

It must have been way past midnight when Paddy started crying upstairs, breaking the mellow mood that we had fallen into. Apart from the hassle with Billy Ruine and his mob of nut-cases, I'd had a ball, and when Paddy started up, yelling for her mother, I had a fleeting uncharitable thought which I suppressed a little guiltily.

Barbara gave me an apologetic look and went upstairs. She came down a minute or two later with Paddy in her arms, red-eyed, but still half asleep. Barbara was patting her gently on the back the way all mothers do, and Paddy's arms were tight around her neck.

'It's all right honey,' she said soothingly while her daughter snuffled into her.

'She's been dreaming again,' Barbara said to me. 'But it's all gone now, baby,' she said, in a different tone, to Paddy.

'She'll fine in a minute or two. Must have had too much excitement.' Barbara sat down on the sofa, still patting her daughter between the shoulder-blades, and the girl's panicky sniffling began to fade down. In a few moments the night shakes seemed to have left her. Barbara looked at me over her shoulder.

She was smiling a little.

In a few minutes, Paddy's breathing settled down and she was asleep on her mother's shoulder. Barbara took her back upstairs and when she came back she said: 'She's been waking up a lot these nights. And so have I.'

'Me too. Must be the heat,' I said, and stood up, putting my glass down on the stone mantelpiece. 'I suppose I'd better shoot off. You've got an early start in the morning. I'll come up for Paddy about ten, and we'll think of something to keep us both amused.'

'Thanks a million, Nick. It really is awfully good of you. If I get this job I'll have to get some sort of babysitting service full time.'

I told her it was no trouble at all, and I meant it. Having a day with a seven year old isn't everybody's idea of having good time, but hell, I still wasn't beyond the stage of hankering to go climb a tree or hook a trout out of the burn. It was just that there weren't too many people my age with the same hankering. There are some things which most people outgrow, and some of these things I guess I'm stuck with. Anyway, I was looking forward to it.

Barbara came to the door with me, and I slipped my arms around her back and joined them together. She pulled herself close, brought my head down to hers and kissed me. It was not a friendly kiss. Not a sisterly gesture. Above us, the moon was bright and silver, with that shaved way that tells you it's only a day or so away from a full moon, and the light tingled the needles of the cypress trees that lined the lawn. I returned the kiss with interest and she pressed her body up against mine, lithe and taut and soft at the same time. We held the moment, and each other, for quite a while before we broke away gently.

I held on to her shoulders and she looked down at my feet. At least I hoped it was my feet because that kiss had a powerful effect.

'Right, kid,' I said eventually. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

I took my hands off her shoulders, and she continued looking down, and I went down the stone steps towards the jeep.

I had just reached the driver's door and was fumbling in my pocket for the keys when she called my name, quite softly, from the shadow of the doorway. I had half turned to wave goodnight, and she came tripping a quick-step down the stair and pattered across the pebbles. The moonlight outlined her shape and blued the edges of her hair like St Elmo's fire and she came right into my arms in a rush and kissed me. Hard.

Then she stopped and looked right up into my eyes.

'Don't go,' she said, like an order. Like a demand.

Stupidly, I said: 'Pardon?'

'Don't go tonight. Please Nicky, I don't want you to go. Stay with me, won't you?' She said it quickly, getting it all out in a rush as if she might not be able to say the words if she spoke them slowly.

I didn't say anything at all. I just looked into her eyes, seeing the green shift to blue, and sparkling with little moon reflections. I turned her around with one arm across her shoulder and walked her back up the stairs.

I shut the door behind me and clicked the mortise lock over. We walked up the stairs and into her room and she closed the door and came right into my arms again.

The moonlight was a dim arc-lamp that shone a pillar of fluorescence through the pane.

The tomboy had become a stunning woman whose legs entwined mine, and whose breasts gleamed slick with the heat of our bodies, and whose soft voice moaned low and hungry in the dark and whose tears ran cool on my cheek.

We held each other for a long time and her tears evaporated, and then we whispered for an even longer time, before we slept. Both of us knew, without saying anything, that something had changed, clicked into place, and that we would have to do something about it.

Barbara fell asleep before me and just as she began to fade out she told me in a whisper that she thought she loved me. I felt a surge of happiness welling up inside me.

I slept for a couple of hours, I think, for it was still dark when I was whiplashed right out of sleep by another of those dreams. I was sitting up straight before I knew where I was, before I realised I had been dreaming.

This was one clear as ice; no aftershock fade.

In my dream I saw a thing that swelled and pulsed, a thing that changed as I watched, from a black shadow that shifted in and out of walls and trees and smeared everything it touched with a dead darkness.

In my dream I watched as it changed shape and stalked through the town, spreading its black disease, ripping here, touching there, and burning with the pale white eyes that were so dead they sucked out life.

And as I watched, unable to walk or talk, it changed and the wind took it high where it became a flapping sheet, pale against the dark, that fluttered in the wind and started to spiral down, and I saw a gaping beak open in a screech that sounded like mad laughter and saw that it wasn't a sheet at all. It was a huge white bird lancing down.

And there was Barbara running frantically.

I heard the wind of its wings and tried to call to her, to move to protect her, but no words would come out of my throat, and the wind became a roar and I saw that the great beak was going to...

No!

And I was awake, shattered into the world again, and gasping for breath that wouldn't come, and beside me Barbara was awake and had her arms around me and was asking me what was wrong.

'Nothing,' I said, 'just a dream,' and I could still see her running in the distance and that thing streaking down towards her.

'Some dream,' she said, and held me close, the way she had with her daughter. 'Come on, lie down.'

Numbly I did, and she held me and gradually my heart slowed down.

I drifted back into sleep in her arms.

It was just going on nine, and the sun was high enough to make a big square of light on the wall, when Barbara gently shook me awake, ruffling my hair. I opened my eyes groggily and she was lying beside me, propped up on one elbow and looking like a vision.

Everything came back to me and I smiled, a bit sheepishly.

'Morning,' I said.

She chucked me under the chin. 'Hiya.' She smiled, and added: 'Tiger.'

'Tigress,' I countered. 'What time is it?'

'Too late for any more of that,' she said.

'Pity.'

'Aw, come on. I haven't got the energy or the time,' she laughed. Then she came off her elbow, puckered up and kissed me a smack on the lips.

'Thank you. Thanks for staying,' she said.

'No ma'am. Thank you.'

She gave me another kiss then rolled over and out of bed. I watched her walk to where her robe lay on a chair. She picked it up put it on. For a brief and tantalising moment I could see her outline through the line gauzy material.

She caught my look.

'Voyeur,' she said. 'Come on, and bring your mind with you.'

'I'll leave that behind,' I said. 'I think it would just get in the way.'

She laughed brightly and ordered me out of bed and said she was going to check on Paddy. For some reason, I didn't want her daughter to know I'd spent the night, so I got out of bed quickly and fumbled around for my scattered clothes.

Barbara was bustling in the kitchen and I sat down at the pine table. She'd put out some orange juice which I downed in one swallow and she started to make coffee. There was a plate of cereal on the table for Paddy.

I watched Barbara move about, and I had to say something but I wasn't sure what to say, or how to start. But she got in first. 'You don't have to say anything.'

I looked up, and she must have read the surprise.

'It's all right Nick. It was terrific. It was wonderful. But that doesn't mean you have to .... '

'Well, I hope you mean that what you said was what you mean.'

'It was. It is,' she paused and I didn't let her go on.

'Well, that's all right then.'

Paddy came wandering into the kitchen and we stepped apart from each other.

'What're we going to do today? You're early too.'

'Yes, I thought we'd make a day of it, so I came as early as I could.'

'You're still wearing the same clothes,' she said. 'Didn't you get to bed last night?'

I looked at Barbara and she had to turn away to the sink to hide her giggles.

'Something like that,' I said.

Barbara went upstairs to get changed and Paddy and I sat in the kitchen with our breakfast. The radio was on in a corner and I heard the weatherman say something about storms heading in over the Atlantic, bringing rain to most parts later. I didn't quite catch it, but Paddy heard too.

'It's not going to rain, is it?' she said, pulling a disgusted face.

I looked out of the window. The sun was working overtime. 'Nah. Not today anyway, I don't think.'

'Can we go a picnic then?'

'OK, but I'll take you somewhere you haven't been yet.'

'Where's that?'

'I thought I'd show you some of the places me and your mum used to play when we were kids.'

'Really? I can't imagine my mom being a kid,' Paddy said. 'What was she like?'

'Well, she could climb better than anybody, and she was good with a slingshot and she could hit a rabbit with a rock.'

Paddy's eyes opened wide. 'My mom? My mom could hit a rabbit with a rock?'

Her face was such a picture of disbelief that I had to laugh out loud and that made her laugh too.

'You're kidding me, ain'tcha?' I realised then that I might have been just a bit iconoclastic and that Barbara might disapprove of her image being tampered with.

'Yeah, I'm just kidding. But she was a lot like you. Same colour of hair and same freckles. I reckon you'll be a lot like her.'

'Do you think so? Do you think I'll be like her? I mean, she's awful pretty and all.'

'Don't worry about it,' I said, on surer ground now. 'Even prettier probably.'

'Don't know if I want to be pretty,' Paddy said, thoughtfully. 'But hey, I'd sure like to hit a rabbit with a rock.'

When Barbara came downstairs I turned around and there she was standing by the door and looking like something from the front cover of Vogue. She had put on a simple white suit and had shoes and handbag to match, and frankly she looked perfect.

I gave her a low wolf whistle that Paddy tried unsuccessfully to emulate, and Barbara shot me a look that conveyed pleasure and incredulity and disapproval all in one.

'Do you think I'll pass muster?'

'I'd say if they don't hire you they'll need their heads looked at. '

'Me too,' Paddy chipped in. 'You look lovely mummy.'

'Well, thank you for that,' Barbara said. 'I take that as a vote of confidence.'

She told us to take care of ourselves and not get up to any mischief, and made us cross our hearts. We did.

Out front, Barbara pecked us both, me on the cheek and Paddy on the top of the head, thanked us for our good wishes and warned us sternly to behave. She swung the estate car out of the gate and was gone with two brief toots on the horn. If it was up to me I'd have hired her on the spot.

'Right, now what?' Paddy said.

'First, down to my place, so I can get changed. Then we'll decide.'

We went in the jeep. I let her ride shotgun.

"Phooey. Boy, do you need a bath,' she said, wrinkling her nose.

'Less of your lip, young lady. I told you I didn't get much sleep last night.'

'What's lip?' she asked.

'What you'll have a fat one of, kid, if you don't button it, and pronto.'

I was beginning to enjoy myself already. Yesterday, apart from the scene with Billy Ruine and gang, had been good. The best day I'd had in ages. Last night was just incredible. Today promised to be fun, pure and simple.

At my place, she sat in the big rocker and swung back and forth while I pottered about in the bathroom, trying to convince the shower that lukewarm was not going to solve the problem, but that was all I got, so I just used a lot of soap. I changed into a pair jeans and a light shirt and had a quick shave.

Paddy didn't say no to a couple of bacon sandwiches.

While we were eating and swapping tales - me about being a kid here, and she about being a kid over there - I flipped on the radio and heard the weatherman on the other channel promising a big change. As I'd driven down from the heights of Upper Arden, I'd noticed some cloud piling high over the firth, but there was hardly any breeze at all, so I thought we'd get a last day of it.

Over the roar of the low gears on the steep hill, there had been a low rumble like distant thunder. I hoped the day would stay fine, otherwise Paddy and I would be relegated to playing I-spy and happy families, but it was still hot and bright.

I thought we might head along to Strowan's Well and take the forest path into the valley where our old gang hut used to be. I reckoned I could spin a few tall tales about the old days, what I remembered of them anyway, that still wouldn't spoil Paddy's image of her mother, and retain mine - both versions that is.

One strange thing happened.

She went upstairs to the bathroom and when she was on the second flight she stopped. I could hear the sudden cessation of her footsteps on the treads.

'You okay?' I called up. There was no reply. I cocked a head over the banister.

Paddy was standing at the sixth step, with her right foot poised for the seventh. She was standing stock still, one hand on the banister and the other almost touching the wall. Then, quite deliberately, she lifted her foot higher, and put it on the eighth step up, missing out the one that creaked.

How the hell did she know about that, I wondered.

'Are you all right?' I asked, and Paddy turned on the top landing and nodded. There was a strange look on her face, puzzled but not afraid.

'Yes, I'm OK,' she said. 'That step isn't right, though.'

'What do you mean?'

'It was going to creak at me. Step on a creak makes you weak.'

She went into the bathroom, leaving me with the puzzled expression.

18

I put on my treks and my old bomber jacket. I slipped my penknife into a pocket, and on impulse I picked up the smooth old stone from the dresser. It was hard and warm, a touchstone in my hand.

At the door, I paused at the old umbrella rack that had stood there since before I was born, and I picked out the knobbly walking stick of my grandfather's. I had made it for him from a blackthorn when I was just a kid.

I picked up my old fishing hat, spun it in the air, and plunked it down on Paddy's head, flicking the peak up so I could see her eyes.

'Right. Now we're all set for the wilderness,' I said. 'Just watch out for the bear, kid.'

I opened the front door and was just stepping through, still looking down at Paddy's grin, when I bumped smack into Jimmy Allison whose fist was raised high, caught in mid flight on the first knock.

'Jimmy,' I said. 'You nearly gave me a heart attack.'

His hand stayed in mid-air, big and gnarled, and swollen at the joints where the corkscrew of arthritis was inexorably digging in. His eyes were bloodshot and wide. He stared at me for quite a while and I could hear his breath rasp heavily in his throat. There was something wrong with him.

'Jimmy, are you all right?' I asked.

'Where is it?'

'What?'

'Where is it? You've got it.' .

'Where's what?' I asked.

'My book, you damned thief. You've stolen my book. And I want it back.' His voice was hoarse and he seemed really wound up. I just stood agape.

'Give me it back, you bastard. Thought you'd get away with it, did you? Thought you'd steal my book and have it published yourself? After all I've done for you, you little bastard.' I was standing close enough to feel a spray of spittle on my face. Paddy's hand, which had been holding mine, clenched tight.

'Wait a minute Jimmy. That's no language in front of the youngster,' I said, nodding down towards Paddy, who was staring up, her eyes flicking from me to him.

'Don't give me any of your excuses, you dirty thief. You've stolen what's mine, and I've come to get it back,' he said, spitting more flecks at me. Some of them had gathered at the corner of his mouth and were working themselves into a lather.

Before I could reply, Jimmy blundered past me in the hallway.

His big frame nearly filled the narrow space. For some reason, I noticed that his shirt had been buttoned wrongly, and that this was the first time I'd seen him outside his own house without a tie on.

He hadn't shaved either, and the grey and white bristles on his cheeks gave him an unkempt look. The weird expression in his eyes was something else.

Jimmy lumbered into the living room and I followed him, pulling Paddy along with me. She stuck right at my heels, keeping me between herself and Jimmy. From the room I could hear things being moved and when I looked through the doorway Jimmy was rummaging about, scattering books and papers on the floor.

'Right, Jimmy, enough's enough,' I said. 'It's bad enough you coming down here drunk and talking like that in front of a child, but you've gone too far.' I walked towards him, leaving Paddy standing at the doorway, and took Jimmy by the elbow. He swung round and shoved me away and I skittered backwards in surprise and landed in the easy chair. Behind me, I heard the girl give a little cry of fear.

I leapt up again quickly and faced him.

'Okay, Jimmy. I'm not going to argue with you. Tell me what it is you want and you can have it. And I'll see you when you're sober enough to apologise.'

'Give me my book. You took it away. I want it back. Now. Now!'

'Oh, your history? Is that it? Well, you can have it back. Just don't touch anything else.' He kept on rummaging, opening drawers and turning out the contents on to the floor. The place was a mess. I was torn between anger at Jimmy's behaviour, and disgust at what I was witnessing. I had never, in all my life, seen the old man like this. I would have been hard pressed to even remember seeing him angry. I crossed over to the far side of the room to where I'd put the box with all his papers and jottings down in the corner beside the old dark dresser, and hefted it in my arms.

'Is this what you came for? The book? Well here it is.'

Jimmy turned and his red-rimmed eyes fastened on the box. He whipped it quickly out of my hands and clasped it tight against his chest. There was still foam at the corners of his mouth, and he grinned, and then he let out a little laugh that was more chilling than any display of anger.

'Take it and go, Jimmy. Just go now,' I said. I was shaking a bit, from anger or dismay, and I'm sure it showed in my voice. I'm also sure he didn't notice.

He giggled again, a sly, triumphant little laugh that was chilling, and almost ran out of the room. Paddy shrank back into the hallway as he went past, as if she was afraid he'd turn on her, or maybe just knock her down and trample her. I was suddenly afraid of that too, but Jimmy didn't even notice her.

He seemed totally focussed on the box and its contents, as tightly as the arms that clutched it to his chest, and he blundered up the hallway and out of the front door like a looter escaping when he hears the sirens.

I took Paddy's hand and we went out into the pathway and watched as the old man hurried up the middle of the street, half walking, half running, his coat flapping behind him.

That was the last time I saw Jimmy Allison alive.

I loved that old man, and I believe I've told you already what he meant to me.

He scurried away and went home and some time later he was found there, lying at the bottom of his stairs, in a crumpled heap.

His neck was broken, and nobody knew whether he had fallen or had thrown himself down the narrow flight. He was still wearing his coat and his shirt was done up wrongly, and I'm sorry now that I was angry and disgusted with him that last time.

Paddy asked me what was wrong with the old man, and I told her I didn't know.

'Isn't he a friend of yours?' she said. 'He was with us at the festival.'

'That's right, but I think he's not very well today. I'm sorry you were scared.'

'I'm not scared as long as you're there.'

'We'll thank you ma'am, for that big vote of confidence,' I said, trying to raise the mood and shake off the bad taste that Jimmy's visit had left.

I twirled the rough walking stick around.

'Let's go and have some fun.'

I flicked down the peak of the fishing cap and she said 'Hey, watch it, buster', and we went down the path and out through the gate. We went the opposite way from Jimmy Allison.

As we got to the corner of the street and took a left that would lead up in a sweeping curve through Westbay and on to the main street, there was a wail of a siren up ahead starting in the east of town. getting louder as it got level with us, then dopplering down in flat tones as it headed for Levenford.

'What's that? A cop car?' Paddy asked.

'Don't know, sunshine. Maybe an ambulance, or even a fire engine.'

'Pity we missed it. I ain't seen a fire engine here.'

'Haven't seen,' I corrected.

'Right. Haven't. Where's it going anyhow?'

'I don't know. Probably out of town. Sometimes the Kirkland brigade gets called out to help out at Levenford and vice versa. Might not even be a fire engine anyway. It'll be long gone by the time we get up to the main street.'

Up in the centre and past the shops, the place was fairly quiet, which was strange for a Monday morning.

There was hardly anybody about, and I could see at a glance that a few of the shops hadn't even opened yet, which was even more strange. Mary Baker's was still closed, and there was nobody in Tom Muir's butcher's shop which normally had a queue at this time in the morning. The red-faced shopkeeper was standing behind his white marble counter and he tipped his white paper hat to us as we passed, before going back to sharpening one of his big knives on the long whet with the practised ease of long experience.

A woman passed us and we both said hello, but she didn't acknowledge, and Paddy and I looked at each other. There was a clatter, and we both turned and the woman was still walking slowly along, but she'd let go one of the handles of her shopping bag and a can of fruit or beans had rolled out on to the pavement and continued across to the kerb before toppling slowly into the street.

Paddy let go of my hand and skipped back, picked the can up and caught up with the woman. When she got level, she handed it to her and the woman took it. Paddy came back to me and I watched as the woman looked at the can in her hand as if she didn't know how it had got there. She was still looking at it when I turned with a shrug and continued along the road.

We had got a few hundred yards along the main street when I glanced back, and the woman was still there and still staring, as far as I could see from that distance, at the can Paddy had given her. Weird, I thought.

There was hardly anybody else about. It felt as if Paddy and I were walking through a ghost town.

Out towards the Milligs it still looked as if Arden was having a lie-in after the exertions of the harvest festival, but when we got to the bridge that spanned Strowan's Well, just as I was going to turn left and take the path that would lead us up the valley, I saw a pall of smoke further ahead and caught, through the trees, the sapphire-blue sparkle of a flashing police light.

'What's that?' Paddy asked, pointing ahead.

'I don't know. Looks like a fire, or maybe an accident.'

Just as I said that my stomach did a slow, lazy flip, turned itself over as if the ground had just disappeared from beneath my feet, and suddenly I was shaken with a wave of certain dread. I remembered the rumbling, thundery noise I had heard as we motored down from Barbara's place, a deep, growl that seemed to shake the jeep.

I had assumed it was thunder and I remember thinking that Barbara should take it easy if we did get a sudden rainstorm.

But it had come from the east of town. Suddenly I was sure of that. And the clouds over the firth were still far in the west. The thunder had come only five minutes or so after Barbara had left us.

A cold anxiety probed at the back of my head and right then I didn't want to walk a step further.

'Come on,' I said. 'We have to go quickly.' And we ran towards the flashing lights and that tower of smoke that was piling up high into the sky. Paddy kept up with me easily as we got along past the curve at Milligs and hurried along the road to where I could see, in the distance, a couple of police cars and an ambulance blocking the road. There was a fire engine there too.

Even from several hundred yards away, and despite the trees that hid most of the scene, I could hear that loud crashing roar that sounded like a giant blowtorch.

Above the trees a sheet of flame sent tongues of fire licking high. Smoke billowed upwards in a rolling cloud.

My heart started thudding heavily as we covered the distance and got up to where the cars were parked just at this side of the Kilmalid bridge, the old stone hump-back that spanned the stream that ran past the far edge of the Milligs.

There were a lot of men, police and fire-fighters milling about, and not much else to see, unless you counted the thirty-foot pillar of fire that seemed to spout up from the stream itself.

The heat, from almost forty yards away, was intense, and I felt a searing gust on my face. I stopped to look, stunned by the white heat, and with my left arm I made sure Paddy was behind me.

The Kilmalid Bridge had gone. There was nothing left to span the stream, and there was a moraine of rocks and stone all round, scattered across the street and on the verge. The air was shimmering and, through eyes that were already watering, I could see the hulking shape of a truck in the middle of the flames, angled down towards the stream.

Even without the heat haze, it looked like a twisted mass that glowed white and red. And there wasn't that much of it left.

One of the policemen turned round and saw us standing there, and waved his hands at us. Over the roaring of the fire, his words were lost, but there was no mistaking the gesture. He was a lot closer to the flames than we were - and it must have been damned hot where he was, and he wanted us to stay well clear. I took the hint.

I pushed Paddy ahead of me in the opposite direction from the inferno, crossing at the same time to the north side of the road, where there was some shelter in the trees. We got under the spread of an oak, well out of the heat, and sat down.

'What's happened, Nicky?'

'I'm not sure, Paddy. There's been an accident, but I think we'd better stay well away. It looks pretty hot out there.'

'It is pretty hot,' she said. 'It's like when mom opens up the oven.'

'Yes,' I said, and again that sick feeling of dread stole in.

For some reason, I had to get across to the other side of the demolished bridge and find out who was in that wreck.

We sat there until I got my breath back and Paddy stared at me from under the peak of my hat. She looked solemn and a bit scared. So was I. After a few minutes, I stood up and took her hand again, and instead of going along the road I headed into the trees and down the slope towards the stream, maybe sixty yards north of the road. The stream was fairly full, despite the dry spell, but we had no difficulty in crossing it, far from where the action was.

When we were on the other side of the burn, we continued along a well-worn path until we were a good distance from that gusher of flame.

Down on the main road - the Kilcreggan Road again - we followed the hedgerow until I could see another fire engine on this side of the bridge. I told Paddy to wait there and she obediently sat down on a tussock of grass and nodded when I told her not to move. Her eyes were wide and glassy.

She knew that something bad had happened and she didn't know what, but I knew without being told that she had had that dreadful sinking feeling that, whatever it was, it had something to do with her.

I stepped out from the hedge and sprinted towards the bridge. There were two fire tenders, obviously from Levenford, and two teams of men in their yellow helmets were wrestling with thick hoses, straining to aim their hard jets of water at the centre of the flames. Out of the corner of my eye, in a small stand of trees and saplings, I saw a car that was angled off the road, on its side.

My heart did a dive and then it started thudding in my ears. It was Barbara's Volvo, crumpled in on the passenger side. The front end was crumpled and a wheel had sheared off. The windscreen was gone, and even as I turned to look directly at it, I saw the red mush that covered the white of the bent bodywork.

I turned back towards the fire and, as I did so, I saw something, maybe a rag, fluttering limply in the fork of a sapling, white and red among the green. It wasn't until later that I realised what it was.

There was another police car and a uniformed officer standing well behind that. The roar from the flames was deafening, and when I reached him I had to shout to be heard.

He tried to tell me to get back, but I shook my head. I pointed back to the wrecked Volvo and yelled in his ear.

'What happened to the driver?'

'Hospital. Ambulance has just gone,' he shouted into my ear.

'Alive?' _

'Dunno. Couldn't tell. Looked pretty bad. Blood everywhere.'

The left side of the policeman's face was red from the heat of the flames, giving him a two-toned look.

'Which hospital?' I asked, and again he shrugged.

'Western Infirmary, most likely.'

'What happened here?'

'Petrol tanker came off and hit the gas pipe.'

That explained the flames. From where we stood we had to shield our eyes against them, and I had to hand it to the firemen who were a lot closer in than we were, still huddled over their writhing hoses, jetting water into the heat.

'Must have gone up like a bomb,' the man said.

The main gas pipe spanned the stream a couple of yards downstream from the old bridge. It was an unofficial crossing that kids from Arden had used since time immemorial, balancing on the two foot wide shiny black surface, teetering across its smooth length, with a jam-jar full of sticklebacks or minnows.

Now there was nothing left of the pipe, a great hole where the bridge used to be, and just a white-hot tangle of wreckage that used to be the cab and the bowser of the petrol tanker.

I stood mesmerised by the giant blowtorch and I wished to God somebody would go and turn the gas off.

The firemen were never going to be able to put out that fire, no matter how much water they threw on it. I left the policeman at his post and went back to where Paddy was still sitting quietly, and I didn't even look at the wreckage of Barbara's estate car in the grove.

If I had, I'm sure I would have been sick. I didn't want Paddy to see me throwing up. I didn't know what I was going to tell her.

She looked up at me from under the peak, still holding on to my walking stick like a little shepherdess, with inquiry in her eyes. I sat down and put my arm around her narrow shoulders, and two big tears sprang up and rolled down her cheeks.

'Is it my mommy?' she asked. 'Is she dead?'

I pushed myself back and looked down at her, wondering how the hell she'd read my mind.

'What makes you ask that?' I asked, backing out of the question.

Paddy didn't say anything. She just pointed past me, through a gap in the hedge that looked on to a curve in the road. At the other side of the curve, I could see clearly the battered and bent shell of the Volvo.

I had made Paddy sit here alone in the one place that gave her a window on to the wreckage.

I fumbled for words, casting about blindly, and came up with nothing. All I had was the truth.

'It's your mum's car,' I said. It sounded like a confession. 'I don't know what happened, but they've taken her to hospital.'

'Is she dead?'

'I think she's hurt. I don't know how bad. But we're going to find out right now.'

Tears were rolling in a steady chain down her cheeks and I felt her give a little sob. But that was all. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring hug and I felt I could have done with one myself.

'Come on, let's go and find out. We'd better go quickly, 'cause your mum'll need us right now.'

I helped Paddy to her feet and took her hand again and she just came with me, her face blank, but the tears still rolling. I wished I hadn't sat her on that tussock. I could have spun her a line, maybe, delayed the moment, but I hadn't and there was nothing I could do about it.

We crossed back through the trees and over the stream to the far side, and by the time we got past the roaring of the fire geyser I just picked her up and carried her. The fast walk back to my place seemed to take too long. Paddy just put her head into the curve of my neck and soaked me with those big tears and I felt sick for her.

Back at the house I tried to phone the ambulance service and the police, but there was nothing but static on the line. I didn't know right then, but discovered soon after, that the explosion that had wrecked the bridge had also burned away the telephone cable and the main power line that serviced half of the town, in one apocalyptic blast.

All the time I was trying to get a line, Paddy kept looking at me with hope and fear and misery fighting for pole position in her eyes. I didn't have the guts to look away.

Finally I gave up and decided that we just had to go. Getting out to where we could find out what had happened to her was better than sitting here fretting. In a couple of minutes I had Paddy strapped in the jeep and we were heading towards Kirkland to double across the moor road, taking the long way round.

I was in a panic the whole time. Paddy said not a word.

19

Barbara gave two toots on her horn as she swung the Volvo out of the driveway and down the hill to the town. She was still smiling with pleasure at what Nick had said and at the compliment from her daughter.

It was a vote of confidence but, then again, they were probably both biased. Having said that, she had taken care to ensure that she was looking good and she was feeling good. It had been a very interesting night and today she was going to give them her best shot.

'They will need their heads examined if they don't hire me,' she thought as she spun the wheel at the main road and headed east past the shops.

In her head she thought through all the questions she might be asked and she hoped she wouldn't be overcome by nerves when she finally got right down to it. It had been a long time since she'd worked, but her qualifications were still good and she wasn't the nervous type.

Out through Westbay, past the allotments, round the slight curve at Milligs the Volvo ran smoothly. The streets were quiet, and there was hardly any traffic on the road. As she'd passed by the shops, there was nobody on the street, but that didn't register.

Barbara hoped that Paddy wouldn't tire Nick out, but she was sure her endless chatter and boundless enthusiasm just might. She was glad they'd taken to each other. Since that first day they'd met in the car park, and she'd suddenly been overcome with anger and fear when she saw the stranger talking to her daughter, she'd been thinking about him a lot.

He was different, naturally, from the boy she'd known, but there was something about him that was still the same. Yes, she had invited him home last night, then invited him upstairs and she had no regrets.

She knew there was a bond between them, and if she talked straight to herself she would have said it was too early to have that sort of feeling. Maybe she wasn't ready to talk straight to herself just yet. She had Paddy and she had the rather remote elderly man she called father, but there was something missing from her life and it wasn't just a man.

Something had been missing from her life for a long time. And recently, she had begun to think that blank space, that nagging empty spot, would be empty no longer. Barbara had not pondered the compulsion that had sent her back to her home town again after almost a lifetime away.

She had just done it, without questioning the drive. There were some things in life that just demanded to be.

Out across the low bridge over Strowan's Well, and the power steering took the sharp turn as easy as thinking, then rolling swiftly along the road, Barbara was glad she had come back.

Ahead the road took a lazy left and a matching right. The trees whipped past on either side, heliographing sunlight through on the firth side, darker on the north. After the second bend, the Kilmalid Bridge hove into sight. There was a sign before it giving the usual exaggerated picture of a hump-back bridge, which in this case wasn't too exaggerated. You couldn't see oncoming traffic from either side. Barbara slowed slightly, but the Volvo had enough momentum to whip over the hump and down the other side with an exhilarating stomach wrench like a roller-coaster ride.

Barbara was still thinking her thoughts when something flashed over the trees ahead and to the right, catching her eye.

The big white bird wheeled in the air, stalled and spun on a wingtip, then it back-beat twice before folding its wings and dropping from the blue sky.

It dived straight towards her.

Barbara had seen the flash of white and her eyes flicked back down to the road again. She didn't see the big bird swoop until it was only yards from her windscreen, and by then it was just a blur of white flashing in front of her eyes.

Instinctively, her hand left the steering wheel and came up to protect her eyes and her head jerked back against the headrest.

The gannet hit with a crashing thump that instantly snowed out the windscreen and covered her with bulleting glass.

In slow motion she saw the yellow spear of the beak stab right through, followed by the head and two brilliant blue eyes. Blood spurted all over her white suit and she screamed.

The eyes stared at her and the blood gouted, squirting from a jagged hole in the bird's neck and out through a beak that was opened in a wide, silent gape.

Suddenly, the whole window caved in, and that beak lunged towards her. Barbara's other hand came off the wheel and she jammed her foot hard on the brake. The car started to fishtail, swiping the hedges on either side.

Barbara was still in the world of slow motion, as if unaware that she was in a car, and that the car was hurtling along the Kilcreggan Road. Her eyes were transfixed by that gaping yellow and red maw and those piercing blue eyes that were now turning white. The beak opened wider, impossibly wide, as if it was going to rip the head in two. A thick splash of blood flew out on to her face.

And then the dead eyes turned pure white, and she heard a sound that was like a croak, but it was more like a low, vicious laugh.

The Volvo hurtled forward, despite the screeching of her brakes that left twin black snakes of burnt rubber on the road.

Even then, Barbara might have walked away from this, but for the petrol tanker that was rumbling around the corner ahead.

Jim Semple was taking the bends at a fast clip. Not too fast on a narrow road like this, but enough to give the satisfaction of handling his machine.

Up high in the cab he could see pretty well ahead over the hedgerows except for the places where there was a stand of trees, but he never drove beyond his limit. He'd been driving heavy goods, low loaders and tankers for a quarter of a century and had never had a bad one yet, touch wood.

Anyway, this high off the road, if he did hit somebody, even head on, the chances were that he'd be way above any trouble.

He whistled as he drove his first load of the day. He'd pump out at the BP station in Kirkland, then across to the little station at Luss where he'd shed the rest of it, and have a nice ploughman's lunch at the bar of the hotel and then back to the terminal.

Jim got round a tight bend, just skimming the hedge, and then powered up the gears on the straight, feeling the big engine pulling ahead, fairly shoving the load. At the end of the straight there was a left bend and he dropped down again at the right moment, keeping the revs just right, and giving the air brakes just a touch, just a hiss. Then he put the foot down and hauled on the wheel and was round this one, then same again for the right, smooth and powerful, the brakes sneezing hard to take the weight.

And just as he was getting into the far straight the Volvo shot right out of nowhere, fish-tailing straight at him.

Jim's eyes flew wide at the same time as he jerked on the wheel and hit the brakes. The Volvo was careering from side to side. Its front window was frosted right over, and there was something like a sheet, all white and red, fluttering across it.

He yanked hard on the wheel, pulling the tanker right into the hedge, and he could feel the big tyres digging hard into the soft soil on the verge and the rat-a-tat of small branches clicking off the nearside mirror.

The car shot past on his right and he flicked a glance down. There was a face at the window and then it was past. Jim hauled back again at the wheel, whipping the tail round, hoping it was moving fast enough in the swing to miss the car.

He felt, rather than heard, the jarring bump as the car's front headlamp and bumper clipped the rear wheel.

In the Volvo, Barbara's world whirled dizzily. There was a crump and a sickening wrench, and then she was upside down. The seat belt socked her right across the chest, and everything started to lurch around, as if her eyeballs were loose in their sockets and she was shaken like a rat.

Then came a huge, devastating thump as the dashboard and steering wheel came up and smashed her. Inside her chest she felt something break and there was a sickening pain in her head and everything spun away to nothing.

Jim Semple saw the Volvo in his rear-view mirror.

He didn't see the car hit, but as soon as he felt it, he shot a look at the glass and saw it spin crazily, like a ballet dancer, on one headlamp, and then it tumbled out of sight.

All this had happened in about the space of one second and Jim was still hauling on the big wheel and still standing on the brakes to try to get his speed down. The nearside wheel, still in the soft earth at the side, hit a rock and jerked hard to the left. Jim felt himself losing control.

A sick feeling swept through him.

The big tanker ploughed down twenty feet of hedge and tore a gouge out of the grass as the momentum carried it forward.

Ahead, the hump-back bridge loomed into view and Jim wrestled the wheel around. He felt the cab swerve back on to the right line and almost had time to breathe a sigh of relief. But that last wrench out of the verge had been enough to set the back of the tanker just off line and the big wheels dug up the grass as the full load began to shift.

The rear clipped a small ash tree and broke it off at waist height and then it just started to slide, jack-knifing round, demolishing the fence.

It started to roll just a bit and then the cab spun round on its pivot, hit off the main tanker, bounced and its wheels left the ground as the lorry started to roll.

Jim Semple was thrown against the roof of the cab and back to the floor as the tanker flipped over and down the gully, crashing through the saplings just at the edge of the bridge.

There was an immense crash as the cab hit the big black pipe, and then it was all over for Jim Semple. The pipe just broke in two, and the two-foot wide high-pressure stream of gas caught fire with a huge ker-whump that melted the glass and roasted Jim Semple to a cinder in seconds.

Five seconds after that, the whole tanker caught fire and the bowser, toppled under the bridge, exploded in a fireball.

The vast upward pressure lifted the whole arch in one devastating blast and scattered the rocks and stones all over the road.

By the time the fire engines arrived, the cab of the tanker had completely melted, and there was hardly anything left of the ruptured tank. There was nothing left of Jim Semple.

It was another ten minutes after that before anybody noticed the wrecked Volvo in amongst the trees. Two paramedics clambered through the undergrowth and found Barbara Foster lying in a pool of blood underneath the crushed steering wheel.

It wasn't until they got her into the ambulance that they found a heartbeat, weak and fluttery, but a beat all the same.

It took them less than half an hour to get her to the Western Infirmary, and by that time her heart had stopped beating three times.

A team of doctors worked on her for four hours, cutting, stitching, injecting, draining.

She had shattered her left thigh.

There was a bad fracture on her skull, and severe swelling of the frontal lobe of her brain. She had been given twelve pints of blood and had four splinters of bone removed from her lung.

Added to the multiple lacerations, contusions and abrasions, Barbara was in bad shape. But she was alive.

She was also in a coma.

20

I couldn't get any signal on my cellphone. When we got to Kirkland, I stopped at the first payphone. While I was thumbing coins into the slot, I glanced across to Paddy, still sitting in the jeep. Her face was white and set, a picture of misery.

I finally got through to the ambulance depot and I had to wait a few minutes, fretting that my money would run out, before somebody came on to tell me that Barbara had been taken to the Western Infirmary. The guy gave me the number to call which I did and after a while I was put through to intensive care.

'Mrs Hartford is in surgery at the moment,' the non-committal voice told me. 'It's too early to say.'

I asked a few questions that got brief replies. You know the kind of words they use in hospitals. Critical. Poor. That sort of thing. But at least she was alive.

Back in the driver's seat, and Paddy just looked at me with wide eyes that did all the talking for her. I unclicked her seat belt and pulled her across to me and put my arms around her. I could feel her tremble against my ribs.

'She's being taken care of right now,' I told her. 'They took her to hospital and the doctors are looking after her right now, so don't worry. We'll go straight there are see how she's doing. Okay?'

I felt Paddy nod her head and then she gave a big shudder and the fear and shock that had been written all over her face since she'd seen Barbara's car, all came out of her in a torrent. She sat with her face buried in my chest, shoulders heaving, and she sobbed her heart out. I held her tight until she was over the worst of it then fished a tissue from the door-pocket and tilted her chin up. The tears were flowing freely and I wiped both eyes. She snuffled and her breath was catchy from crying.

"Want to go now?

She nodded. I buckled her in again and then we drove out, heading for Glasgow.

The Western is a big tower of concrete and glass attached to the old University Hospital. I found the underground car-park and took Paddy up to reception and followed the blue floor-lines to the elevators and up to Level 7. The floor was hushed. Nurses moved economically and quietly, padding about in soft slippers. Most were gowned and masked. Some of them had splashes of blood that I hoped Paddy wouldn't notice.

A nurse at the desk told us to wait a while and I sat Paddy down. At that moment I really felt I could have used a cigarette. The woman came back and motioned me to the desk. Barbara was still in theatre, she told me. She was in very bad shape. The doctors thought she had a fair chance, but that was all, It was too early to say.

I went across and translated that into something a bit more hopeful for Paddy and she nodded. A small smile won through. We had a choice to wait here or wander. I thought I should get her out of the hushed atmosphere because there was nothing for us to do but think about chances and odds and what the emergency surgeons were doing to Paddy's mother. Paddy came willingly enough. I took her to the art gallery at Kelvingrove, only five minutes away, and we strolled through the grounds for a while, watching normal people saunter about. In the gallery, I had a coffee and got her a coke. Neither of us were hungry. After that we wandered around the animal and fossil section and tried to take our minds off the immediate problem.

I spun it out as long as I could. Halfway through the archaeology exhibit, I saw a selection of arrowheads and spear-points. One of them was very similar to the polished stone from Kitty's box. I pointed it out to Paddy and told her I'd found one just like it, without realising, for a moment, that in my pocket. My fingers were clasped around it. I pulled it out. Paddy did a quick double-take, thinking at first I'd opened the display and stolen it.

That was not the only coincidence. The next cabinet held a selection of Celtic jewellery, and in pride of place was a gold torc, pinned to black velvet. I pointed it out and her hand flew to her neck. I looked down and there, peeping out from her collar, were the two gold spheres of the one I'd given her. The one she wore was finer and more elegantly simple than the museum piece. Absent-mindedly, she rubbed the gold necklet as if it was a charm.

We walked back to the hospital and went up to the hush zone where we found we still had a long wait. Paddy was a little brighter than she had been, but I wasn't feeling good at all. There were a few things flitting around my mind that needed urgent attention, like how to contact Barbara's father. Paddy knew he was in London, but not where he was staying or with whom. I wondered what to do about Paddy herself and decided there was nothing for it but she should come and stay at my place, at least for the duration.

It was getting well into the afternoon when Paddy turned to me. I had gone off to find a coke machine and she'd waited patiently for me top return and then said: 'It's going to be all right.'

I thought perhaps one of the team had come through he swing door and spoken to her.

But Paddy said no one had come through.

'I just know, that's all,' she said. 'She's not going to die.'

'Of course she isn't,' I said, with as much sincerity and optimism I could muster, which probably wasn't enough. Paddy didn't know all about the bone splinters and the collapsed lung, and all the other broken bits in her mother's body.

'The doctors are just fixing her up. They just take their time to get it right,' I told her.

'Yes, but she's not going to die. I just know it.'

I looked down at her and she looked up at me and there was a bright smile on her face, as if she did know it. There was a look of such certainty that it surprised me. I hoped it wasn't just shock talking.

Just then the swing doors banged open and a tall man, still wearing green gown and cap came towards us. I stood up and Paddy grabbed my hand.

'Mr Hartford?'

'No. My name's Ryan. I'm a friend of the family. This is Mrs Hartford's daughter.'

'Ah.' He paused and seemed to consider this. 'Mrs Hartford's father is out of town. I'm looking after Paddy here.'

'Right. Well, I might as well let the young lady know that her mother is as well as can be expected under the circumstances.'

He looked down at Paddy and beamed reassuringly.

'She's in intensive care right now, and in a few moments, you can go in and see her.' The doctor bent and took Paddy's other hand. 'Now, I just want you to know she's all wrapped up in bandages and there are some tubes to help her, and give her the right sort of medicine, but you've not to worry about that, okay?'

Paddy nodded and smiled up at him. He told her to go and sit down for a moment and she did as she was told. He took my arm and edged me to the side, then told me what had been going on for all those hours. Basically, the team had done what they could to repair the damage. They'd set the broken femur and bound up the smashed ribs after getting in to take the splinters out. I got a blow by blow account, like a bill from a garage mechanic. The bottom line was that Barbara was in a coma, which was not surprising, the doctor said, because of the skull fracture.

'We think we've repaired all the damage quite well. She'll have a few small scars, but her ribs will be fine and the leg-break wasn't as bad as we feared. Her heart's beating normally and we've got the lung inflated. That's as much as we can do at the moment. We've got a neuro specialist coming in to give us an opinion. We hope she may come out of it in a day or two, or it might take longer. We just can't say at the moment.'

I called Paddy over. He took us along a corridor and into the intensive care unit. Barbara was close to the door in a high cot that was surrounded by high-tech machinery and she was festooned with wires and tubes.

Lying in the cot, she was swathed in bandages and deathly still. She could have been dead, but for the very slight rise and fall of her chest. Tubes snaked into her arms and up her nose and her face was swollen and bruised. It didn't look like her at all.

Paddy stared at her mother for a long time, then a nurse came round and asked to get into some of the machinery. I took the hint and gently pulled on the little girl's hand, and she came along. Even as we were going through the doorway, her eyes never left her mother's face.

In the jeep I concentrated on the city traffic until we reached the expressway that headed west. Paddy was pretty quiet, but as we got closer to Levenford, she turned to me.

'She will be all right, Nick. I just know it.'

'I think so too. She's just been through a lot.'

'She's sleeping and I know she's hurt awful bad. But she'll get better. I can feel it.

'That's good. You go on feeling that way and she'll be just as you say.' I thought she was being a mite optimistic. I sure as hell wasn't.

'But you don't understand, Nick,' she said. 'It will be. I don't know how I know, but I know my mom's going to sleep for a long time. And then she'll wake up. But she's safe.'

Something in her tone conveyed just how certain she was that Barbara would pull through, and that somehow made me feel a bit brighter. There's nothing so good for the spirit as an optimistic kid who holds your hand and tells you everything will be fine.

I drove on a bit before I stole a glance at her. She was leaning back in her seat and fingering the two spheres on the torc, and she had a smile on her face.

Suddenly, and I can't tell you why, I just accepted what she said as the truth. I realised that Barbara was going to survive this. She was safe. And she would come back to both of us.

The storm clouds were thick and towering in the west as we crossed the bridge over the Clyde; dark and heavy, they came piling together down the estuary. When we left Glasgow, the air still had that clear high-pressure sharpness that had kept the summer going long and hot, but as we zipped across the bridge, the dividing line between summer and autumn was written in the sky.

We hit the first rain in almost two months as we passed Levenford and out along the shore that skirted Loch Lomond, taking the detour to take the back road home. Since the bridge was blown in the tanker crash, it would be some time before that road opened again.

Just at the turn-off where the dual carriageway was nipped into a single road, there was a blue-yellow flicker of lightning over the hills to the west and big heavy raindrops began to splatter the windscreen. In seconds, we were driving through a downpour that sent spray up from the road. The surface went from slick as the dust soaked up the rain, then to wet and then it became a running stream in the space of half a mile.

When we came over the Black Hill Road, the rain got steadily heavier and I switched on the main beams as visibility closed in and I slowed even further to cope. The big radials sent up spume in clouds on either side and the rain kept up a steady rhythm on the roof. Over the crest of the hill and down towards Kirkland, we could see the expanse of the firth in the distance, a slate-grey blanket that reflected back the flares of fork lightning through a curtain of rain.

By this time the road was awash and even at lower speed there were a couple of times when I felt the steering slip just a little, telling me I was aquaplaning on the bends. I came down a gear and slowed further. The wipers were toiling and on the inside, the windscreen was beginning to mist over.

On the long straight of the Kilcreggan Road back to Arden, the clouds overhead were like a barn roof and the air seemed even thicker. The lightning came down in arc-lamp sizzles and the thunder was like heavy artillery, rolling in on the rain and bouncing off the Lancraigs cliffs as we splashed past. Paddy nearly jumped out of her seat when an almost horizontal bolt of white light snaked out right in front of us and sizzled the air in a jagged line.

There was an instantaneous crack of sound that almost shook us right off the road, am immense wallop as if the atmosphere had imploded and the bolt slammed into a stunted oak in the field beside us. The tree just disintegrated in an instant flare and for seconds afterwards, purple after-images were dancing in my vision.

We past the Langcraigs and I confess I speeded up a bit because those lightning bolts were too close for comfort. The rain beat down relentlessly and already it was beginning to spill down the runnels on the cliffs that had been bone dry for the whole hot spell. It came washing across the road, carrying silt and gravel. As we passed the big cliff, I saw a brown cascade pouring over and dropping nearly fifty feet to the scree below, and I could hear the roar over the drumming of the rain.

Just as we were coming level with the instant waterfall there was another apocalyptic clap of thunder that rocked the jeep on its shockers and a crackling bolt of lightning seemed to snake right down the waterflow, sparkling with blue St Elmo's fire. It washed with the flow in a sizzling line right across the road. Even with the windows closed I could smell the burnt air and the flat scent of ozone.

I don't know what caused the lightning to streak through the water, and I've never heard of that phenomenon before, but there was nothing I could do to avoid it anyway because I was doing about fifty and it was too damn close now. We skidded into that flickering stream and there was the weirdest feeling of tension all over my skin. I could feel the hairs on my neck and the back of my hands begin to pucker and heard a high-pitched whine in my ears. For an instant, the wipers just stopped in mid sweep and the screen was immediately flooded. The engine cut out and if I hadn't stamped on the clutch then and there we would have slewed round into a ditch or a stone wall.

But suddenly we were through the lightning aurora. The engine coughed back into life again, the wipers began swiping the rain away and the lights came on. My skin stopped crawling.

From behind us came an immense crash of sound, louder than the thunder but I couldn't see what was happening in the rear view. I just supposed it was another bolt of lightning, but it sounded as if the cliff face had slipped and fallen. The road juddered under the wheels. At that moment, I couldn't have cared less.

Five minutes later, I was bundling Paddy, under the shelter of my jacket, up the garden path and I got completely soaked as I fumbled for the key. We barged inside and shut the door against that incredible downpour. Outside the thunder and lightning stalked and talked, but inside it was dry and safe.

I put the kettle on for coffee and made Paddy hot chocolate.

She talked about the lightning, now more animated than she had been all day, and I supposed the incredible display had taken her mind off her mother for a moment. But later she told me again that Barbara was going to be all right. She couldn't explain how she knew, but she was completely certain of it anyway. As long as she felt that way - and it was reassuring even to me - I was not prepared to make any dents in her optimism.

I lit up the log fire in the living room, which made the place a bit cheerier once it got going. Paddy and I graduated from happy families to draughts and then we played a game of chess on the old set of my grandfather's, now smooth and worn from years of use. Her game was simple, but she was good for her age and she had the killer instinct. It kept out minds off things; maybe not entirely, but for whole minutes at a time.

Outside, the rain beat down steadily and there was a stream from the gable gutter that was spilling over. I recalled the slates that had come off in the big storm on the night I'd come back home. I'd meant to get somebody up there to re-set them and now I was hoping the roof wouldn't leak.

Later on, I scrambled some eggs and we had them on toast as we watched the lightning arc and fork outside the window. After she had a bath, I gave her one of my old chambray shirts that came down to her calves and she came downstairs to get her hair dried, looking like a hillbilly.

Later, when she'd gone up to bed, I sat and tried to watch television, but the lightning played havoc with the reception, so I gave up and read for a while.

Without Paddy there, my attention kept slipping back to the morning.

I kept seeing that battered Volvo in the trees and the sight of Barbara, lying bandaged and tube-fed in the intensive care room.

Eventually I gave up and climbed the stairs. I looked in on Paddy and she was sound asleep. In my own bed, I listened to the hammering of the rain on the slates and took a long time lying there in the dark trying to get to sleep.

21

On the night after the tanker crashed under the bridge and blew up the west exit, the night of the lightning storm, an unseen shadow flowed over Arden,

The shadow floated towards the door of Tom Muir's butcher shop and oozed inside.

Eadie Muir, Tom's well-rounded wife, was fast asleep, a beached whale that caused that side of the bed to sink alarmingly. Tom Muir was no lightweight either. He was a big-boned, well-fed man with a moustache and mutton-chop sideburns and he combed his sparse hair from his left ear across the dome of his head.

He had a ruddy complexion, partly from his taste in malt whisky and because he spent a lot of time in his big freezer room. He was a friendly fellow who always had the time of day to pass with his customers.

That night, Tom was far from jovial. He had woken early to get the shop ready on the morning after the festival and he'd a throbbing headache. Not unusual in itself, for he'd been hung-over many a time, but this one was enough to make his vision waver. Despite the pain, he'd gone down to the shop and got the joints from the freezer, cut off steaks on the saw and laid out the enamelled plates just the way his father and grandfather had done down the years.

It had been a quiet day. Hardly anybody had come in, and those who did seemed very subdued, as if they too might be suffering festival after-effects. Old Mrs hardy came in and spent ten minutes deciding what she needed, which was unusual because she always took six mutton pies on a Monday. She'd wandered off without her usual thank-you, and more, she'd forgotten to pay for the pies. When Tom called to her at the door, she'd just wandered out as if she hadn't heard. It wasn't a big deal. She'd no doubt square up later.

The headache did start to subside just a little in the afternoon. By evening it was almost gone, but Tom's vision was still out of kilter. Little flashes sparkled on the periphery, and he kept thinking something was moving, just out of sight, but when he turned to look, there was nothing there.

That night, Tom lay in the dark, trying to sleep, but he kept seeing those flickering movements out of the corner of his eyes. He hoped it was just the result of bad whisky and not something more serious.

Eadie began to snore.

She was lying on her back with her mouth open and her jowls, sleek and rounded, rippled with each breath. No matter how often Tom dug his elbow into her yielding girth, the snoring got louder in the dark and she just wouldn't turn, or wake up.

The coloured flashes were flaring more and more, to fast to really see, but now moving into the centre of his vision. Eadie snored on and the more Tom tried to sleep, the more tense he became. He lay with his hands clenched, trying to ignore the sound and the flashes, but it was impossible.

Unaccustomed anger began to swell inside him.

And so did the headache. It was now pulsing in temples and throbbing up and down his spine. Eadie's snoring seemed to get louder and louder, contributing to the pressure inside his head.

Tom knelt up on the bed, throwing the blankets off. He clamped both hands to his temples, pressing tight to kill the sound and the coloured flashes and the pain.

Eadie snorted and Tom reached out in the dark, grabbed the blanket and flung it right off, exposing his wife's bulk. He grabbed her shoulders and tried almost screamed at her to be quiet. Her eyes stayed shut and the snoring continued.

He got her neck in his hands and squeezed. He squeezed it until the sound suddenly cut off and then he squeezed more until his big hands began to cramp. The pain in his head began to slowly ooze away.

After a while, he slowly turned and switched on the light. The dancing shapes in his vision were gone. Eadie lay beside him with her arms splayed wide. Pink, meaty arms. Her tongue was blue and swollen as it poked through her lips, the same colour as the calf tongues he packed in jelly. Her eyes had rolled up to that all he could see were the whites. Eadie's nightdress had opened up and a large soft breast had spilled out and seemed to be trying to drip down the side of the bed. In her thrashing, her nightdress had rucked up to her hips, showing her heavy thighs below the bulging curve of her belly. Tom thought she looked just like a pig, with little trotters at the end of fat legs. There was a strong smell of urine and a damp stain on the mattress.

"Pig, Tom grunted. He heaved up out of bed. He went for a fresh sheet, for he sure as hell wasn't going to sleep in a puddle of piss.

But at the top of the stairs, he paused. In the deep shadows he was suddenly confused.

He couldn't remember why he'd got up.

He thought it must be time to go to work.

Tom dressed, took out a fresh apron, put on his hat and went downstairs to the shop. Five minutes later, he came back to the bedroom and went to work.

It took him no more than half an hour to expertly flense the carcass and take out the heart, liver and kidneys. The rest of the offal, he just dumped on the sheet. That done, he cut off the head and put it to one side, then, with efficiency born of years of practice, he removed the limbs. The torso, he carried downstairs and he came back for the rest after a while. The bedroom was awash with blood and the bed itself was a red mess, but the meat didn't bleed much once it was cut into sections.

Down in the shop, Tom ran the carcass over the saw, cutting the spine down the middle and then he used the handsaw to split the ribs so he had two halves to work on. There was very little waste.

He laid out the rib-steaks and small chops. He rolled marbled meat and tied it into joints. He slung plenty of spare fat into the rendering put and with what was left he filled the mincer and flicked the switch. Good pink meat came squirming out the spout.

The enamel platters in the butcher's window were all dressed nicely.

And once he had finished, Tom stood there and waited for the first customers. He hoped it would be a busier day, because yesterday had been very slack, and that was strange.

But, he told himself, there was always another day, and the customers always needed meat.

The shadow over Arden oozed inside Mary Baker's door in the early hours before dawn.

It had been a strange day for the jolly woman who ran her bakery and tearoom with the same delicate expertise her mother had taught her as a girl. Mary was proud of her confections. People came over from Levenford and Kirkland specially for her sponge-cakes and spiced buns. They ordered potato scones by the dozen, and in summer season, Mary's strawberry tarts were second to none.

Monday was just a haze, lost in the distance. That night, Mary could hardly remember the day she'd spent in the shop. Normally, she'd spend the time behind the counter chatting and picking up the gossip. She had two nieces who came in to help, but although Mary was up was always up before dawn, mixing and getting the ovens just right, she couldn't do without the gossip. Everyone had something to tell Mary Baker about everybody else. It was the ingredient of life.

She just liked to know what was going on.

Yet, strangely, she couldn't recall anything she'd been told today. Normally she would sit and knit together the bits and pieces that formed her picture of Arden. Why so-and-so hadn't made it to church; whose wife was making dangerous eyes at whose husband. Mary knew it all. It was the life's blood of the town.

But as she lay in bed, she couldn't recall a thing, because she hadn't been downstairs all day, her first day off since she could recall. At the festival, she had been the judge in the baking contest - her pride of place - and she had tasted everything, especially the bread from the seminary, which she considered almost on a par with her own.

Well after midnight, Mary had clambered out of bed and gone down to her shop. She thought she'd heard a noise downstairs and wondered if she'd forgotten to lock up. She pulled her dressing gown around her and crept downstairs in the dark. It was quiet now, except for a hollow drip from the tap in the bakery.

She moved into the shadows. A line of light shone down the edge of the door and she realised that it was open. Mary stepped outside and looked up and down the street. There was no-one about. But maybe, someone had come in.

Her heart beat a little faster as she went back inside. There was no-one behind the counter, or hiding in the shadows. She looked around the racks of bread-boards and then went through to the bake house. It smelt of flower and spices, the aroma that Mary had been born to.

In the gloom, despite the thudding of her heart, she searched around, but still found no sign of any intruder. She let out a slow breath.

Then she had a sudden thought.

What if someone had been inside and stolen her cakes.

That thought propelled her through to the shop and behind the counter where the trays laden with iced fancies and fruit tarts were covered in plastic film. The wrapping was peeled back in the corner of one tray, as if someone had tried to get at her wares.

The thought appalled her.

She lifted the tray and sat it on one of the tables and lowered herself to a chair. Slowly, she lifted a tart to her mouth and nibbled. It was still fresh and the icing crisp. She finished it in three bites. She reached down for another one. Then another.

In the darkness of the shop, Mary fetched a second tray and a carton of cream from the fridge. She sat down to eat again.

Hours later, long before the grizzly dawn and while the rain still beat down on the roofs and streets of Arden, Mary was still working through the trays of her own baking. She was determined to make sure nobody stole her cakes.

She was on her fifth carton of cream and hardly aware of the pain in her grossly distended belly when her heart and lungs, labouring under the huge pressure from within, were on the verge of collapse.

Mary was stuffing a spiced bun into her mouth when she slumped back.

It was some time before she was found. By that time, the uneaten bun between her jaws was stale and hard.

In the police station, Murdo Morison sat with his feet on the desk while his assistant, John Weir, who was more or less the town's beat policeman, typed reports on a big Imperial that he pecked at with two fingers. Murdo had taken a turn round the streets in the patrol van.

The pounding rain had kept everyone indoors. It had been quiet all day, which was not unusual in Arden. The day after the festival was always subdued, as the townsfolk recharged their batteries.

Down the corridor, in the row of small cells, two of the more unruly drinkers who'd been brawling in the street at dawn were still cooling their heels. John was writing the reports, but there was every possibility that Murdo would crumple them in the bucket later and kick the prisoners' backsides as he let them out with a warning. They'd have learned their lesson anyway.

The constable clicked away and Murdo started to doze off.

He awoke with a start when one of his feet slipped from the desk. At first he didn't know where he was and shook his head to clear his vision, but there were still wavery lines in front of his eyes. He yawned and stretched. John Weir kept on typing. Down in the cells, one of the guests was humming a tune. There was a faint ringing in Murdo's ears.

He got up and moved to the door. For a second, it seemed to buckle and waver and he stepped back. He rubbed his eyes, looked again and the door slowly bulged outwards. Murdo grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

There was nothing behind it, nothing that could have made the door bulge.

He stepped into the narrow passageway and looked right and left.

Something was wrong with the walls. They were slowly pulsing in and out, as if they were breathing.

The humming still continued along in the cell and the buzzing in Murdo's ears got louder. The walls bulged in towards each other and then subsided.

He went down the passage, wondering what the hell was wrong with his eyes. He felt dizzy and the bulging walls made him feel claustrophobic. He stopped at the row of three cells and looked inside.

Sam Caldwell was lying on the bunk, sound asleep and snoring. Murdo moved on to the next and Alec McGrath looked up.

'Hey Murdo, am I going to be in all bloody night?'

Murdo stared into the cell. The round bars were expanding and contracting all on their own. He stared at them bemused, wondering why they were doing that, when McGrath called out again.

'How about it, Murdo? I've been in all day and I'm choking for a drink.'

Murdo looked from the wavering cell bars and stared at McGrath.

There was something wrong with the man's face. It was twisting and warping as if something was moving under the skin.

McGrath said something else, but Murdo stood silently, watching as the man's features contorted like melting plastic. He leant against the bars, sweat beading his brow.

The thing in front of him no longer looked human. Its mouth opened, but all that came out was a rasping grunt.

Devil. The word sprang into Murdo's mind. Not human.

He was a simple, god-fearing man who attended the parish church every Sunday.

God help me. The words came out in a prayer.

The contorted thing looked up at him, still growling like a beast.

Murdo reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. He selected the big mortise and slipped it into the lock. The contorted thing on the bed glared at him, growling like a beast.

The big policeman reached both hands and grabbed it by the neck.

It screeched and wriggled, but he was too strong. He lifted it right off the bed and squeezed harder until he felt something inside burst under his thumbs.

In the other cell, Sam Caldwell, who had been startled awake by the noise watched in horror as Murdo Morrison squeezed the life out of Alex McGrath.

He whimpered in pure fear, slowly sank to the ground, and very quietly crawled under the cot.

Murdo went back to the office. The walls had stopped bulging and the big pressure inside his ears had subsided like an ebb-tide.

'Everything ok, Sarge?' John Weir looked up from a report that bore an incomprehensible jumble of random letters that no-one would ever be able to read.

'I don't know,' Murdo said. 'It doesn't feel right.' He blinked and shook his head, standing under the fluorescent light as if he didn't know where he was.

And in and around Arden that night, in the dark of houses and cottages and far steadings, other strange and terrible things were happening.

22

The butcher, the baker, the town sergeant and more besides. What I've said about them is as true as I can make out, although I wasn't there, and despite the fact that those who were there, or actually did these things are either dead or fumbling around the dark or hazy quagmires of their minds.

The rest of Arden was in a state of stupor, hung-over in the aftermath of the festival and the shock of the storm.

But there was more to it than that. Much more. The shadow that had flowed over the town in the night, had settled in the minds of those it could invade. There was a sense of catatonia. Many folk just sat, or stood, or sprawled, their eyes glazed and their minds far away. Others did things they would never have done before and there were others who went through their daily rituals in a trance-like state.

A few who were unaffected felt a growing sense of anxiety that turned to fear in the strange place that Arden had become.

Some time around dawn, the storm broke. The thunder rolled away over the hills and the lightning became a distant battleground that gradually died in the distance. The slow sun peeked through watery clouds on to a waterlogged scene of dripping rivulets and muddy pools, rain-trampled grass and sodden ground.

I had woken with a start in the middle of the night, with my heart thumping and my mouth dry.

In my sleep I had replayed the scene when I had left Paddy under the tree and walked towards the wrecked car and the white inferno of the ruptured gas pipe. I was walking in slow motion and my feet made no sound. But I could feel the heat-blast of that giant blowtorch on my face, singeing my hair and eyelashes.

I passed the crumpled Volvo and saw the blood flowing down the shattered windscreen become a red stream that covered the crumpled bodywork and gurgled steadily into the weeds below. Just out of direct vision, something white and red flapped in the branches of a tree and when I passed underneath, I felt a wave of pure coldness that overwhelmed the sizzling heat. A cold so profound that it sunk into my marrow.

I turned and looked up into the white eyes of the big bird that swung to and fro like a bloodied pendulum. The eyes rolled down towards me and blindly fixed on me. I could feel the touch of its gaze on my skin.

The head turned and that big, stabbing beak opened wide, impossibly wide, as if the head would split in two. A gurgling noise came out of the maw and then a gobbet of black stuff gouted straight at me.

It caught me full in the face. It splatted my eyes and nose and mouth and it burned like acid. My throat contracted violently, trying to eject it. My eyes went blind and I stumbled backwards, clawing at my face and eyes, trying to get it off.

I suddenly awoke with that foul taste still in my mouth, panting for air and sanity. I sat bolt upright on the bed and immediately the sweat on my back began to evaporate, sending cold shivers up and down my spine. I heaved a sigh of relief at the realisation it had only been a dream, and then the picture of the big bloodied bird hanging in the branches flashed back into my mind again, and with a truly sickening lurch I realised what I had seen out of the corner of my eye down in the trees on Kilcreggan Road.

It had not been an accident. Not an accident.

What had happened to Barbara had been as deliberate and hellish as the scene Donald and I had witnessed down on the bay.

A scream from the spare room jolted me right out of bed and the image disappeared like a burst bubble. Paddy's screech was high and piercing and jarring in its intensity. I ran out of the room and across the landing and barged into the room where I'd tucked her up on the old double bed. She was kneeling up on the mattress, tangled in my old shirt and her eyes were wide and unfocussed.

Her hands were up in front of her eyes as if she was warding off some unseen threat. I clasped her in my arms and she fought like a cat, screeching and squirming. I hugged her tight, stifling her struggles and suddenly she woke. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, fast as a brightened bird.

'There, there,' I said. It was all I could think of. I rubbed her back, feeling her slender shoulders shudder under my palm.

'It's just a dream. You're all right now.'

Paddy's breath hiccupped and caught and then she let out a long wail. I kept rubbing gently and the wail dissolved into honest-to-god sobs that sounded much more normal to me. After a while, they began to tail off and finally she was silent.

I loosened my embrace and she looked up at me, eyes pink from crying. Poor kid, she wasn't having the best of times.

'Are you all right now?' Of course she wasn't, but what else do you say?

Paddy nodded and sniffed.

'It was the bird,' she said, voice still catchy. 'The bird did it. It broke the window and tried to kill mommy.'

How did she know? I felt a shudder, the kind that makes you say somebody walked over your grave.

'But it didn't kill her, did it?'

She shook her head.

'It was bad. Mom was scared and now she's hurt awful bad.'

'I know Paddy. But she's safe now. She's in the best place and the bird's dead.'

I think it was at this point that I truly stopped believing in coincidences and finally gave in to the realisation that there was a shadow, a bane, a Cu Saeng. Whatever name it had, it was real.

I believed finally and unequivocally.

Paddy shook her head.

'No. It's not dead. It's still here and it's coming for me.'

'What's coming, sweetheart?'

'The bad thing. The thing that gets inside the birds and makes them do bad stuff. It wants to do bad things to me.'

'Nothing's going to get near you. Not while I'm around,' I said. I hugged her again. 'And I'm staying around, okay?'

She looked up at me, just a skinny little girl, but the look she gave me could have been from a thirty year old, or a sixty year old adult. It was the kind of look Barbara could have given me, the kind of measuring stare that I would have been dealt by old Kitty MacBeth.

'You have to stop it,' she said.

'I know,' I said. 'I'm going to try.'

'We have to kill the bad thing, because it wants us. You and me and the other one.'

Where had I heard that before?

The sun had managed to beat a path through the clouds by the time Paddy and I got into the jeep and splashed through the puddles on the way up to the main street. I'd tried the telephone, hoping to get the latest on Barbara, but it was still dead and my mobile was still off line.

The town was dead quiet. Even though it was mid-morning, there was dampness in the air and there was definitely a sense that summer was over and Autumn coming in.

I nosed the jeep past the shops. I considered going in to Mary Baker's for some bread and a couple of buns for Paddy, but I decided I'd go later, on the return trip. That spared me from being the first to find her.

I had to head west to get to the turn that would take me to Upper Arden and just as I slowed near the harbour a car ahead flashed its lights a couple of times. Alan Scott waved at me from his car. I pulled up on the other side, gout out and crossed over. His wife was in the passenger seat and the three kids in the back.

'I wouldn't go that way if I were you,' Alan said, indicating the direction he'd come from. 'The road's blocked.'

'What happened?'

'A landslip. Half the Langcraigs cliff must have peeled off. Must have happened in the storm last night. Covered the whole road in rocks.'

I recalled the strange flowing lightning and the seismic vibration after the rumble that shook the ground.

We must have escaped it by mere seconds.

Paddy's words came back right there: It wants us. You and me and the other one.

Alan was still talking.

'It's a pure bugger. I'm supposed to be in Levenford this morning. I might get a deal on the Wilkinson place.' He looked at his watch. 'I should be there by now. Got a surveyor meeting me there, and Janet and the kids are off to the shops.'

'Why not take the other...'I began, then trailed off. The west road was blocked, of course. The gas pipe explosion had destroyed the bridge.

'That was some bad smash yesterday,' Alan went on. He lowered his voice. 'I'm told there was nothing left of that tanker driver. Bloody hell. What a way to go.'

He pointed at the jeep. 'You won't get over that avalanche, not even in a four by four. There's a pile of rocks ten feet high.'

'I have to get up to Glasgow. I've got Barbara Foster's wee girl with me. Her mother got hurt in that smash. She's up in the Western.'

Janet gave a sharp intake of breath.

'Oh, the pour soul. Is she all right?'

'Pretty smashed up, but they think she'll make it,' I said, more confidently than I felt. 'We're just heading there.'

'Hope she's fine. Listen, I really have to get moving. I'll try the old farm road up by McFall's place and get across the old bridge,'

I knew the road. It went up by the seminary and took a loop past a succession of smallholdings and came down to join the main route beyond the east end of the town. A good road for summer-day driving or bramble-picking, but not for those in a hurry.

Alan started his car.

'Reckon you'll have to take the old road too.' He waved and started off.

Neither Paddy nor I had a key to Barbara's house and her father hadn't shown up. She wasn't the type to leave a key under the mat, but eventually I managed to find a window catch that was just a bit loose and I wiggled the frame until it sprung and slid the sash up. Paddy was impressed.

I lifted her up and through the space and a minute later she opened the front door.

'That was a neat trick. Were you a robber?'

'And a pirate and a few other things besides,' I said, 'but don't tell anybody.'

She insisted on taking a shower and came downstairs in a clean pair of jeans and a bright sweater. She'd obviously adopted the torc. It still gleamed on her neck, matching her hair. While she was upstairs, I made a pot of coffee and poured a cup and while I drank, I decided it would be best to wait until the afternoon before taking the farm road loop out of town. The puddles in the potholes would have had some time to drain, I thought.

In any case, I thought a couple of hours would make no difference, and visiting a hospital is always better done after lunch. Barbara's phone, I discovered, was dead, along with every other one in Arden. So was the electricity and the two main routes out of town were blocked.

Effectively, but for one winding farm road, Arden was cut off from the rest of the world.

If I'd really thought about that, then real alarm bells would have started to ring. But I didn't.

In fact, it did not strike me until two in the afternoon, after Paddy and I had ham sandwiches in the kitchen. We pulled out of the driveway, Paddy strapped beside me in the front, and went down the hill. She was eager to get up to the hospital although, she explained, she still knew her mother was going to be fine.

We took the left up past Mr Bennett's small-holding when an on-coming car flashed its lights and I stopped.

It was Alan again. When I crossed over, he rolled the window down and I could see his face was white.

'What's up?'

'I don't know what's going on,' Alan said. He seemed a bit dazed. I looked from him to his wife. She seemed downright scared. In the back of the car, the kids sat very quietly.

'We can't get out,' Janet said in a voice so brittle I expected it to break.

Alan held up his hand to stop her, looking quickly at Janet and then flicking a glance over his shoulder to the children. He patted his wife on the hand, then got out and drew me away. Once out of earshot, he leaned in close, holding my arm at the elbow. There was a slight tremor in his grip.

'She's right, Nick. We can't get out.'

'Out of where?'

'Here. Out of Arden. I kept getting lost.'

'Yeah, right. You got lost. In Arden.'

'Fuck, yeah. That's what I'm trying to tell you. There's something crazy going on. I've been going round in circles all morning. I'm telling you, we just can't get out.'

'I don't understand,'

'Look. I've tried every road I know. Every farm track. They all come back to the one place. It's like a mucking maze.'

'I still don't get it,' I said, stupidly.

'Listen will you? I went up by McFall's farm and along the road that goes along beside Cardross Hill.'

'I know the road. It takes you out beyond Langcraigs.'

'It always did before. But not today.'

'How do you mean?'

'It just doesn't. It doesn't go anywhere. Except back to McFall's farm. You know that stand of trees. The big chestnuts we used to pick?'

I nodded.

'I've gone past that a dozen times. That narrow bit where the road nips in and there's a track on the verge where cars moss the curve. That's where it happens. I keep going round that bend under the trees and then...then I'm back at the farm again. I don't know how, but it's scaring the shit out of me.'

I tried to visualise the road. It's not easy to picture every bend in a winding farm lane, no matter how familiar. Obviously, I thought, Alan must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

'Have you tried the Black Hill Road?' I asked. It would have been my second choice.

'Course I have, I've tried every bloody road. And the same thing happened every time. I got to the crossroads that takes you to the reservoir. But then I just found myself back at the junction at McFall's place.

Alan's voice was getting higher. I put a hand on his shoulder. His face crumpled.

'Seriously Nick. I'm getting scared. Something weird's going on. Either that or I'm cracking up. But I don't think it's me. I think something's happened that's screwed up everywhere.'

He leant in closer and dropped his voice.

'And there's other funny stuff going on up there. Not just the roads.'

'Like what?'

'Look at the side of the car.' I looked. It was stove in right across the doors.

'What happened.'

'A bloody cow. It came right out of nowhere and hit me. I mean it attacked the car. A cow, for Christ sake. And up beyond the farm there's a family out having a picnic in the marsh. I mean, they're just sitting about in the mud. I must have passed them a dozen times and they all wave. It's crazy.'

His voice was rising again and I motioned him to calm down. He looked over at his wife who was still sitting rigid in the car, and went quiet.

'I don't know what to do,' he said, and his face crumpled again as if he might just burst into tears.

'Well, I can't explain it. I'll have a look for myself when I go. We got to get to the hospital.'

He grabbed my sleeve. 'Don't go up there. It'll just freak you out.'

'There's got to be some explanation,' I said.

'I hope to god there is. But I tell you, I've done a hundred and thirty miles since this morning and I've got nowhere. It's scared the shit out of me. I was terrified I'd run out of petrol. I tell you nick, I didn't want to be stuck up there on those roads. No way.'

'Listen. Why don't you get home? There's no point in getting them any more worried. Maybe we could both go together later on.'

'Would you do that, Nick?'

'Sure. We'll go check together. There's bound do be some way to explain it.'

'Thanks. I mean it.'

I assured him I'd call up later when we got back. Frankly, while I knew he was scared and upset, I just couldn't get my head around his story. It had probably been a while since Alan had been up on the back roads. He must have taken the wrong turn. Maybe got disoriented.

Alan went back to his car and I got in the jeep. We knew that the main roads out of town were blocked, but all the other tracks and farm roads just couldn't be. I started up the engine, knowing I had half a tank of fuel that would take me to Manchester if I'd wanted to go.

But, just before I pulled away from the kerb, something made me reach out and turn the little winder that put the milometer back to a line of zeroes.

An hour and a half and almost fifty miles later my mouth was dry and Paddy had gone very quiet.

By then I believed what Alan Scott had told me. Something had gone badly wrong on the outskirts of town. The more I drove, the more I could sense it. Those country roads took us nowhere...except back to where we had started, at the bend where the road nipped in and the big chestnut trees stood tall at the verge.

I'd driven under the spreading branches and when we came out into the light again, we were back again at the copse just a hundred yards or so past McFall's farm.

There was no way to explain how we could drive into one patch of trees and come out of another that was almost two miles back.

We tried the Blackhill Road and went left at the crossroads and drove for a bit with the dry-stone wall high on either side, and suddenly we were past the walls and moving down towards that stand of chestnut trees again.

It was impossible.

It was as if somebody had taken time and space and twisted them around, or some force had cut the landscape into jigsaw pieces and stuck them back together again so that the roads formed a never ending loop.

Now I understood Alan's fear.

It was as scary as all hell. And that wasn't the only scary part.

We had been doing about forty along a straight stretch just under Cardross Hill when a big dog came running towards us, loping like a wolf in big strides that bobbed its shoulders up and down as it came down the straight.

It was right in the middle of the road and going full out. As it came closer, I could see its tongue lolling out of its jaws, whipped back by the air. I batted the horn a

couple of times, but the dog kept on coming. I slowed to about twenty five, but the animal, like a Labrador-shepherd cross, kept loping towards us and never slowed.

There was no space to turn and at the last minute, when I saw the dog wasn't going to change direction, I stamped on the brake pedal and Paddy jerked forward in her seat, but I was too late.

The dog simply sprang at the front end with jaws wide open and lips drawn back from a fearsome set of teeth in a vicious snarl. There was a loud thump as it hit, but even then, I saw it try to snap at the car. There was a crack as its teeth connected and then it was spun right up and over the top of the jeep. It hit the road behind us.

'Jesus,' I gasped. I glanced at Paddy who was squirming around, trying to see behind the car. I looked in the mirror and saw the dog trying to struggle to its feet. It was howling now, and it sounded more like fury than pain. Just before I reached the bend, I looked again and it was staggering along the road after us, one leg bent and dragging. It was still chasing us. It looked like it wanted to have another go.

We didn't see the family who Alan said were having a picnic in the marshland, but we passed an old fellow who leaned against a wall with his trousers at his ankles, holding his equipment in his hand. The first time we passed him, I didn't notice that part, until we were right up close and as we were passing, he shot his groin forward, displaying as much of himself as he could.

I glanced at Paddy. She had a baffled look on her face.

On the second time round that particular circuit, before I truly realised that we really weren't getting anywhere, we came across the old guy again. This time he was standing closer to the road and again, he had all working parts ready for a vigorous display. Forewarned, I told Paddy to reach into the back for my wallet, hoping to spare her. It was just a ruse.

But as we passed by, she caught a glimpse of him out the rear window.

'There's that funny old man waving his thing again,' she said. 'Haven't we come this way before?'

We tried a couple of other, narrower roads, but every one led back to the starting point again.

I was prepared to give it a couple more tries, still reluctant to believe the growing evidence of experience, but on one of those little-used tracks we came past a gnarled beech tree that was wind-blown and stunted, its branches sweeping eastward under the constant pressure of the wind on the hillside. I had to slow down and slip the gears to take the narrow bend.

The tree moved.

I caught the motion in the corner of my eye, but I saw those branches move, twisting down impossibly towards us. I yelped in pure fright and Paddy let out a scream. The thick grey twigs at the end of the branches thudded against the roof like twisted fingers and spanged off the windscreen.

'Did you see that?' Paddy said. 'It tried to get us.'

'Probably just the wind,' I lied. But I didn't risk saying any more because my heart was beating so hard I could hardly speak. I didn't even look at her, but I knew she had seen what I had seen. Suddenly I got a flash back to Andy Gillon lying there in the mud in his field under that massive tree-trunk and the look in his eyes when he gasped: The tree jumped.

Now I believed him.

I gave up looking for a road out and went back to Arden.

And as I drove, I realised that our town was cut off, completely, from the world outside.

How that was achieved, I don't believe I'll ever know. Whatever had awoken under Ardmhor Rock - I was now convinced that something had awoken, and by now, in my mind, I called it the Cu Saeng - seemed to have some kind of elemental power.

Cu Saeng. There it was. Out in the open at last, in my mind at least, even if I could not prove the fact.

And what was this Cu Saeng?

I know what Kitty Macbeth had said: the ravener, the dweller under the roots. Something out of old Celtic or Pict mythology.

The folk tales are hazy on what it really is, It appears rarely in the myths and sagas and I reckon it's got much diluted down the years. The latter-day version of it is as some kind of goblin, or an evil sprite haunts lonely places, isolated rocks and moors. The stories go that just to cast your eyes one it can kill you by driving you mad. And in the old days, any traveller lost in the hills and bogs was deemed to have fallen victim.

Whether there was supposedly one entity, or a whole host, I have never discovered. I don't know whether the bane that had come to life under the black rock was even the same kind of creature - or un-creature - as the folk tales described.

What I was absolutely certain of was that something had stirred and stretched and yawned a gaping mouth that slavered at the corners when it realised it was hungry and needed to feed.

I also knew that somehow I was to become a central character in what was to happen next, because of something that had happened to us as children. Me, Colin and Barbara. And because of something that had happened long before the time of the Romans.

That knowledge made my stomach churn and my knees go weak and my heart bound hard against my ribs.

It was me against something that could cause landslides and make tankers crash and explode, and twist the world inside my head so that I didn't know east from west.

It could make birds kill and make dogs attack a jeep with intent to kill, and it could make trees twist and grab.

What else, I wondered, could it do?

That I was just about to find out, and very soon.

23

At Alan Scott's house I found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall in what could have been blank bewilderment. The large glass of whisky shook in both hands, as if it had a life of its own. Janet had been pale-faced with worry when she opened the door and motioned me to come in. Now she sat in the corner of the kitchen, wringing her hands. The children were nowhere in sight.

He looked up as I sat down at the table and seemed to spend a few moments struggling for recognition. Something flashed in his eyes and he seemed to start, as if coming out of a daydream.

'Tell me. Was I right?'

I nodded slowly.

'I told you. It's crazy. It cant happen!'

'I can't figure it out either.'

'It's that bloody road. That bypass. That's what's done it.' His voice sounded close to hysteria. 'The bastards have buried us good and proper. That's what they've been up to all this time. They just want to hem us in. I knew this would happen.'

All the worlds tumbled out in that strained, cracking voice. Alan brought his hands up and took a big gulp of whisky and clattered the glass back down on the table. I saw Janet wince in alarm.

'Maybe it's got nothing to do with the road,' I ventured.

'Must be,' he shot back. 'That's why they built it. So everybody would go past Arden. But they're not content with that. Oh no, not them. They want to shut us in. They've fixed it so we can't get out and tell people what's going on.'

He took another big swallow that would have made my eyes water. I don't know how many he'd had, but I would have bet he'd had a lot. He sounded scared and angry and very close to the edge, but his words, rising on a wave of hysteria, didn't sound like whisky talk.

He suddenly lurched to his feet, in a jerk that toppled the chair. He didn't seem to notice.

'Right. I'll show the bastards. They can't shut me in.'

'Hold on a minute,' I said, putting a hand on his arm. He shook me off.

'Leave me alone. I'm getting out of here. I'll find a way they haven't thought of. And when I do, I'm going to expose the bastards.'

'But there is no other way. I've tried them all and the same thing happened to me. And it's got nothing to do with the road. It's something in Arden.'

'Don't give me that crap,' he grated. He turned and looked straight at me and I could see a shift in his eyes. Something that hadn't been there before. 'I know. I know what you're up to. You're one of them.'

'One of what?'

'You know what I mean, Ryan. You're with them, aren't you. That's why you came back. All that about writing books was just so much shit, am I right? You're a fucking spy. Come back to spy on your own people.'

He reached and grabbed my shirt, twisting it hard so that his fist was up against my windpipe. His eyes were red-rimmed.

In the corner, Janet gasped out a little sob.

I brought both hands up and grasped his wrist, pushing hard to break his grip.

'I'll show you,' he yelled, right in my face. 'You can't come here and fuck up people's lives like this. You're just jealous that I've made it up here. From down there where you are. You just want to take it away.'

'Please Alan. Stop this.' Janet sounded really afraid.

Alan whirled, tugging me around with him.

'You shut your mouth. I'll sort this out.'

Janet cringed.

'Alan, listen to me. It's nobody's fault. There's something going wrong around here. I'm trying to find out. I'm trying to help.'

All that took a great effort, with Alan's fist still jammed up under my chin. His grip never slackened.

'You shut up as well. I'll fucking fix you.'

With that, he whirled me around in a tight orbit and suddenly let go. I pinwheeled backwards and the back of my head connected with the wall with a hard crack that made the room spin for a second or two. Tiny pin-points of light danced in front of my eyes.

When they cleared, Alan was standing over me, staring down from eyes that looked as thought they'd seen the end of the world. In that instant, he just looked mad.

He picked up one of the chairs and raised it over his head, then swung it hard at my head. Fortunately his back-swing gave me enough warning to jerk away. It hit the floor with a crash and one leg broke off.

Janet screamed.

Alan whirled and looked as if he was about to pounce on her and I scrambled to my feet, with the sick feeling that I would have to fight him and maybe get a bloody nose for my trouble. But then he seemed to forget all about her. In the blink of an eye, it was as if something else had caught his attention. He stopped, stood dead still, as if listening to a voice inside his head. Then he turned and barged out of the kitchen, banging against the doorpost. He didn't seem to notice.

As he shambled down the hallway, I heard him mutter to himself.

'I'll find the way out. And then they'd better watch out.'

Alan barged into the hallway door and scrabbled for the handle. He yanked it open and lurched out. In the space of a few moments, he seemed to have lost all co-ordination. He jerked along like a puppet with slack strings. I quickly went to the front door and watched him stumble into his car. The keys must still have been in the big limo, for the engine started immediately. There was a screech of tyres as the car leapt forward, cutting right across the flower-beds and leaving a scored track on the lawn. As it swerved towards the gateway, the driver's door flew open and smacked into the stone pillar with a sound like a gunshot and thumped back.

Behind me, Janet sobbed loudly. In the living room, the children were almost hysterical. They had picked up Janet's anguish, the way kids can, and were crying inconsolably.

One of them cried out: 'Daddy! Don't go and leave us. Please come back.'

It would have broken your heart.

Nobody saw Alan Scott again. Not alive. It was many, many days before his car was found, nose-down in a gully with its nose crumbled against a large rock, and Alan bashed and broken inside it.

By then the blowflies had had ample time to get to work. There was not much left of him inside his tweed jacket. But by then, he was just one more to add to the list.

There wasn't much I could say to Janet and we soon left. As I drove away, I could see her and the kids, pale faces up at the window of the living room, worried sick and scared stiff.

Paddy had gone quiet, and I had a dull headache, the kind you get when the tension builds up to high pressure.

I stopped at the chemist's for some pain-killers, but it was closed, which was unusual. The streets were still empty and I noticed that most of the shops still had their shutters up on the windows. I couldn't recall if it was the normal half-day, but I did remember that Holly's bar stocked a selection of hangover cures, so I parked the jeep in the alley beside the bar and told Paddy to wait for me. My head was starting to pound and I wanted something that would reduce that and let me think clearly.

Holly's was open, but there were none of the regulars inside, which was not unusual at this time of the day, between opening hours - the official ones, that is.

There was nobody about, but I could hear the sound of movement down in the cellar. I called out and I heard a crash and a mumbling from the dark beyond the hatch. I called John's name, but got no reply.

Then, from upstairs came another sound and I heard footsteps on the stairs that led to Holly's living quarters that took up the two storeys above the bar. The footsteps came closer and I waited until the door opened. It was Helen, Holly's wife, still in her dressing gown

She peered round, then gave a start when she saw me standing at the bar.

'Oh, hi Nick,' she said, and gave me a smile. Her black hair was piled high in the way she'd worn for as long as I could recall, but a couple of wisps had fallen over her forehead, making her look a little unkempt.

'Didn't wake you did I?'

'No. I was trying to sleep. Didn't get a wink all night.'

'Sorry to disturb you. Is Holly about?

'He is.' She pointed to the floor. 'He's down there. And as far as I'm concerned, he can stay there.'

That surprised me. There was always a running battle of banter between Holly and his wife, normally light-hearted and jovial. I had never heard her criticise him before.

'What's up?'

'He's drinking the place dry, the big fool.'

'Holly? Drinking? He never touches the stuff during the day.'

'Tell him that. He's been at it since yesterday. He went down last night to change casks and he's been there ever since. Drunk as a fucking lord. He's been into all the stock and he's been smashing the place up something awful. I'm not going down there. I've just let him get on with it.'

She was a statuesque woman, ample proportioned, with a sense of humour to match. I had never heard her curse before, and never ever seen John Hollinger drunk. The big man took a drink, all right, but always at night, near closing time, and it never seemed to affect him except to make his one-liners sharper and his banter more witty.

'I just came in for some pain-killers,' I said, trying to change the subject. I just didn't have the energy to get involved in a domestic dispute. 'I've got a bit of a headache and nothing for it in the house. The chemist's shut.'

Helen looked at her wrist where her watch would normally have been, looked puzzled to find it missing and then asked me for the time.

'Nearly half past four,' I told her.

'That's strange. I thought it was still morning. He must have come up and opened the place.'

She leaned forward, across the bar and the motion pulled her gown open a little, exposing an expanse of smooth skin, split by an impressive cleavage.

'If you ask me, he's flipped,' she said. 'he was rattling about down there all night. And the language. Even I've never heard some of those words.'

'He'll feel bad about it once he sobers up. He's going to have a killer headache if he's had as much as you say.'

'I hope it kills him. I hope his head starts to...' she paused. 'Headache? That's what you came in for, wasn't it?'

I nodded. There was still a bit of an ache between my ears, but it was easing off. I didn't want to leave Paddy alone in the jeep too long.

Helen rummaged about the gantry and lifted aside boxes or crisps and nuts, shaking her head.

'You can never find these damned things when you need them most,' she said, then she turned away from the pile of cartons.

'I've got some upstairs. A whole box. Come on and I'll give you what you need.'

'That's kind of you.' I followed her through the connecting door and up the stairs. In the house above the bar, Helen rummaged around in the bedroom, while I stood and looked out the window into the main street where a handful of people were slowly wandering about. They looked aimless and strangely lost.

I stood and watched, puzzled, until Helen's voice brought me back.

'Come and give me a hand, Nick.'

I dragged by eyes away from the strangely unsettling scene and walked through the short hallway to the bedroom. Without thinking, I strolled into the room where a king-sized unmade bed dominated the space. There was a noise behind me as the door snicked shut and I turned.

Then I nearly fell on my backside.

Helen had shucked off her gown. It lay pooled at her ankles. And the rest of her was totally naked.

'What...?'

She reached both arms in a gesture of invitation, and maybe display. The movement caused her big breasts to sway, juggling her nipples in little circles.

I must have stood there for ten seconds, just staring, unable to get any words out.

'Come on, Nick,' she said. A slow smile spread her lips apart. But there was no humour in her eyes. They just looked hungry.

'It's just the two of us. We can have some fun, can't we? He's been no damned good for me, lying down drunk all night.'

She swayed towards me, Junoesque and rounded. She stepped out of the crumpled gown. Her belly met her thighs in a thick black tangle that contrasted with pale smooth skin. In other circumstances, I'm sure I would have found it inviting.

But the truth of it was, I was suddenly dead scared. I was rigid with fright.

Because this wasn't Helen Hollinger. The face and form were undoubtedly hers. But the feral expression she wore was not. It was something else entirely. The smile she gave me became a grimace that was creepily unnerving. And the light in her dark eyes didn't look entirely human.

Suddenly I thought of Paddy down there in the car, alone in that street of strange, dazed people, and just as suddenly I realised that's where I had to be right now.

'I've got to go,' I said, turning away, trying not to look, when she suddenly lunged at me, clamping her arms around my neck. Her breasts were pressed pneumatically against my ribs and her lips hungrily sought mine.

I could hear her moaning as I twisted my face away from her mouth and I felt hot breath on my cheek.

'No Helen. Please. I really have to go now.' I felt a panic well up. Paddy was down there, alone. I had left her. And some instinct inside me realised that this little performance was something aimed at keeping me in here, while Paddy was out there.

Helen thrust herself against me, hard and strong, clasping herself to me in a tight embrace. Her moans had become a sort of frantic slobbering. Her hips swivelled and punted against my thigh, pushing hard in a series of pulses. Even through my jeans I could feel heat and moisture. I forced myself away, shoving hard against her shoulder, but she clung on, no lightweight, with an animal ferocity.

My hand went down, almost of its own volition into my pocket and curled around the stone spear-head. Instantly I felt a surge of something ripple through me, cold and bright and in the same moment I felt Helen stiffen against me. Her grip faltered, and I brought the stone up under her arms, up between her breasts and held it against her face.

I don't know why I did that. It was some sort of subconscious imperative, carried out without real thought.

Helen let out a great gasp of air, as if she'd been holding her breath and had just been punched hard in the belly.

Her dark eyes rolled up to show the whites and her arms just fell away from me. She stood there, totally rigid for several seconds, then she fell backwards, as if she'd been pole-axed and landed on the floor with such a thump the house shook.

She lay still.

For a moment I was torn between checking that she was still breathing and racing out.

My heart was pounding from the fright I'd got when looked into her eyes and saw something that was not quite human. I shook my head, ignoring the aching pulse between my temples and went for the door.

Outside, I stood blinking in the sunlight, catching my breath. For all I knew, Helen was lying dead upstairs while Holly was lying dead drunk down in the cellar.

Uncharitably, I couldn't have cared less.

24

I walked out of Holly's bar into the sunlight that slipped through the grey clouds and all around me was bedlam.

There was noise everywhere and movement, blurred at first as my eyes tried to focus. When everything sprang into clarity, I almost fell back inside the bar again.

The main street was like a rodeo. Somebody had let the horses loose from the riding school up on the hill and they were stampeding through the town, clattering along the main street, like a scene from a bad western.

A woman cowered against a wall on the far side while the horses galloped by, neighing and whinnying and arching their necks, As one big roan shot past, it kicked out viciously. It's hoof missed by scant inches. If it had connected, it would have taken her head clean off. An iron shoe clattered on the wall and sent up sparks.

Further down the street, a teenager came round the corner and saw the animals streaming towards him and he took off. Instead of ducking back the way he had come, he ran in the opposite direction. He got about ten yards and a grey mare in the lead stamped him down. I could hear the sickening thud, even at that distance. There was a brief scream that was instantly cut off and I didn't want to see any more. There must have been more than a dozen horses milling around at breakneck speed. The sound of their passing was like thunder. I braced myself against the door and then flung myself out, gauging the distance between me and the nearest horse.

With luck and good timing, I made it with seconds to spare and rounded the corner.

And I got the fright of my life.

A big black horse was rearing up on its hind legs and smashing its front hooves down on the jeep's engine cover. By the time I reached the corner, it must have been going at it for a while, because the bodywork was covered in dents and half the windscreen was starred all over. But that wasn't all.

A dog had climbed up on the roof, scrabbling at the paintwork and howling dementedly, and there were two others, one a big Doberman type that jumped up and smacked against the passenger window where I could see Paddy cringing back, terror slashed across her face. Another squat dog was snarling at the front tyre. It looked like one of those fighting pit-bulls the guys down at the shacks on Milligs shore-side used to breed.

I took a deep breath, then sprinted down the alley towards the jeep and took a dive past the haunches of the stallion that was trying to pound it into the road. Just at the door, I slipped and almost skittered right under the wheels on my ass on the cobbles.

On the roof, the snarling animal whirled and took a snap at me as soon as I regained my feet and jerked on the door-handle. I backhanded it with a satisfying swipe that made its teeth click together.

I got the door open. The look on Paddy's face made the risk worth-while.

The door was what saved me from getting my spine broken in two, for I was just about to haul into the driving seat that horse lashed out at me and got me a sickener right on my shoulder. I'd been too busy watching the dog line up for another bite and watching at my heels in case the other two came round for more of the same, that I'd been unable to guard my front.

The blow almost knocked me down, but I had one hand on the steering wheel and the top rim of the door took most of the force, warping out of shape. But for that, I'd have been typing this one-handed, or most likely, not writing at all. The pain was huge, so intense that the grip of the dog's teeth on my thigh went almost un-noticed. I hit it a hard-knuckle jab and it tumbled backwards. The horse reared for another stamp. Foam flicked out of its open mouth, splatting the windscreen.

I leapt inside and slammed the door shut.

My hands were shaking and my right arm almost paralysed, but I managed to get the key in the ignition and start the engine. All the time I was yelling at Paddy to get down and stay down. Looking back, I must have only added to her terror.

The engine roared and I slammed into gear, gunned the accelerator and shot the clutch. The jeep jumped forward with a squeal of four wheel drive and I hit that big black fucker suck a slam that I must have broken both its legs and caved in its ribs. I heard the crunch of the impact and despite its weight, the stallion was thrown back on its haunches and slammed against the wall. I don't suppose the animal-huggers will give me bonus points but I swear I let out a whoop of glee and I wished that crazy horse in a hot hell.

On the passenger side, the big black-and-tan dog slammed at the glass a couple of times, leaving smears of blood and saliva, but I shot out of that alley like a cork from a bottle and hauled right to get away from the rest of the rodeo madhouse.

There was a blur on the left as another dog flee up near the front wheel in a tumbling arc. The jeep lurched and there was a judder that twisted the steering wheel so hard I had to pull it to keep going straight.

It wasn't until I managed to get to the relative safety of the road to old Mr Bennett's smallholding that I unsnapped Paddy's seat-belt and eased myself out, painfully and gingerly. I went round and helped her out and again felt her shiver against me, and then I was flooded with a hot wave of guilt for leaving her alone in the car and going upstairs with Helen Hollinger, no matter who was pulling those strings.

But Paddy didn't cry, and she didn't look accusingly at me. She just held on tight until the shudders stopped.

Then I looked down at the nearside tyre and found why the steering had gone. The tread was ripped to shreds and the jagged hole in the rubber was matted with blood and hair and bits of bone. That little bastard had stayed gripped on tight until its head was crushed.

By this time, my nerves were would up tight enough to play tunes on, and Paddy was still in shock. I stood her by the fence at the side of the road and pulled the car into the verge. I opened the tailgate and rummaged around for the jack and hauled out what I'd need. But I couldn't find the wheel-brace and without that, I couldn't take off the chewed tyre. If I couldn't change the wheel, we were going nowhere, and I did not relish the idea of hanging around in nightmare central for a minute more than I had to.

We were quite close to Duncan Bennett's cottage, so I grabbed Paddy's hand and made to go along the road. She came without a word.

The old man wasn't in when I rapped on the door. His storm-doors were wide open, and when I tried the handle on the inside, the door opened, which meant he was around somewhere. I checked in his lean-to garage. The place was littered with tools and there were a few big spanners, so I thought I'd have something to get the wheel-nuts off.

I called out a couple of times, then we went round to the back garden. He wasn't in sight, and I was about to turn back when I thought I saw smoke rising at the far end of his field, in against the trees where the old man kept his hives. We climbed the rickety stile and through the wet grass in the direction of the smoke plume. I thought seeing the old fellow harvest honey might distract Paddy while I fixed up the wheel.

The closer we got to the corner of the field, the louder came the buzzing of the bees. Right in under the big oak, we could see a grey haze of insects and we moved towards them. I was telling Paddy about the hives when I stopped very suddenly. Paddy looked up at me.

The smoke canister was lying on the grass, about ten yards from the end hive, trailing fumes into the air. The old man was nowhere to be seen. I scanned along the row of white box-hives while the bees droned in a milling crowd under the big oak.

Then I saw a splash of red on the ground at the far hive and moved closer. I walked about fifteen steps and stopped dead in my tracks. I must have gripped Paddy's hand tight, for she have a little yelp.

The red splash was Duncan Bennett's shirt.

The old man was lying face-up on the short grass that surrounded his hives. At first I thought he might have fainted, or worse, had a heart attack and I started forward, but already my instinct was telling me something was wrong. Something wrong with his face.

I edged a bit closer and halted again. Paddy started to say something and I hushed her to silence. Bees were crawling all over the old man, but that wasn't what froze me. His whole face was purple and swollen up like a Halloween mask, so lumpenly inflated that his neck had expanded to with width of his head and those little wire-frame glasses he wore were embedded so deeply into the skin they were hardly visible. I stood there, frozen for what seemed a long time, until it dawned on me what had happened.

By the time I did, it was almost to late.

The buzzing was louder now, and much closer; a fierce hum, like electrical wires arcing. Paddy noticed it first.

'Nick' she called. 'Look Look over there!'

Panic was rising in her voice.

I looked up and my muscle all went slack. The dark corner of the field, right under the shade of that oak tree, was a mass of bees, an immense swarm that must have contained every worker, drone and queen in all the hives. There were mounds of insects hanging in brown clumps from the trunk and branches, so many that the thinner twigs bent down with their weight. All around them was a thick, fast-moving cloud of insects. As I stared at them, whole wedges of the clumps came dropping off and taking to the air to join the cloud. The air darkened and the buzz grew angry.

'Paddy, walk back slowly,' I hissed. I couldn't remember of loud noise antagonised bees, but I was in no mood to experiment. Waving my hand behind me, I motioned her away and gingerly tip-toed backwards, away from the huge swarm and away from the poor old guy who was surely dead. I remember hoping to god that he was dead. With every step I took, more and more of the cluster shaled off the oak tree until the air was thick. The noise grew so loud it was like a vibration in my bones. When I reached the furthest hive, I turned. Paddy hadn't got for and she was standing still, staring at the swarm.

'Come on. Let's move,' I said and started walking fast across the field. She came at my side, but the noise, if anything, just got louder and when we were half-way to the stile I stopped to look back and my poor heart, which should have been used to it by now (but wasn't) gave a hard lurch.

For the cloud suddenly billowed out in a dark explosion from the shade into the light and came rolling across the grass directly towards us.

In my mind flashed a picture of gentle old Duncan Bennett , and what had clearly happened to him.

That gave me a big enough jolt of adrenalin to scoop Paddy right off the ground and, without breaking stride, I sprinted for the stile.

There was none of the dreamscape stuff about my retreat. My feet did not become tangled in the grass and I did not slip back in the mud. I was not, as was normal for me, rooted to the spot. This was for real.

Paddy was a feather in my arms and my strides felt ten feet long, and if there had been a clock on me I swear I would have broken any record for that hundred metres or so. And when I got to the fence, I was in too much of a hurry to use the wooden steps. I went over it like a champion hurdler. Me and Paddy landed clean as a whistle on the path on the far side with not a slip or a stumble. I scooted up the path, through the garage and round the front where I barged straight into the cottage and slammed the door with a flick of my free hand.

Then I let my breath out in one long whoop, dumped Paddy on the floor and straightened up. Then the adrenalin reaction hit me like a kick from that horse and I spun round so that when I threw up she wouldn't be splattered. I did so, quickly and in great heaves. It all missed her.

I stumbled through to the kitchen, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and gasping for air. When I finally got my breath back enough to speak, I called from the hallway.

'C'mon Paddy.' My voice sounded like an old man's.

She came through the doorway, waking backwards. 'They're at the front door. I can hear them,' she said.

I could hear them too, over the pounding in my ears. 'Yeah, but it's all right. They can't get in.'

I wasn't entirely sure of that and wondered what I would do about it if they did all come swarming inside, but I was reasonably sure that no more than a few would manage to find whatever cracks and vents might exist, and I could handle that. I've been stung before.

The bees continued to batter themselves to death on the door and windows, a constant drumming that went on and on. After a while, it began to lessen and when I thought it might be safer, I opened the door just a crack, ready to slam it shut in the event of an ambush.

On the sill and underneath the windows, thousands of dead bees formed mounds.

Paddy and I sat in the kitchen, letting the tension ebb. What with Helen Hollinger and the crazy horses and mad dogs, and my race from the swarm, I'd had an energetic day.

There was nothing for it but to light the gas stove. Old Mr Bennett's iron kettle was full and I would have murdered for a cup of coffee. As it happened, he only had tea, the British cure for all ills. I made it strong for me and weak for Paddy, but with plenty of sugar and we both sipped gratefully.

Sitting across the table from her I couldn't help but feel she'd had the really raw any of any deal. Her mother broken and badly hurt up in emergency care, and then the crazy scary drive on the back roads trying to find a way of getting to her. Then she'd been attacked by the horses and dogs. And the bees.

I thanked every god I could think of for the fact that I'd been able to get us out of that field ahead of the swarm. If I'd stumbled once, or twisted my ankle whilst leaping that fence, we would both be still out there. And it might have taken us a long time to die in agony. The thought made me shudder.

'Paddy?'

She looked up.

'How're you doing?' I tried an encouraging smile.

'How are you doing?'

'Good and bad.'

'Is that good, or is that bad?'

'Well, we're still in one piece, aren't we?'

She nodded. 'I s'pose so.'

She looked straight into my eyes. 'What's happening? Why has everything gone so horrible?'

'I don't know, sweetheart. But I'm going to do my very best to get you away from it.'

She kept looking at me, and fingering the torc around her neck. Maybe there was something special about that simple cold necklet.

'I don't think we can get away,' she said. 'It wants us. It wants to kill us.'

'What makes you think that.

'I don't know. I just do. I can feel it. It's like there's something that hates us, waiting in the dark. I just know it, the way I know my Mom's going to be all right.'

'This thing, whatever it is, what does it look like?'

'I see it in my dreams. But I can't see it properly because it's all shadowy and it keeps changing. It's got big white eyes and it's really horrible.'

'We see lots of horrible stuff in dreams. And lots of nice things too.'

'But this thing. I've seen it before, but I don't know when.'

'How do you mean. You and your Mum just arrived here.'

'I don't know. But I saw it a long time ago. Maybe when I was small. And the old lady was there, the one who gave me the flowers.'

How could she know about the flowers her mother was given when she herself was a child?

'What flowers were these?

'The flowers in the field. The lady comes in other dreams and puts the flowers around my neck, and she smiles and I know the flowers are good just like that thing with the white eyes is bad.'

'When the old lady gives you flowers, where are you?'

'Down at the stream. I'm with other people, but I can't see them.'

'And you're sure it's an old lady. Not a young one with golden hair?'

'She's got golden hair, with some silver in it. But she's not young. She's old. But she smiles and she's got twinkly eyes and I know she wants to help me.'

I sat back amazed. Paddy was having a recurring dream that was at least twenty years older than she was, a dream her mother had had long ago when we'd taken the mushrooms and smoked the saxifrage mixture. How the hell could that be possible?

What the hell, I thought. After the past couple of days, when my whole world had turned itself inside out, what was as little touch of ESP compared to roads that took you back to where you started and seabirds that speared people to death and trees that grabbed at four-wheel-drives?

A couple of days more of this and I would take levitation as par for the course.

Paddy interrupted my train of thought.

'What'll we do now?'

'I don't know, for sure. I'm trying to think about it. But we should stay here for a while, until they go away.'

I felt bad about leaving old Mr Bennett out there beside the beehives, but he was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. He wouldn't have minded us using his place as a haven. 'Maybe we should stay the night.'

Paddy quickly agreed.

'I don't want to go out there again, until we know they're really gone.'

'Me neither.'

We did stay the night. It rained heavily and any bees that were left would have headed for shelter, so I hoped. I lit the log fire and Paddy sat on my knee, leaning against my chest while I sat and looked into the embers, thinking about what the morning would bring. She fell asleep after darkness fell and I carried her in to bed. I pulled the blanket over both of us and wrapped an arm round her shoulder, listening to her soft, child's breathing in the night. I must have fallen asleep soon after and I don't remember any dreams.

Paddy woke before me and shook me until I came swimming up out of it. I was stiff, and my shoulder was telegraphing messages I tried hard to ignore. I had felt a lot better on plenty of other mornings, but it could have been worse. I could have been lying out there with a face like a rotting plum, and worse, the little girl I was supposed to be looking after, could have been lying there with me.

'Nick!' Paddy spoke right into my ear. I shook my head groggily.

'Yeah. I'm awake. What's up?'

'Do you want me to make breakfast?' her voice sounded bright. It was a new day, and I suppose, through the drizzle outside, the sun was making a go of it.

'Coffee if you can find any,' I said. 'Tea if you can't.'

'Sure.' She bounded out of bed. I felt a bit tacky and my jeans had rucked up and creased behind my knees, digging into the skin. There was a sour taste in my mouth.

'I don't know how to light the stove', she called from the kitchen. 'I've never seen one like this before.'

I ended up making tea. I got the stove lit and stoked up the fire, remembering from childhood how to push the damper to heat the back boiler.

I put on some porridge oats to boil in a saucepan.. It was hot and thick and drowned in milk. Paddy had never tasted it before and was a bit put off by the grey gloopy look, but after the first spoonful she wolfed it and scraped the pot and ladle clean.

Both of us felt better after a warm bellyful and we sat at the table working out our next move.

I decided I should go out and check the bees, but before I did, I searched around until I found a piece of muslin that had probably been used for straining fruit for jam, and in an old wardrobe, I dug out a large blue hat with a wide brim. The little posy of silk flowers on the outside band told me it had probably been the old woman's best Sunday hat when she was alive.

It didn't fit and I didn't care. I stuck it on my head and spread the muslin over it, gathering the corners together and tucking them into my shirt collar. Paddy laughed when she saw me, a delighted, healthy laugh that made me smile for the first time in a while. I wrapped dishcloths round my neck and used two tea-towels around my hands for protection.

Then I cautioned Paddy to wait inside, with all the doors shut, and went out, warily peering beyond the lintel. Everything was fogged by the muslin, but the only sound was the pattering of rain.

I closed the door quickly behind me and carefully went along the path, ready at any moment to dash back inside.

But there was no swarm. The bees seemed to have left. If they had gone back to the hives, then they were far down in the corner of the field and I was content to leave them there. Under no circumstances, I was sure, could I repeat yesterday's athletic feat.

The big spanner in Duncan Bennett's lean-to fitted the wheel nuts and after much effort, they came loose. Paddy watched from the window as I worked, leaning on the sill, cupping her chin with her hands. I knew she was watching out for the bees.

The wheel came off and I dumped it on the verge. The tyre was a ruin. I unshipped the spare and heaved it into position. The job didn't take long, though I was sweating a bit by the time I spun the jack lever and the jeep settled back down. I threw the jack in the back along with the spanner, next to my waterproof jacket and my grandfather's old walking stick and that worn canvas-covered bottle that Father Cronin had given me.

I motioned to Paddy and she came out. I made sure she was strapped in and went round making sure all the windows were shut tight, just in case, and something made me check that all the doors were locked from the inside too. Maybe survival instinct was taking over, or maybe it was just paranoia, but by then I didn't really care to analyse myself.

We went back along the main street, past Ronnie Scott's garage - or Alan's garage now - and out to the far end of town to the blown-up bridge. I had half hoped that the four wheel drive could have got us across the stream, but there was no way it could negotiate the steep banks. Even in low gear and all wheels turning the jeep started to slew dangerously and dig itself in. I back-tracked a bit and went down by the shacks on the shore side where there was a cattle ford, but after the rains, the stream was in spate and that way too was blocked. I reversed out and went back up the track and turned right at the old dog-runs.

Then I had to stamp hard on the brake.

Four people stood on the path in front of me. A few others lounged against a grey-weathered shack.

When I braked, the car slithered forward and the four figures jumped out of the way, and as I passed, I recognised Billy Ruine and the rest of his pals who had been giving Colin Blackwood a hard time at the festival. He recognised me in the same instant, as the jeep lurched past.

Over the whine of the engine, I heard him yell something and then a beer-bottle came from nowhere and landed smack on the roof just above my head and skittered off. I twisted round and saw Ruine pick something up. I thought it was branch or a piece of two by four and I swung back round to watch the path.

'Bloody cretins,' I hissed under my breath, ramming down on the pedal and dropping a gear. I flicked a glance at the rear-view and saw him stand in the middle of the track, pointing the thing at me and in the same instant that sudden comprehension slammed into my brain, there was one almighty roar and a thumping clatter on the back of the jeep that fogged the window to a white blanket.

Paddy squealed and my hands jerked so violently I almost went off the path into a scrubby hedge. That was a stroke of luck, because the second shot hit the side panel, instead of the rear window which would have caved in and showered us with glass and hy-max goose shot.

I swung the jeep onto the straight with one hand and shoved Paddy's head between her knees with the other and took off up that track like a ferret up a roan-pipe. At the main road I turned hard left, feeling the rear wheels fish-tail on the slick tarmac, but there was no traffic to worry about and when I was headed back into town, I began to calm down.

'It's all right now,' I said. 'You can get up now.'

She lifted hear head wary and squirmed to look behind her.

'What happened?'

'Somebody threw something.'

She looked straight at me and shook her head. 'That was a gun. I know what one sounds like.'

'Okay. It was a gun. Some idiot shot at the car, but they're far behind now.'

By this time my heart had settled down to a mere racing thud and I slowed the jeep as we rolled through Milligs.

'Why did they shoot at us?' she wanted to know.

'Drunk, or crazy. Or maybe both. There's a lot of crazy stuff happening.'

'They want to kill us.'

'No. they're just drunk. They'll shoot at anything. Anyway, we're all right, aren't we?'

'I guess so,' Paddy said dubiously.

I was beginning to settle down when I caught a movement in the wing mirror. A car had come belting out of the side road and swung out behind us. A cloud of blue smoke belched from under the chassis and the car swayed from side to side.

'Shit,' I said, and it should have been under my breath, but wasn't. Paddy heard, and she must have seen me glance in the mirror for she looked in the nearside one.

'It's them. They're coming after us.'

I boosted the pedal and the jeep lurched ahead, accelerating fast. The beat-up old car behind was packed with people and there was something sticking out of the side window, which I was damned sure wasn't a piece of wood.

We hammered along the road with the old car following in its cloud of exhaust. Somebody leaned out and I started swerving from one side to the other when there was a flash and a patter like hailstones again, followed by another roar.

I told Paddy to get down and speeded up. I had to keep well ahead of them, because if Ruine and his mad team got closer, they could blow a whole clean through the bodywork. I preferred to avoid that scenario.

The team behind let off a couple more shots that didn't do much more than chip the paint and I decided to get out of the firing line. As we neared the field where the festival had been held, I jerked the wheel and slewed up the side road that would take us past Duncan Bennett's place again. I was going too fast and my attention was diverted, but when I looked in the rear view again I saw that beat-up old saloon swerve in behind us. One of our wheels caught the verge and the jeep jumped about a yard into the air and we went nose-first into a hedge. The engine coughed and then stopped. I was cursing non-stop as I fumbled with the key and slammed into reverse. The wheels dug in and we came back a foot or so and then the engine died again. I didn't have time for another try, for right behind me the pursuit came charging up the road and there was a screech of brakes as it slithered to a halt.

I hit Paddy's release and in the same motion I grabbed her arm and hauled her over to my side and flung the door open. We rolled out on the lee side.

Paddy landed on top of me and my hip hit something hard. The hedge was full of thorns but there was enough space between the stems for me to shove her through to the other side and for me to scramble after her, all the time expecting to get my backside shot to mincemeat.

But I must have been quick, for no shot came.

Out on the other side was a wide garden, then a row of cottages ahead and I got to my feet and took off at full pelt, not bothering to lift Paddy. Instead I grabbed her collar like a cop making an arrest and literally ran her right across the flower beds to the fence at the far side. I supposed I could have choked her to death, but I never even thought about that, and I don't think her feet even touched the ground.

There was a whole string of curses and plenty of shouting from the other side of the hedge and then a crashing sound as the gang realised where I'd gone and began to follow us. I reached the fence and lifted Paddy over and vaulted it, landing with a thump in somebody's cabbage patch. It didn't hurt. Paddy grabbed my hand and helped me to my feet and I got a glimpse of her face, white and shocked. By this time, two figures clambered through the hedge and although I didn't see the gun, I didn't wait to find out. We raced through the row of gardens like marines on an assault course. Every time I came to a wall or wicker fence, I just boosted her over like a rucksack, trusting to her reflexes to land on her feet. Bruises were infinitely preferable to what Ruin's crazy gang were intending, but I have to say that Paddy was going like a cat and landed like one every time, on her feet and moving fast.

At the second to last garden we faced a six-foot lattice. I hoisted her to the top and shoved her over, but in doing so, I lost momentum and when I tried to climb it, my feet slipped and scrabbled on the wood. I took a dozen steps back and took a run at it and jumped, grabbed the top and swung my legs up. Just as I did so there was another roar of gunfire and the fence simply disintegrated underneath me. The shot blasted a two-foot hole just where my spine had been only a second before and the thump rattled the fence so hard it threw me off and down the other side.

I caught up with Paddy and instead of going across the wall at the end house, I swung her round the gable end and round to the front, doubling back out of sight of our pursuers. I reckoned they'd run straight on, and if I got back to the jeep before they realised their mistake, we could be miles away before they got back to their wheels.

What I didn't realise, for I hadn't spent much time looking over my shoulder, is that not all of Ruine's gang had followed us through the hedge.

I was almost doubled over from breathlessness and had an appalling stitch in my side by the time we reached the first cottage and angled across a lawn, heading for the hedge. We reached a wooden gate and I hung on the bars for a moment, whooping air into my lungs. The gate swung open when I pushed it and I took Paddy's hand, turning towards where the jeep was still angled into the verge.

Paddy stopped suddenly. I looked down. She was rigid, staring past me. I followed her gaze and froze.

That was when I discovered that only two of them had come through the hedge after us.

Billy Ruine was standing five yards away, with a big grin all over his weasely face and a twelve-bore over-and-under shotgun in the crook of his arm. Paddy let out a little whimper and I gripped her hand tight.

'Well, well. Clark fucking Kent.' Ruin said. 'And nobody to back him up this time.'

There was a crazy look of hate and glee in his eyes.

I took a step backwards, thinking of making a dash back through the gate, but Ruine swung the gun up and aimed it right at my belly, which cringed in anticipation.

'Don't even think about it. I've got you right where I want you,'

He grinned again and looked round at his cronies. Ruine was the only one with a gun, but the others had thick sticks and somebody had an angle-iron fence bar. They all sniggered.

'Kill him, Billy,' somebody said. 'Take his fuckin' head off.'

'I want the girl,' said a big heavy boy with a sparse gingery beard. 'Let's have some fun.'

When I heard that, my stomach did lurch hard, and I didn't know what I was going to do. Instinctively I pulled Paddy behind me and Ruine kept the gun steady, right on my belly.

'Two for the price of one, eh?' he said softly, but with deadly threat. 'This'll go right through you and blow her to bits.'

'Do it Billy. Give it to 'em.'

I couldn't take my eyes off the two black holes at the end of the barrels.

Just at that moment, the gate swung open and two men burst out. Billy Ruine's gun swung away from us. One of the men had a gun and was whirling round when there was a blast from Ruine's gun and an instantaneous ripping sound right behind my ear. I whirled and saw a red mist billow out behind the man who was standing only a few beet distant.

It seemed to take an age, although it must have been less than a second, to figure out what was wrong with him as he stood swaying for a moment.

He had no head.

The blast of both barrels had exploded it into a rain of red fragments that painted the side of the hedgerow.

For that one second we were all frozen. Billy Ruine stared at the toppling, headless man and for an instant the madness in his eyes changed to disbelief. There was a thud as the falling body hit the grass and everybody stared, wide-eyed, as its legs jittered, as if it were trying to run.

I started out of shock first and my mind went into hyperdrive. I snatched Paddy's arm and took off along the road to Mr Bennett's place me before anybody had a chance to move.

From behind, I heard somebody shout: 'It's Tommy. You've killed Tommy!' And then there was a whole lot of screaming and yelling and I was dragging Paddy along like a rag doll, in a blind panic to get to safety before anybody had the sense to pick up the second shotgun. All the way, I was kicking myself for not thinking of it first.

Billy Ruine had shot off his brother's head.

Paddy and I made it to the cottage wall when the gun went off again, maybe sixty yards behind, but Billy Ruine wasn't as accurate at that range as he had been at point blank with his brother. The shot rapped off the wall and ricocheted into the back of my leg, smacking into the wet jeans like a paddle. My right foot shot away from me and I went down in a heap, almost dragging Paddy with me. My calf shrieked with sudden pain, but even then I yelled at her.

'Run, Paddy. Get into the trees and keep going.'

She hesitated for a second, and looked at me,. Her face wide with fright, then she was off and up the garden path and through the open lean-to and gone from sight. I hauled to my feet and limped round by the wall. My leg was hurting and the muscle had gone numb and there was no way I'd make any speed until it settled down, but I hoped to get inside the cottage and bar the door and hold them off for a while, at least until Paddy got clear. I was sure Duncan had an old four-ten somewhere, which, while not as powerful as Ruin's cannon, would be just as effective at close range. It was a possible chance of getting out of this.

I almost made it to the door when Ruine's voice made me spin. He was standing at the gate.

'You fuckin' cunt. You made me kill Tommy. You made me shoot my own fuckin' brother.' His voice had risen to a hoarse screech.

That was when the second miracle happened.

Billy Ruine slowly and deliberately raised the gun and pointed it at my head. He began to laugh, high-pitched, almost hysterical, but not enough to make the gun barrel waver at all. I had nowhere to run.

At that moment, there was a loud buzzing roar and a black streak caught the corner of my eye. Billy Ruine turned again, just in time to see the motorbike that was almost upon him. In that same instant, he pulled the trigger and the widow of the cottage caved in with a crash.

Just then father Gerry swung a golden sword over his head and hit Ruine such a massive blow that it felled him where he stood.

The priest was like a black knight on a black charger, his visor gleaming. And in his hand, what I thought was a sword, was the big crucifix that had stood on top of the tabernacle in the seminary chapel.

The priest wielded it just like a great sword. As he held it up, the precious stone inlays caught the sunlight, making it look like an exquisite Excalibur.

Over the throb of the engine, I could hear him roaring out a chant, although I couldn't make out the words.

He charged down that road and into the bunch of men who still stood across it, near where Tommy Ruine's body was still twitching, and the priest's arm swung high in the air and the golden cross crashed into the beefy boy's head. Even at that distance I saw blood fly and the man who had wanted to have fun with Paddy dropped like a sack.

Gerry went right through them, still swinging that crucifix. He turned at the bend and came back again.

This time the men scattered and although I should have taken advantage of his intervention, that second miracle, I couldn't move. The cross went up again and came sweeping down on the slowest of them. His skill caved in. The faces of the other two were white with fear as the priest chased them up the road.

Suddenly I could move again. Gerry was shouting something about the soldiers of the lord and I left him to fight the good fight.

I went through the lean-to and into the back garden. The pain in my leg was still burning, but there was no blood and the numbness was wearing off.

I got over the fence and went straight across the field and into the trees, avoiding the corner where the bees had ambushed us. I hoped Paddy had remembered to do just that. I hadn't thought to warn her, although something told me she was too damned smart to have gone near the hives, no matter how scared she was.

25

While I was staring down the black barrel of Billy Ruine's shotgun, Paddy was running across the field behind Duncan's cottage. I needn't have worried about the bees, for when she was halfway across, leaping over clumps of thistle, she suddenly realised she was heading for the hives and veered sharply before she got near them.

In seconds, she was in the shelter of the trees, sliding down the little gully and up the slope on the far side.

By the time Father Gerry had sung his holy war chant and caved in the head of the running man, she was through the trees on the far side and into the pasture at the south side of McFall's farm, still running fast and panting for breath.

She reached the gate at the corner when the hedge erupted with a mighty crash and McFall's black Angus bull tore itself out of the brambles with an angry bellow. Paddy screamed in fright, slipped on the wet grass and fell heavily. The bull swivelled and hooked at the hedge with its spread of horns and turned around to face her. A long rope of saliva drooled from its mouth. It stood there, sides heaving and breath juddering.

Then it moved one foot forward and Paddy launched herself to her feet and ran for the hedge. Behind her, the beast bellowed again and charged. She could hear its hooves thud on the turf and could almost feel its breath on the back of her neck and panic rose up inside her like the scream that tried to burst out.

She knew the gate was too far to reach and that the bull would get her. Those horns would hook her and smash her down.

That's exactly what would have happened, for sure. But with only twenty yards between Paddy and the gate, twenty impossible yards, a minor miracle brought another shape darting in from the left. Paddy only caught a flicker of motion, because her entire being was focussed on the five bars on the gate. There was a screech and a thud and then a bellowing roar. Paddy's foot caught on a tangle of reeds and she tumbled headlong.

But the horns did not slam into her back. Nor did they crush her into the ground.

Paddy rolled over, wild-eyed and sobbing with fear. The bull had turned and was now attacking a man who held a big stick in both hands and was slamming at its nose with all his strength.

There was another thud and another bellow, not deep, but high and angry. Paddy couldn't take her eyes off the encounter. The bull kept jinking, trying to avoid the club that slammed into its nose, while at the same time, fixed on goring the man.

He raised the stick like a baseball player and it took the bull on the side of its mouth with sharp crack.

This time the bull just charged at the man who made a fast dive to the right, and the big animal crashed halfway through the hedge. It bellowed again and shook its great head, trying to free its horns from the tangled hawthorn.

The man scrambled to his feet, almost falling flat again as he slipped on the wet, and ran towards where Paddy still lay. He didn't stop when he reached her, but merely bent and grabbed the front of her jacket with one hand and kept on running.

Paddy was jerked off the ground. At the gate, the man just bundled her over the bars and on to the lane at the other side and vaulted over. Paddy felt her arm gripped tightly as she was propelled along the lane so fast she almost tripped. She was forced to take big leaps just to keep up with the big man.

But as soon as she heard the first crash as the bull smacked into the gate, cracking the bars and almost taking the whole thing off the posts, the fright lent her all the speed she needed.

Colin Blackwood hustled Paddy along the lane as fast as he could run. Behind them, the bull battered at the gate, and if it kept it up, it was only a matter of time before it would smash it down.

They got to the entrance to McFall's farmyard and Colin hauled the girl round the corner and made for the shelter of the brick pig-pen at the back of the byre. He heaved her across the wall and Paddy flopped to the ground, spent and gasping for breath.

The stranger crouched down beside her, chest heaving and held her close. She could feel his heart race through the plaid of his work-shirt and she looked up to see his face contorted, as if in pain. The two white streaks of hair that lined the black were almost standing on end, and his forehead glistened with perspiration.

His grip was almost painful, but Paddy didn't care. It was worth it to feel safe.

In the distance, the bull bellowed and crashed at the gate. It seemed to go on the a long time. Eventually, the thudding of the man's heart slowed and he started to breathe easier.

Colin opened his arms and looked down at the little bundle that he'd been hugging tight. The girl stared up at him and gave him a small smile. He grinned back and loosened his grip to wipe the sweat from his brow.

'Barbara?'

'No. I'm Paddy.'

'Paddy. Not Barbara?'

'No. She's my mom.

The big man seemed to weight this up for a while. His expression went from puzzlement to delight in several stages, as if his mind was wading through mud, moving slowly and carefully every step of the way.

'Not Barbara. You're Paddy,' he eventually agreed.

'That's right. What's your name.'

'Badger. Badger Blackwood.'

'That's a funny name.'

The man's eyes went vacant for a second and his brow creased in concentration. Then, for another moment, the dark eyes focussed again and seemed to gleam with a new sharpness. He shook his head, as if clearing it.

'No. Not Badger. Colin. I'm Colin. That's who I am.'

'You saved me from the bull,' she said. 'That was very brave.'

'Colin Blackwood,' he said, as if she hadn't spoken. The light in his eyes flickered, became dull with doubt, then brightened again. 'And you're not Barbara. You're Paddy, who looks just like Barbara,' he said, and nodded, as if he'd solved a major problem. He grinned widely. 'That big bull nearly got us, eh? But we beat him, didn't we?'

He hugged Paddy closer, confirming their shared victory. Paddy looked up at him.

'I thought it was going to get me. I was scared.'

'You too? Me, I was scared too. I'm always scared.'

He nodded to himself.

'I've been scared all day. My mum hit me. She called me names and used bad words and hit me with a pot and I ran away. There's something wrong with her and I don't know what it is.'

He paused again, as if considering a problem.

'There's something wrong with today,' he finally said when he'd puzzled it out. 'Everything's gone bad. Everybody's different today. It's not nice.'

As the big man slowly put his thoughts into words, Paddy's mind formed a picture of just how bad things really were, and suddenly the picture of Nick sprawled against the wall at Duncan Bennett's cottage sprung to the front of her mind. She jerked and struggled against the big arm that held her close.

'What's wrong Ba...Paddy?' Colin asked, concern flitting across his face.

Paddy squirmed and pushed at his arm.

'It's Nick,' she said. 'They've got guns.'

'Who?'

'I don't know. Men. They chased us and they've got Nick. They want to kill us.'

'Nick?'

'Nick Ryan. He's my mum's friend.'

'Mine too. Nicky's my friend as well. He helps me when I'm in trouble. He's good.'

'We have to find him. Will you help me?'

Collin nodded vigorously and got to his feet. Behind them the bull bellowed and crashed, still attacking the gate. Colin took Paddy's hand and they stepped away from the corner of the pig-pen and moved towards the maze of alleys that served as a corral. He opened a stile gate and let Paddy through and both of them walked across the churned up mud and straw towards the wall at the far side. From there they could quickly get to the old cottage.

They were half-way across the ground when a movement caught their attention and brought them up sharply.

Old Boot, the big boar that ruled the paddock behind the byre had been standing still when the man and the girl came through the gate to cross the path. His bulk merged with the rough pine pickets and he stopped chewing. As the pair squelched in the mud, his little red eyes swivelled to follow. A trail of pink saliva dripped from his mouth. The big animal waited until they were furthest from the nearest fence, then he suddenly whirled around and ran at them, snout wrinkled back and his mouth open to let out a screech like a stone-saw.

This is where I came back into the picture. I had roughly followed Paddy's trail through the trees and up the side of the gully, but I'd come out further along the lane. Behind me, a big bull was madly butting the gate that was cracked and splintered but still holding. I ran to the farm,, because I was sure the bars wouldn't hold much longer, and I didn't want to be caught in the lane with that thing at my back.

Up at the farm, there was no sign of Paddy. I didn't know that she and Colin were huddled in the pen and if I had, then things would have been easier.

I came around the side of the byre and leaned over the sty wall where the big boar stood near the barrier, a mound of meat and muscle, scoffing away in that breathless way pigs have. I could see the jaws working away and hear the snuffling chomp as they closed on the feed. The animal turned its head a little and suddenly my stomach gave a real lurch.

Dangling from those jaws was the shin and foot and black shoe of a small child.

I was stunned with shock. I couldn't draw my eyes away.

Then the boar shook its head and there was a crunching sound as it chewed into bone. The little shoe dangled and then fell off into mud that was scarlet with blood.

That was enough to unfreeze me and I turned and threw up what little was left inside. I sank down on my haunches and then to all fours and retched again, a dry racking spasm that brought out nothing but bile. My eyes felt as if they might pop.

For a minute I was paralysed and I remember moaning aloud and feeling such despair and horror that I wanted to roll over and cry until all this went away.

A child. A child!

Then the thought flashed through my mind that the child must be Paddy.

I heaved again.

Then, for some reason, I recalled that she had not been wearing black shoes.

I eased myself round and turned from the slick of bile, still shuddering from the aftermath of dry heaves and waited to get my breath back, wishing I would wake up from this prolonged nightmare and find me and the rest of the world sane and safe and back to normal.

That was when all hell broke loose on the other side of the wall. There was a high screech, like metal scraped on stone, followed by a shrill scream and instantly I was on my feet again. Paddy was halfway across the muddy corral with a big man dragging her and that huge boar was lurching towards them from the wall where I'd cowered and vomited.

Her face was stretched white. The big man snatched her up by the waist and was off and running for the far side with the grunting boar in pursuit.

Ordinarily I would have run a mile in the opposite direction, but I didn't. I jumped the fence in one go and ran as fast as I could at an angle towards where the man and girl and pig were certain to meet. The boar made a lunge and caught the heel of his shoe and I heard the jaws snap together as the big guy went down. Paddy was thrown about three yards forward into the mud, but she was running when she landed and went for the fence. Old Boot had a grip of that shoe and was shaking its massive head, and big though the man was, he was being tossed about like a rat in a dog's jaws. Then the boar let go and dived for the man's belly and he rolled to avoid those tusks.

I got here just at that moment and without thinking, I sunk my boot as hard as I could right into the big rough scrotum under the tail. If the screech when it attacked was loud, the one it let out when I kicked its balls would have woken the dead. Instead of snapping his jaws shut on Colin's belly, it missed its strike and nose-dived into the mud. Colin rolled to the side and scrambled almost upright. The boar whirled around and had another go at him and he slipped on his backside. I ran in and kicked it again, this time in the ribs, and I nearly broke my toes.

The boar lurched and whirled to face me. Its jaws were wide open and it was creaming in fury and pain.

It came at me, mouth snapping and if those tusks had connected they'd have taken my leg off at the knee. I jumped to the side. The teeth ripped my jeans at the ankle, but missed my skin.

It turned again, quick as a cat, and lunged again.

Then it stopped, just before the jaws snapped shut.

I scrambled backwards out of reach and saw that Colin Blackwood was hauling on its tail, heaving so hard that its hind hooves were lifted right out of the mud and bucking in the air. The weight of the beast must have been enormous, for Colin's feet were dragged forward. But he held on tight and when the boar found he couldn't attack me, he turned round to bite.

The torque swung Colin off his feet and the ensuing chase would have been comical if it had been slapstick. Colin held on grimly and Old Boot spun and snapped at him until both were covered in mud and shit.

I had got to my feet by the time Colin was thrown again. The boar squealed and heaved forward and my feet got stuck in the mud when I tried to move.

The big snout went in and I heard him let out a whoof of breath as it hit and in my mind's eye I saw his blood spattered all over the wall. There was a loud blast in my ears and a spray of red and a shock from just beside me that almost knocked me off my feet.

A gaping hole suddenly appeared in the boar's back, just above the shoulders and a mass of blood and fat splattered on to the wall.

The animal gave a lurch and swung its head round and I saw a raggedy flap that used to be it's ear and cheek.

Another crack rang out and its right flank blew out in an explosion of red. Old Boot's legs slipped from under him and he crashed to the ground. His jaws worked, but the scream was silenced.

I was still three frames behind and stared bemused at the red bulk in the mud, totally confused.

Then a voice from the other side of the wall called out.

'By god, Nick. You'll be all the better for a bath. And there's better ways to get bacon.'

Major MacDonald leaned against the wall with what I can only describe as a grim smile on his face, and a gun that looked as if it could put a hole in an elephant.

The four of us stood for a long moment. Colin hauled himself up, with hardly a scratch to show for his battle. His leather belt had been sliced clean through, but the tusks had missed him. My jeans were tattered from the knee down and both of us were slathered in mud, Paddy peered at us through the slats in the fence.

'Well, don't just stand there,' the Major called out. 'Unless you really like playing around in that stuff.'

I waded through the sludge and clambered over the wall. Paddy ran from the fence right into my arms, almost knocking the wind out of me. Colin followed me over and bumped into both of is, knocking us against the Major and suddenly we were all holding on to each other. I could feel my left knee shaking and Paddy was crying. Colin was hugging her and slapping me on the back and through the mud I could see his face was split with a wide white grin.

'A fine mess you've got yourself into,' Nick, the Major said, looking at my mud-splattered clothes.

'Me and the whole town, by the look of things,' I said.

'What the hell's come over the place? It's like Dante's inferno down there.' He nodded in the direction of Arden. 'And out here's just as bad.'

'What's happening in town?'

'Everybody is running about like headless chickens. And them three old buggers, World War Three, your friend Jimmy calls them. They've barricaded themselves in a house and they're shooting at anybody who gets near. I tell you, this place has just gone mad. Mad.'

'That's some gun,' I said. 'I'm glad you brought it.'

'An Armalite. A wee souvenir from my fun days. With all the trouble in the town, I thought I'd bring it along for company.' He looked over to where the old boar sprawled in a mess of blood. 'Just as well I did, an' all.'

'How did you know we were here?'

'I didn't. I was just coming across the field. I was going to try to get up to the high road, the new by-pass, and get to Kirkland. Somebody has to tell them what's happening here, for there's few in Arden knows which way is up today.

'Even down at the police station. Murdo Morrison and the constable have disappeared and there's a dead man in a cell. Another fellow screamed for mercy as soon as he saw me. Scared out of his mind, the poor soul. He was going on about Murdo killing the other man. The way things have been going on, I'm not sure I don't believe him.'

'Things are crazy all right,' I said. 'And they've been going that way for a while. I'm not sure what we can do about it, except try to stay alive.'

'It's bad,' Paddy said. 'It wants to kill us.'

'What does?' Donald asked.

'I don't know what it is, but I know it's really bad.'

'We have to kill it.'

Donald and I looked around at Colin, who still held Paddy's hand. For a moment I caught a look in his eyes that was different from the Badger Blackwood who drank half-pints in Holly's bar and looked about him with a bewildered expression.

'It tried to kill us before, and now it's trying again,' he said. 'We have to kill it.'

'What do we have to kill?' Donald asked quietly.

I looked at Colin. His eyes lost that brief spark as if a flame had been snuffed out.

'I don't know,' he said, slowly, shaking his head and frowning hard as if trying to grasp something just beyond reach.

'Something bad. I can't remember now.'

Donald clapped him on the shoulder. 'Well, if it comes back to you, you let us know, and we'll see what we can do.'

He looked the three of us up and down. 'I think the best idea is to get up to the new road and take it from there. I don't think we should go into Arden at the moment, and I think we should stay together, since I've got this,' he said, hefting the gun from where it stood against the wall.

'But before that, I think you three should get yourselves cleaned up a bit. You're a sorry sight.'

Neither myself, for Paddy and Colin wanted to hang about the farm, so we went back through the trees to the cottage. Donald led the way, gun at the ready. I told him about Billy Ruine and his team and I reckon the Major was in the mood to shoot first and ask questions later.

We reached the road and walked along in a tight group and were half way to Bennett's cottage when Paddy let out a startled gasp. We all stopped.

Father Gerry sat astride the big black bike that had driven into a tangle of saplings. His front wheel was wedged between two thin trunks, which kept the machine upright.

His hand was still raised up, still holding the crucifix. The carved end had caught on some twigs, and that's all that kept his arm raised.

The back of his leather jacket was torn to shreds and there was a hole the size of a dinner plate deep between his shoulders. His head lolled to the side and it was clear he had died instantly.

'Oh Christ,' I murmured.

I owed the dead priest my life and there was no way I could repay him.

Why he had come roaring down the road like a crusader in a holy war, I had no idea. Maybe he'd been affected by the madness that swept through town, or maybe some higher power had send him to save us. Whatever the reason, his sudden appearance had given me the time to escape. But for him, I'd have had a big gaping hole between my shoulders.

'Come on,' Donald said, turning away. 'There's nothing we can do for the poor bugger now.'

I made to follow, pulling Paddy behind me. We walked a few paces and I turned round. Colin was still standing, gaping.

'Let's go,' I called.

He stayed where he was, slowly nodding. I had to turn back to take his arm.

'I saw him,' Colin said. 'It was him. The black knight. I saw him before.'

That flash of awareness sparked again in his eyes.

'I saw him killing people with his sword and I got scared and ran away. But it's him. The knight from....from before.'

'From before what?'

The brightness faded from his eyes. Colin stood there, now shaking his head.

'I don't remember now. I just don't remember when I was different.'

'Different from what?'

'When I was before.'

Suddenly, with a clarity of vision I had not experienced in days, I realised that Colin's childhood daydream with us by the stream, had been some sort of prescience.

Who would have believed, back then, that a priest would be screeching along a country road in black leathers, astride a powerful motorbike and wielding a gold crucifix like an avenging angel.

Hell, who would believe it today?

No matter what, that long-gone hazy day of summer was linked by some sort of force, by some kind of time-twist, to what was happening her and now.

And, though I didn't know it, the one-and-onlies were almost together again.

26

We got back to the cottage without incident and Donald lit a fire, piling on logs until there was a good-going blaze. We stripped off the muddy clothes and hung them up near the heat to dry them off.

The four of us sat round the table, drinking tea. Donald found some biscuits and we scoffed the lot. He and I did most of the talking, while Paddy listened, cocking her head between us like an umpire. Colin sat to the side, his face creased with concentration and consternation. I didn't know what kind of battle was going on in his head just then, and I was too busy to find out.

I knew he would do what he was told. Paddy had told me, while we were getting cleaned up, about the bull, and I had seen him in action with the killer boar. He may have been deficient in some areas, but he was big and strong, and no matter how scared he was of people, he obviously lacked nothing in sheer guts. Despite the fact that I knew I would have to take care of him most of the time, I was glad he was with us.

The major and I went to look at the jeep. It was dug deep into the hedge and the nearside tyre was flat on its rim. That had been the spare.

'We'll have to walk,' Donald said.

'Driving's not much good anyway,' I said. I explained what had happened on the back roads when we tried to find a way out.

He looked at me sceptically, then shrugged.

'Sounds like some sort of illusion. But I've seen enough in the past day or so to tell me anything's possible. Arden's joined the Book of Revelation as far as I can see. From where I stand the apocalypse is just round the corner. Maybe we can get out on foot.'

'Maybe. But I wouldn't bet on it. And we'd better go careful. It's not just people we have to watch out for. The whole place seems to be against us.'

'What's doing it, I'd like to know.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.'

'Try me. I've seen and heard some things in my time.'

So I went ahead and told him all about Kitty Macbeth and her story of Cu Saeng and the old curse that had brought bad times to Arden since the old days. I told him about Jimmy Allison's history and the periods of disaster, the same stuff Monsignor Cronin had spoken of. I described Andy Gillon under the tree and Edward Henson's mangled hands. I didn't have to remind him about the gannets attacking the man in the boat, but I told him about the bloodied bird hanging from the branches above Barbara's crashed car. And about the killer swarm of bees.

I told him about the night of the big storm when the Cassandra had rolled over and the lifeboat with its full crew had gone missing.

Even as I sold it, I realised what a disturbing catalogue it really was. I had gone well beyond the stage of believing Arden was just suffering a summer of bad luck, but frankly, getting it all off my chest was like drawing in fresh air.

Donald was a good listener. He didn't interrupt for most of my story. At the end of it, I asked what he thought.

'Well, I wouldn't be writing this up in the newspaper,' he said. 'But it's got the beat of me. I've been in too many places to believe in ghosts and goblins, but now, today, I don't know what to think. That day on the shore, I saw nature turned inside out and I know that what happened just doesn't happen. But it did.'

He stopped, thinking for a moment, then turned. 'Tell me. If it is this Cu-Saeng thing, or whatever, what are you planning to do about it?'

I shrugged. 'I have no fucking idea, Donald. Maybe we should try to get out and let the rest of the world know. If the Cu Saeng does exist, and I have to believe that it really does, I don't know how to send it back to wherever it came from.

'Kitty Macbeth was going to tell me more. She says there is a way. Some old prophecy on the stone down at the point. But she didn't get the chance to tell me. I wouldn't even know where to begin without her.'

'Well, we won't be going far on your wheels,' he said.

'If we have to walk, I'll get my stick.' I opened the door and reached in for the old blackthorn cromach, beside it lay the water-can in its canvas holder, I grabbed that as well and we walked back to the cottage.

Colin and Paddy looked at me expectantly when we went into the front room.

'We're going to go now,' I told them, 'and when we do, we have to be very careful.'

Paddy nodded and Colin just stared attentively.

'We'll keep to the fields, close to the hedges and if you see anybody, don't shout out. Paddy, you stay right by me all the time, and Colin, you stick with the major. Just try to be quiet and I'm sure we'll be fine.'

We all went out, me with my stick and the water-bottle slung from its strap, the major with his big gun, and Colin with a frown of concentration. He hadn't said a word yet. It looked like the battle was still going on inside his head.

We followed the wall to where Billy Ruine had shot his brother. The body was still slumped at the side, but there was no sign of the others. One of them, at least, must have survived Father Gerry's attack, and that one had a shotgun. I remember wishing I had something with better firepower than my grandfather's walking stick.

There was an odd silence from the row of houses where Paddy and I had run from Ruine's gang. It was as if they had been evacuated. No faces at the windows, no smoke from chimneys. Not even a dog barked and no birds sang. Yet despite the silence, I could feel eyes watching us from the shadows.

There was a strange tension all around, in the air and in the ground, as if everything was wound up on a tight spring.

We reached the fence on the slope leading down to the belt of trees that lines Strowan's Well. There were no animals, no bulls, cattle or pigs. Rain dripped heavily from tall beeches. There was no wind between the trunks as we headed down the slope towards the stream.

There was another reason for the silence, we discovered when we followed the single track. I had been in these woods a number of times since I came back, and hundreds of times as a youngster. They had always been filled with the steady murmur of running water. On a day like this, after heavy rain, we should have heard the rumble of the stream in spate.

But when we reached the bank, there was no water. Just a muddy trickle of run-off from the valley sides that filled the deeper pools with cloudy water.

Colin stopped abruptly. He stared at the trickle of water and his brow creased.

'Come on, lad,' Donald said. 'Let's keep moving.'

Colin seemed not to have heard. He was concentrating hard.

'What's up Colin? Are you okay?'

'It's...it's wrong,' he said.

'What is?' Donald said, keen to be moving on.

'I don't know,' Colin shook his head, like a man rousing from slumber. 'I can't remember. There's something wrong, but I don't know what I need to know.'

'There's a whole long that's wrong,' Donald said lightly. 'And if we don't get going, they could get a whole lot worse. Come on, let's get across.'

I stepped on to one of the boulders, making sure Paddy was on sure footing beside me. She kept a tight grip of my hand.

I was half-way across. Colin came behind us. He stepped on one mossy stone and slipped, lost his balance and began to topple. Paddy and I reached instinctively and out hands caught Colin's, pulling him upright. As soon as out hands joined together, I felt such a jolt I was almost physically sick. It was as if I'd been turned inside out. It hit me with such force that I almost fell flat.

Suddenly there were things in my head that I knew. In that wrenching moment, something had unlocked in my brain to let a light shine on memories that had stayed in the dark for a long, long time.

I pivoted, still holding their hands, and got a look at Colin's face.

It was white with fear and shock and revulsion. The muscles in his cheeks bunched out and his eyes rolled right up. A strangled moan came out, as if he was choking back a scream and his hair was standing on end. I could tell he was going through that same inside out sensation, only his was worse. Much worse. It looked as if it was tearing him apart.

I looked at Paddy, and her eyes were closed, but there was a look of such serenity on her face that she could have been sleeping. Then her eyes snapped open and for an instant I saw Barbara just as she was on that summer day way back then.

The moment passed and Paddy was herself again, but something had happened which made her more than that.

But I can tell you that in that gut-wrenching jolt, something had happened to Colin Blackwood.

When our hands joined over the trickle of water that was all that was left of Strowan's Well, Colin awoke, and his awakening had all the pain of a bad birth.

His face was drained of blood and his eyes had rolled back down again. He threw back his head and let out such a scream of agony that it just about made my hair stand on end and caused Paddy to slip off the stone.

Colin jerked his hand free and I grabbed Paddy to me. We watched as his jaw gaped with the force of the scream. His fists went up and pressed against his temples as if he was trying to squeeze the hurt out of his head. The hoarse yell echoed through the trees and Colin bent forward, both feet now in the water, slowly crouching until his face almost touched the surface, like a big foetus.

Then all of a sudden his cry stopped dead, as if his windpipe had been cut. I knew it wasn't, because the silence was followed by a huge swoop of breath, and slowly he unwound until he stood upright. He raised his head and looked at both of us and that frown of bewildered concentration was gone.

The blank look that Colin had shown the world for more than twenty years had simply vanished.

And for the first time since that long-gone age when Colin and Barbara and me were the one-and-onlies, I saw the real Colin Blackwood.

His eyes were clear. Whatever doors had been slammed and padlocked inside his brain for two decades had been thrown wide with such a force the pain almost killed him right there on the stepping stones.

I was to discover that there were more doors for him to open, one at a time.

But right there and then, I could see that something strange and wonderful and right had overtaken the village dullard. His eyes told their own story.

Donald broke the spell.

'What in God's name is going on?' he demanded. He looked up and down stream, to see if the ruction had been heard. 'We have to be quiet. What's wrong with the big fellow?'

I motioned him to be quiet and stepped forward and took Colin's hand. I drew him to the far bank, hauling Paddy with us.

We didn't stop until we reached a flat part where the rain couldn't get through the thick leaves and the three of us sat down. Donald hunkered beside us. He knew something had happened, but he didn't know what. Neither did I.

'All right, Colin. You tell us.' He stared at the ground and I could see the two white lines in his hair, from brow to crown. He sat silent for a moment, then stared at me. His eyes were dark and alert, and seemed full of energy that had been stored for years.

'It's happened again,' he said, quietly but succinctly.

'What's happened?' Donald wanted to know.

'Don't you know, Nicky? Don't you remember?'

'Remember what?'

'The time before. Before I was like...before I was different.'

In my mind, a picture was trying, but failing, to get through. I had the sure feeling that, if I could catch the tail of it, I could get at something I should have known, but it slipped out of reach.

'I'm not sure Colin. You'll have to tell me.'

'Something happened. Then. Long ago. Something bad, and we were there. It's coming back to me, but I can't remember yet. It's too soon.'

Colin frowned again, but not like before, when he seemed to be walking in a fog. He was peering into newly awakened memories for an answer.

'It's the stream,' he said, suddenly too loud. Donald looked around with soldier's caution.

'That's what was wrong. There's no water in the stream. Like before! Don't you remember?'

Suddenly the mist parted and I saw Strowan's Well again.

Summer, 1991

Colin crashed after me through the thick bushes that covered the west side of the gully and he almost knocked me into the stream. Barbara stood at the far side, looking into the bushes.

'Hurry,' she hissed. 'Come quickly.'

Behind us we could hear the crackling of branches as the others bulled their way through. Colin grabbed my hand and pulled me across the dry stream bed.

'Stream's gone,' he said, just as if we were out on one of our usual jaunts. Behind us came a harsh shout and I didn't give a damn whether the stream had dried up or gone to hell.

The bushes parted when we were halfway up the far slope. Frazer Beaton came out into the clear.

'They're here,' he bawled. 'Come on. We've got them.'

My heart was hammering. Barbara was panting.

'That way,' Colin said quickly, pointing downstream. 'Follow me.'

He was up and running and we ran with him, scooting along the track, darting between the trunks, while behind us we could hear the yells of the big boys who hunted us.

The valley took a dog leg to the left and when we rounded the bend, running alongside the fence Colin darted suddenly and leapt behind a bush. I was going so fast I almost ran past him, but he snatched at my wrist and spun me round.

'This way. They won't know where we've gone,' he hissed. He scaled the fence and I boosted Barbara over, quickly following. In the sheep pasture, Colin turned to double back, running at a crouch to stay low. We cut across the field and got back into the trees, well up from where we'd started. Behind us the shouting and sounds of pursuit began to fade.

We stopped, straining to hear and ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

'They fell for it,' Colin said. He grinned widely. My heart was still doing boop-de-boop under my tee shirt.

'Why are they doing this?' Barbara asked. She had a muddy smudge on her cheek.

'I don't know any more,' Colin said.

'Nor me,' I said. 'There's something funny going on here.' Colin nodded.

'You bet. They're crazy. I mean, they've always been mean, but they've gone crazy today.'

'I though Beaton was going to kill you with that stick.'

'If you hadn't knocked him down, he would have,' Colin said. He stuck out his hand and we shook.

'But why?' Barbara asked. 'We never did them any harm.'

'I don't know why, but there's something weird happening. Everybody seems different.'

'Those loonies are, for sure.'

'Well, they've gone now.'

'What if they come back?'

Colin laughed. 'They're too stupid. They'll be across the road by now.' He paused, thinking. 'Remember those cows yesterday? They broke down the fence and went charging along the road. They were chasing people. I've never seen that before.'

'And Mrs Henson.' Barbara said.

'And those two kids that drowned down at the bay. And the fire in the church. Definitely there's something funny going on.'

'Who's laughing?' I said, and Colin actually did laugh.

'What do we do now,' Barbara wanted to know. Colin pointed upstream.

'We go that way,' he said. 'As far away from those nutters. And I don't fancy going back to town again. It's got a bad feeling.'

'I felt it too. My dad said I had to stay inside,' Barbara said. 'If he finds out I'm not there, he'll be mad.'

'So will my mum,' Colin admitted.

'And mine.'

'They're all afraid,' Colin said. 'I wonder why.'

None of us knew. We started moving together, following the line of trees.

'Did you see the stream?' Colin asked.

'You nearly knocked me into it.'

'Well you wouldn't have made much of a splash. There's no water.'

'I didn't notice,' Barbara said.

'Always got your nose in the air,' Colin shot back, giving me a wink. Barbara made a face.

'Probably dried up,' I ventured. 'It hasn't rained in ages.'

'But it's never been like that before.'

'Never been this hot before.'

And it was hot. The summer had been dragging along in a sweltering heat-wave. Even now, sweat was trickling down my back.

We walked on, in single file, me taking up the rear. Beyond the line of trees, the valley gave on to an undulating moorland pasture dotted here and there by clumps of gorse. We pushed through and down the slope towards the valley floor.

Colin had been right. The stream was dry. There were a few patches of slick water that hatched clouds of midges and clegs when we passed.

'Must be blocked upstream,' Colin suggested. 'Let's have a look.'

No matter how my backside would suffer when I got home, the prospect of heading downstream and meeting up with Frazer Beaton and the bigger boys, with their sticks and stones and that funny look in their eyes was not on my agenda just then.

'Why not?' We both turned to Barbara. She shrugged, so we just continued on up.

Half a mile further, we found the block, a natural dam in the narrow valley. A big tree had fallen over and caused a landslip that formed a natural dam.

Colin scrambled up the mound of stone and shale.

'Hey, look at this,' he shouted down. We clambered up and stood shoulder to shoulder on the lip.

'Wow!' Strowan's Well had backed up as far as the eye could see, forming a meandering lake. The water looked cool and clear, deep and inviting. Because of the long, hot summer, there hadn't been enough of a flow to breach the natural barrier, but even as we stood there, a slight tremor under our feet showed it would just be a matter of time.

'Hey, I know what,' Colin said. 'Let's bust it.'

'It's worth a try,' I said. 'All the fish are going to die unless they get water.'

'How can we do it?' Barbara asked.

Colin tapped the big trunk. 'If we can do this, the water will do the rest.'

'It's too heavy.'

'We'll just have to work at it.'

He climbed on the trunk and began to jump up and down while Barbara and I levered away with a thick branch. After twenty minutes, there was a lurch that almost flicked Colin off onto the rocks below.

Our little effort just completed what the pressure of the water had been doing. It would have taken a few more days, maybe a week, for the water to break through. We just speeded things up a bit, and as turned out, this was the turning point that would change our young lives forever. Nothing was ever going to be the same again, and we wouldn't realise that for another twenty years.

The lurch was followed by a grinding rumble. Colin yelped and leapt off the trunk and down the scree to where we stood, holding the branch that was jammed under the tree and was now quivering violently in our hands.

'She's going to go,' Colin cried, triumphant. 'She's really going to blow!'

Just as he said that, a jet of water shot out from near the base, like a high pressure hose. Then came another and another, until the fine spray made a dazzling display of little rainbows in the afternoon sun.

There was another rumble and the whole wall seemed to shift, bowing out towards us.

'Get out of here,' I bawled, grabbing Barbara's hand and shoving Colin up the slope. If we hadn't moved then, that would have been the end of the story, before it even started. We made about thirty feet, scrambling up that slope like squirrels, while behind us a truly thunderous roar ripped up and down the valley.

We all turned and watched as the dam wall split wide open with a thunder that almost shook us back down the slope and a great curve of white water exploded out, snatching up the oak tree like a matchstick and hurling it on the crest of its wave as it tore its way down the valley.

It was the most amazing sight I had ever seen.

From our vantage point, we had a perfect view of the bow-wave that burst out and bored down the defile, lashing against the bends and sending white clouds of spume high above the froth. The earth trembled and the juddering was multiplied by rocks that were picked up and smashed against the banks.

'Kee-rist!' Colin's voice was filled with wonder. 'Did you ever see anything like that, ever?' I shook my head, unable to draw my eyes away from the magnificent violence.

'We did it!' he said. 'We flamin' well did it. We bust the flippin' dam.'

From downstream the roar of the wave-front came echoing back as the waters whipped the trees and saplings.

Below us, the damn was gone. At the first bend, the turf that grew above the bank had been scoured away.

'I hope it catches those crazy nutters down there. I hope they followed us and get smacked right in the face by that lot. I hope it drowns the lot of them, because they're a bunch of crazy bastards!'

Barbara shot him a look of disapproval, although she probably agreed with the sentiment.

'Well, that's what they are,' Colin said. 'They would have killed us if they got the chance. I hope they got what they deserve.'

I didn't say it aloud, but I hoped they did too.

It couldn't have taken more than ten spectacular minutes for the water to subside and the crazy flow to slacken.

By that time, Strowan's Well was flowing again, forking at the neck of Ardmhor peninsula and down into the firth.

Although I didn't know it at the time, the wall of water was rebuilt.

What happened next was instantaneous and ferocious.

Barbara saw it first.

A great black cloud was roiling upwards. It seemed to originate from Ardmhor Rock itself, as if something wild and terrible was overheating the air down there.

In seconds, the cloud swept high and dark above us, flickering inside with caged lightning that sparked and flared and forked down to the ground with vast crashes of thunder.

We raced along the valley lip as if our lives depended on it, with lightning spearing down all around, causing the earth to shiver.

It felt as though something blind and terribly angry was stabbing for us in the dark.

Just as we reached the trees, the hailstones started, first marble-sized, then pebbles of ice that smacked down on our heads like thrown stones.

Colin, Barbara and I skitted through the trees, scared witless and stunned by the hail, until we got to the cleft that formed the entrance to our gang-hut.

We threw ourselves inside and sat in the gloom, shivering with cold and fright, waiting for the storm to be over.

27

Donald listened in silence as I told him a childhood story that had been stored, wrapped and unopened until now. I described the chase and then the wonder of breaching the dam and then how the whole world seemed to turn against us.

'That was the start of it,' I said.

'And what happened next?'

'We stayed in the gang hut a while and then we followed the stream again. We were made to follow the stream.'

I was about to go on when I suddenly recalled what Kitty Macbeth had told me down at the point. It seemed like a long time ago, but I remembered her walls.

A wall of water, wall of stone, a wall of wood and a wall of bone.

I got to my feet.

'That's it. It's the stream. This is Strowan's well and it's gone dry like before. The stream is one of the walls. We have to get the water flowing again. The stream keeps the thing inside Ardmhor.'

Donald looked at me as if maybe I'd gone crazy, but he said nothing. He just raised his eyebrows and waited for me to go on.

'I know it's hard to understand, but it's important. The last time Arden had a bad summer was when the stream was blocked and they did the first dig down at the rock. At least two of the barriers were gone, the walls that were put in place to stop it, the Cu Saeng, from getting out. That's what Kitty means, and I know now she was right. The last time, we burst the dam and the stream filled again.'

'And then what did you do?'

'I don't know. We got caught in a landslide and we were all hurt. Me, Colin and Barbara. It'll come back to me, I'm sure.'

We have to get the stream flowing,' Colin said, in a clear voice. 'If we don't, we can't do anything.'

Paddy was holding his hand and staring up at his face. Colin looked straight at me, and already I saw he had changed. It was as if, all of a sudden, he'd gone from child to man, missing out all the bits in between. His eyes flashed bright. I still wasn't certain what had happened, and I didn't have time to find out. In any case, there was no doubt in my mind that he was right.

'Will you help us, Donald?'

'Help you do what?'

'Somewhere up there,', I said, pointing north, 'the stream's blocked. We have to get it to flow again down to Ardmhor.'

'You really believe that's going to help?'

'I do. It will help. At least I think it will.'

Donald sat and mulled it over for a minute, then he smiled.

'I suppose it can't do any harm,' he said. 'The whole place has turned into a horror film overnight. I still think the best idea is to get the hell out of here and keep on walking. I've been in some hairy places in my time, but I have to tell you, laddie, this is beginning to give me the shivers. The good Lord seems to have abandoned Arden.'

He hauled to his feet, using the gun-butt for leverage. Short and stocky he looked like the veteran fighting man I knew him to be.

'Right, let's be having you. We'll find out what's blocking your stream and we'll see what we can do about it. I have to say, that if it makes a blind bit of difference, I'll eat my rifle.'

He slung the gun over his shoulder and stepped out along the track. Colin gave me a wide smile that for a moment cleared all the worry from his face, and we followed the major.

It took us little more that half an hour to get past the place where we'd found the first dam, but there was no blockage there and the stream was barely a trickle. A quarter of a mile beyond that, we found what we were looking for when we reached the by-pass road. On the hardcore stone ramp they'd built up to take the four lanes, a concrete pipe jutted out into the cleft where the stream should have flowed. When we scaled the slope and crossed the flat, we discovered what had happened. The big digger, bent and buckled, had been hauled up. But down below, a mound of rock and rubble was piled against the bank where the pipe should have let the water drain under the road. Beyond the rocks, a back up of water formed a narrow lake.

'Another dam,' Colin said. 'I knew it.'

'How are we going to clear it?' I asked. Donald pointed along the road to where another backhoe sat on its tracks.

'The way they intend to,' he said.

He climbed up into the cab.

'I've driven most things,' he said. 'I reckon I can handle this .'

We stood back and watched him fiddle with the controls and the machine chugged into life in a cloud of blue exhaust. We crossed to the far side and Donald wheeled the digger around and trundled it to the lip. The bucket arm swung the wrong way, but he corrected and brought it back, making a few practice moves. Then he reached the scoop down and it came up with a big scoop of rock and dirt. He dumped the rubble on the middle of the new surface. He wasn't going for neatness points.

The major took less than half an hour to scrape up enough to clear a way to the pipe, and then the scoop began to come up dripping water. Donald dug it down into the cavity, hitting the base hard, and sending tremors under our feet. The vibrations must have dislodged the blockage inside the pipe.

Colin ran to the far side and looked over. There was another rumble under us and then a wad of mud and rock shot out. It wasn't quite as magnificent as that day when we breached the dam, but Strowan's Well was flowing again.

Colin yelled and Paddy jumped up and down as the bore forced its way down the dry gully . Behind us, the big engine stuttered to a stop and Donald climbed out onto the caterpillar tracks.

'Success?'

I raised a thumb and he grinned.

'That's that, then. You've got your stream back and I hope it does what you say, though I've my doubts. I think now that we're here, we should just follow this road along to Kirkland. It's a fair hike, but we could be there in an hour or so.'

'No!' Colin butted in. 'We have to go back.'

'What now?' Donald demanded. 'We've just come from down there. It's a madhouse.'

'But we have to go back. We have to do it right this time.' Colin's face was a picture of fear and doubt, but the overlying expression was resigned determination.

'There's murder and mayhem down there, son You'll be risking your life.'

'But it's not finished yet. We have to finish now.'

Donald turned to me, exasperated. 'Can you not talk some sense into him?'

'I would if I could. But he is talking sense. We have to go back.'

'That's just plain stupidity,' he retorted. 'Can't you see that?'

'I know how it seems, but if we don't go down and face it, it'll never go away. It will always come back. This is our only chance.'

Donald threw his hands up. I knew that if he thought he could order us to about turn and quick march along the road to Kirkland, he'd have done just that.

'You've got more guts than sense, the pair of you,' he said, through his teeth. 'But what about the wee girl?'

'I have to go too,' Paddy piped up. My heart sank.

'Now that's just not on, at all,' Donald said. His voice was rising now. 'That's plain stupid and criminal too. You can't take a child back to that,' he said, pointing down the slope to where Arden showed its rooftops and the little steeple.

'You don't understand, Donald. It has to be now. Will you help us?'

'You are serious, I take it?'

I nodded, scanning his face. He was angry and he was worried. He turned his back and folded his arms, feet planted and the gun across his shoulders. A soldier.

'Will you help us again? Please?'

He breathed out and didn't move for a minute or so, then he slowly turned.

'I don't have much choice, do I? I still think you're wrong, but I can see you're determined. Somebody has to look after the wee one.'

'Thanks,' I said, very sincerely.

'Don't thank me. Just hope to god that when we get down there we can stay out of trouble. I hope you know what you're doing, for I surely don't.'

'I'll just have to play it by ear,' I confessed, 'because I can't remember what I'm supposed to do. Kitty said we stopped it last time, and I believe her. Maybe I can do it again. It's as simple as that. If there was any other way, I'd be right on the road alongside you, but I can only go on what I believe.'

Donald stood and chewed that over, then he lifted his eyes up from the track-scarred road.

'All right. I'll come with you. You believe this, and I know Arden's gone bad for sure. I don't know what to believe, but you and the lad here seem the only ones with half a clue.'

He snorted a laugh. 'Not that I'd call your crazy story much of a clue, mind you. But if you can bring some normality back to this place, then I'm with you.'

I was about to reply, when Paddy shouted out. Her voice pierced the dull roar of the water below.

'Look Nick. Over there.' She was pointing south, down towards the estuary and Ardmhor Rock. We looked down and saw a swirl of mist, thick and grey, rolling out from the trees at the base of the rock, while above it, the already grey sky was beginning to darken into a thunderhead.

'Ever had that feeling of déja;-vu?' I asked Donald.

'All the time,' he said. 'I'm an island man.'

'That's what happened the last time.'

'It's like a volcano. I've never seen the like.'

'I have, and it's not good. We have to move and fast. It's going to get bad.'

'You mean that's what happened the last time?'

'That was just the start of it.'

Above the black rock, cloud rolled thick, sparking with static electricity, piling up into the sky.

'So what now?'

'Shelter. And quick. Remember the last time Colin?' he nodded, eyes fixed on the rising cloud and the spreading mist that was reaching out over the flat farmland towards Arden.

'It's going to happen again. We need to get into the trees again. And you know where we have to go, don't you?'

'Yes,' he said. His face was pale.

'Okay. Let's go.'

I took Paddy's hand and started downhill. We ran as fast as we could. The woods were barely a quarter of a mile away when the wind struck, a shrieking gust that almost swept Paddy off her feet. The rising cloud blotted out the sky and the gale lashed us with pine-needles and twigs that it plucked from the branches. Donald pointed into the valley where Strowan's Well was now in spate.

'Down there. Out of the wind.'

'Wait until the lightning,' I thought, but still I reached to pull Colin's arm and tug him down with us.

The lightning was even worse than that first time. The storm overhead sent down bolts of fury into the narrow ravine, sending cascades of shale sliding into the fast water. Hard light flickered in a stroboscopic firestorm that seared the air all around us. We didn't stop, not for the thunder or the lightning, nor the rain nor the hail that followed.

We made it, almost exhausted, to the trees, but the fury didn't abate. Instead the wind rose to a scream that rattled the tall first against each other and brought great branches crashing down all round as we dodged between the trunks.

I jostled Paddy along. The trees groaned and creaked and one of the giants gave way and came toppling down. Even as I ran, I felt a fury rising inside me that this so-called Cu Saeng, this alleged ravener that had invaded and pervaded Arden, should be trying to destroy my town and us along with it.

Having said that, I was also scared for us all. And I was running blind. The doors in my memory hadn't opened wide enough to tell me what I should do next. Like having a memory you just can't quite grasp. I knew the knowledge was in me, and not been knocked out in the concussion of rocks back then. I just couldn't get at it.

There wasn't much left of the gang-hut when we got to the big rock. The years had rotted the logs, but there was enough of a hollow for us all to squeeze inside and shelter from the worst. Donald spent ten minutes gathering thick boughs which he expertly fitted up as a roof and a wall,

'What now,' he asked.

'Ardmhor,' I said.

He nodded. 'I think I believe you now. I've never seen anything like that before. But I'll tell you one thing. If there's something down there that can cause all this, then I don't give tuppence for our chances.'

I was forced to smile at this. 'Me neither, but I have to give it a try.'

'What's your plan then?'

'I don't know yet. I'm trying to remember. We did something before.'

'Scared?'

'Shitting myself,' I whispered back, so Paddy wouldn't hear. 'But we can beat this bastard. I'm going to try to send him back to where he belongs.'

'And you'll not be writing this up in your newspaper either,' he said.

'But I'll watch you eat that gun. That's for sure,' I said, and he chuckled softly in the gloom.

It was late afternoon when we moved out of the bivouac and followed the stream down to the main road. Overhead, the wind howled and the lightning flickered and cracked.

Donald was for going up onto the road and across to the Milligs side. But while I had a lot of faith in his gun and his ability to use it, I didn't want to be caught by surprise by Billy Ruine of any of his team. We went through the old tunnel under the road, down into a long dark tube that didn't offer much in the way of light at the end of it.

Colin's breathing started to catch when we entered the dark. He stopped.

'What's up?'

'There was something..'

'Where?'

'Here. The time before. Something bad.'

I couldn't recall that. 'What was it?'

'I can't remember. It tried to get us.'

A memory tried to surface. Dark shapes twisted in the tunnel and an eerie scratching noise grew louder. But I wasn't hearing anything. It was all in my mind.

I waded to take the lead, keeping Paddy behind me.

And up through the darkness came a memory of Colin and Barbara and I wading through the nightmare that the thing sprung on us. Ghosts of the past came swirling back and turned their eyes towards me.

I was in the lead, with my spear in my hand that I'd taken from the gang-hut. Colin was behind Barbara with his ash bow and his quiver of arrows as we stepped out of the half light and into the shadows under the road.

Summer 1991.

There should have been an arch of grey at the far end, on the other side of the road, but the tunnel was pitch black.

'We should go over the road,' Colin said and his voice echoed off the damp walls. I stopped to peer ahead, but I could see nothing at all.

Then the hairs on my neck started prickling as a vibration came up the tunnel.

'What was that?' I asked. The tunnel echoed back: That...that...that.

The faint noise came back louder.

'I heard it,' Barbara said. 'There's something here.'

The sound became a low moan that gained in strength, rising in pitch as it did to a wail, like a hurt animal and then a screech that crackled in our ears before it broke off into an eerie silence.

'I think we should go back,' Colin said.

I took two steps backwards and turned to face the mouth of the tunnel. I froze and my mouth went as dry as a bone.

There was no light there either. I heard the others gasp at the same time, and suddenly I wanted them both right next to me. I took a step forward until I could touch them.

'Oh Jeez, Nick,' Colin whispered. 'We're stuck.'

'Where's the....?'

I didn't get a chance to complete the question. Behind me in the depths came a gurgling roar, as if something with a vast mouth had opened it and vented its hunger. A spell like the slaughterhouse dump came blasting up the tunnel, thick enough to make me need to retch. Barbara screamed. I was too scared to scream.

'Oh jeeez,' Colin moaned. 'I want out of here.'

The roar broke off like a snap that sounded like two great jaws shutting, and there was a snuffling sound and then, oh, worst of all, came the sucking, splashing sound that something big and horrible would make as it came up that tunnel towards us.

I whirled in the dark, holding my out spear in front of me. Something made me take a step forward. My pulse pounded in my temples, but I took another step. At the end of the rowan staff, I had lashed on the polished stone point, the way I had seen it in my dream. Even in the dark, I could sense the gleam of it, hard and sharp.

The mind-freezing roar came again, filling the whole tunnel with the rancid blast and then I realised we were not in total darkness any more.

Up ahead there was a dim glimmer of greenish light that slowly resolved into two wide spaced pale circles.

Eyes. Monster eyes. This was it, coming to get us and tear us to pieces and there was no way out. I thought of my mother and father and my granddad in that brief moment when I knew it was all over for me, a boy in wet jeans in a dirty stream in the middle of the worst nightmare.

Something inside me just snapped.

I remember letting out a screech that seemed so come up from my baseball boots and out of my mouth and the whole world seemed to flip. Before I knew what I was doing, I was running towards those pale eyes and the mouth that must be between them. I skittered down the stream, holding the spear like a bayonet, while behind me Barbara was screaming and Colin bawling at me to come back.

I aimed the stone point at the darkness between those eyes.

Everything was in slow motion, as if I was running through treacle, and every atom of my being waited for the snap and crunch that I was certain would come, when suddenly my feet came out of the morass and I tumbled out into the light at the end of the tunnel;.

Right out into the daylight on the Milligs side of the main road.

And there was no monster. Nothing but the brown water of the stream.

Behind me Barbara cried out and I turned to look back. There was a lighter shadow that seemed to be far back from the stone rim, moving slowly.

Then, as if she too was in slow motion, Barbara came through the darkness, with Colin right behind her.

She jerked back in the light and fell on her backside in the water, eyes blinking.

She just sat and stared, bemused, as the muddy water slicked around her. Then she burst into tears, launched herself to her feet and threw herself at me.

'Oh Nicky!' She yelled it right in my ear, as I stumbled back under the impact and almost ended up sitting in the stream 'I thought you were... Oh, I thought...'

'Hey, I'm all right. There was nothing there.' I gestured around. 'Look, there's no monster.'

I looked back into the tunnel, and the stark blackness was still there. No light entered and none came out.

'Let's get away from here. This place gives me the creeps.'

'Me too,' Colin said, with feeling.

'Where to?' Babs asked and Colin said anywhere but back up that tunnel.

'We can head down and cut behind the huts and along to the farm,' Barbara said.

'Not Henson's farm,' Colin said quickly. 'Not after what happened to old man Henson.'

'What was that?' she asked.

'I told you. He got his hands cut off. That's just one of the crazy things I was telling you about. I'm not going near there.'

Colin started to suggest something else, when I heard a noise behind us. I thought the thing in the tunnel was coming out, but I was wrong. Up on the parapet of the bridge, a line of faces were looking over.

Charlie Ballantine, Frazer Beaton and the other big boys were lined up there.

Big Charlie, who was three years older than us, started laughing, and a couple of the others, really old guys, maybe sixteen or more, from the far end of Milligs, joined in. There was something about the way they laughed that sent shivers though me.

We stood in the middle of the stream, staring up in alarm.

One of the big guys picked up a stone and heaved it at us. It whizzed past Barbara's head and crashed into the brambles on the bank.

Another prised a stone off the wall and used both hands to hurl it down. It was too heavy to reach us, though it hit the water with a splash that drenched us. We cowered back.

'They've all gone loony,' Colin muttered.

He was right. Up there, they were laughing gleefully. One of them shouted down: 'What the fuck are you doing, standing in the water? Come up here and take what's coming to you.'

'Aye, right,' Colin shouted back.

'Just get up here. I'm not going wait all day.'

'No chance,' Colin whispered. 'We have to get out of here.'

'Yes,' Barbara agreed.

'It'll be worse if we have to come down,' the guy yelled.

'Stick it up your arse, pig face.' Colin could be poetic when he chose.

The big guy's mouth dropped open. Suddenly I wished Colin had buttoned it.

'You'll be sorry you ever opened your mouth. You better get up here or I'll cave your fuckin' head in.'

As he said it, he picked up a thick stick.

'Do it Scobie,' one of the others bawled. 'Go and splatter the cunt's brains out.'

Colin thumped me on the shoulder.

'Let's move, Nicky. Run like all hell.'

The three of us turned and ran, as he said, like all hell, splashing through the shallows.

Behind us came the raucous sounds of pursuit.

28

All that came back to me in the dream-like déja; -vu feeling as we waded unto the tunnel.

We were only a few yards under the arch when the light went out at the far end, as if a door had slammed shut. Suddenly it was pitch dark again. I held the blackthorn stick up and tapped my way along, trying not to slip, and holding Paddy's arm.

'You might hear funny noises,' I told her, 'but they won't be real. Don't worry.'

'I won't worry. Not with you all here with me.' Her voice echoed down into the shadows. I knew now that the thing Kitty Macbeth had spoken of had the power to make us see things that don't exist. Hell, the tunnel was forty yards at the most, there should have been enough light to read by, but it was dark as night and we were heading down to face whatever had the power to change all that.

I was scared. Not with the panicky fear I'd had as a kid. It was more like the panicky dread you get as an adult. To tell the truth, there's not much to choose between them.

Up ahead, there was a noise, like a low moan. I squeezed Paddy's arm and over my shoulder I told Colin not to worry.

'It's just trying to scare us,' he said. 'I remember.'

'Stay cool and we'll make it through.'

I was beginning to wish we'd crossed the road, shotguns or no. It was stupid to come this way and get ourselves all freaked again.

The low moan subsided into that rumbling gurgle, then faded to silence. Even the sound of the water was muted. Then came another sound that was more of a slithering sensation that sent the hairs on my neck standing to attention again. I could tell myself that it was all in my head, and I'd done this before, but it wasn't much help. The slithering came louder, but I kept going until something soft and sticky drew across my mouth, It tugged slightly, then gave. A cobweb, I realised, almost laughing with relief. Then another one draped over me and another and then a tangle of them, until I was clawing through a sticky mess that seemed to fill the entire space.

The slithering was closer, as if something was sliding across the stones underfoot. I held my stick out and something jarred against it, knocking it to the left, then to the right. Something had moved.

Instinctively I jerked my hand back and I felt an added weight. I hit the walking stick down and heard a muffled splash, as if through layers of gauze. The weight seemed to be gone.

Then something cold touched my hand.

Something had crawled up the stick.

A wave of revulsion jolted through me. I jerked my hand back and snapped it down again and whatever it was flipped off into the water. I took two steps and felt something crunch under my boot, It crunched with a pop. I didn't even want to imagine what it was.

I took another step and then Paddy let out a shriek.

'Get it off me. Oh, get it off.'

O pulled her close. She writhed against me and beat her arms about. Something was on her neck and I swear it felt like a big wet spider, hard, but yielding, all its legs moving. Without thinking I just grabbed at it and squeezed hard. I felt stuff spurt over my hand. Then something landed on my shoulder, behind me I heard gasps from the others and Paddy screeched again.

That was it for me.

Cu Saeng, or whatever it's name was in our heads and it might have all been just hallucination, but I'd had enough.

'Come on!' I bawled. 'Run for it.'

I just held Paddy's arm - God, that arm must have been bruised by now - and lashed out savagely at the cobwebs and whatever lurked in them. I blasted my way through that tunnel, hitting and swinging like a madman. I seemed to run a long way through the dark and then I was in open air again, dragging Paddy behind into the light.

I skidded to a halt and Paddy stopped yelling. I pulled her down beside me, keeping an arm round her shoulder. Paddy clasped her arms around my hip and sobbed. Behind us, Colin and the major ran out.

If Donald had been an unbeliever before, he sure had got converted in that forty yards of tunnel. He was an old soldier and he'd seen and done plenty, but his face told me he had never gone through anything like that forty yard, nightmare stretch. Colin's face was pure white, but he had become a believer, become whatever he should have been all these years, when the three of us had joined hands on the dry steam bed.

'Dear Jesus almighty,' Donald said, with real fervour. 'What on earth was...?'

He stopped in mid sentence. 'No. Don't tell me. That was nothing on God's earth.'

'Now you're getting the picture,' I said.

'That's what you were talking about,' he said he turned to look back at the black tunnel. No light came out. It was a black hole that sucked everything into its dark.

'I'm sure I didn't imagine that. Those things were...' he glanced at Paddy and stopped.

'You're right,' he started off again. 'That was wrong. I don't know what it is, but it's evil. Whatever can do that, it has got to be stopped.'

'Glad you've come round,' I said, a bit drily. 'It'll save me having to explain the facts of life every ten minutes.'

'You just tell me what to do, laddie, and I'll be about it. I'm not too old to be taking orders, you know.'

Donald was now convinced. It had taken me weeks of pussy-footing around to get to that stage.

I looked up at the parapet, expecting to see a row of faces leering down, but there was no-one there. We waded out of the stream and came to a sheltered spot in the lee of some bushes. We hunkered down. I was worried about what all this was doing to Paddy. Having said that, my main concern was to keep her alive and stay alive and do something about this mess.

What I needed to do was still unclear, a memory that refused to come into focus.

Donald said he could use a smoke. He'd dropped his pipe between McFall's farm and here. I reached into my pocket and fumbled for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I just hauled everything from the big patch pocket and tumbled it onto the grass.

Colin reached past me and picked up the smooth spear point stone.

'You found it,' he said excitedly. 'You've got the stone. That's what we had. That's what we need now.'

Donald looked at him, then down at the sharp obsidian point.

'An old spear head?

I nodded. Colin turned it over in his hand, studying it, and I could see he was remembering.

The major and I lit up, and though I've long given them up now, I can still taste that one.

'I need a spear,' Colin said. 'Can you make one, Nicky? Make me a spear with the stone ? I've forgotten how to tie it on.'

'Sure, if you think it'll help.'

'We had one last time. We might need it again where we have to go.'

'And where would that be?' Donald asked.

'Over there!' Colin pointed through the bushes towards the black hump of Ardmhor Rock that sat in a sea of grey mist. Above it, a menacing black cloud hung like a fist. Above us, the sky was dark and threatening, but not so ominous as the roiling mass over Ardmhor.

'That's where it is. We saw it before, didn't we? But it hurt us. It hurt me. And now we have to hurt it back.'

Colin said this with a look of bleak determination on his face that almost won the battle with the fear. He was scared all right, and with very good reason, but he was planning to face his fear and face the thing that had sent him to limbo for the past twenty years.

When he said that, I could see the ten-year-old Colin Blackwood, the fiery, adventurous one-and-only, and a wave of sadness washed through me at the thought of what he had missed.

And yes, if we had to go to Ardmhor to get his revenge, then I was going with him.

Scared? Sure, but I had got beyond that. I reckon I was in such a state of numbed horror that I'd come out the other side and become rational again. I just wished the mist of memory would blow clear and prepare me for what was to come next.

Donald and I used our knives to cut a good, straight rowan sapling as a shaft. I made a cleft in the top and slotted the stone into it and wedged it tight. Between us, we had enough twine to lash it securely until it looked just like a stone-age weapon. I knew how to do that. I had seen it before in a dream that had been sent to me that sunny day by the side of Strowan's Well.

'Shouldn't you have a bow and arrow?' I asked. Colin shook his head. He touched the blackthorn walking stick.

'You take that. It's the right stuff.'

'What does that mean?'

'I don't know. The right wood, I think.'

'I hope so.'

Paddy said she was thirsty and I was about to suggest she took a drink from the stream, but it was still coloured with spate silt. Then I remembered the bottle and I unscrewed the top and let her have a couple of big swallows.

'Oooh,' she said, smacking her lips. 'That's so good.' Colin took a mouthful, then me. As soon as I drank, I felt better. It was as if the water had gone down and cleansed me, burning out the numbness. For an instant, I saw everything in bright clarity.

Even Colin managed a small smile. 'It is good,' he said. 'We should save some for later. I know what we have to do, but we have to watch. It's waiting for us. It wants us to go there, but it's afraid of us too. From the last time.'

'What makes you think that?'

'I don't know. It just is. It's getting clearer. I can't see it all yet, but I can feel it. I can feel him.'

'Cu Saeng?'

I don't know it's name. It doesn't have a name. But he's old and he's bad inside. All bad. He wants to kill us, but I'm going to kill him, because he stole me.'

'That he did,' I said under my breath, but Colin continued.

'He's watching us, but he knows we're strong. The water has kept him back now that we fixed it and he is very angry. He wanted out, but now he's stuck inside again and he's really mad.'

Colin stopped and seemed to converse with himself, then snapped out of it.

'We have to be brave and very careful. We have to be ready for him.'

Donald coughed quietly.

'I think we should be moving on, while we've still got the light.'

'You're right,' I said. 'How are you doing, Paddy?'

'I'm all right now.'

'Do you know where we're going?'

'Yes,' she said resignedly, and pointed towards the rock. 'We're going there.'

'Just keep a hold of me and stay close. I'll be looking after you.'

'I know,' she said, and looked up at me with a small smile. I really hated the idea of taking her with us, but there was no way to avoid it. Nowhere was safe now in Arden and no matter what we had to face, I wanted her close by so I could protect her.

Colin used the stout spear to get to his feet, and as he did so, I got another image of him. His four-day stubble was a black matt and his dark eyes gleamed in the weak light. If he'd put on skins and let his hair grow long, he would have been the image of that long ago dream hunter who had followed the elk to the water.

This time, Colin led the way, with the major and his Armalite as rearguard.

We headed towards the mist.

We were halfway to Swanson's farm when a shout halted us in our tracks. The major whirled just as a shotgun blast ripped the air, and sent duck-shot tearing into the brambles on the edge of the path.

Billy Ruine looked even more crazy than before. There was blood all over his face, and there was something really odd about one of the other guys with him. He only had one eye, and one side of his head seemed to have been pulped. How the man was conscious, never mind walking, I couldn't imagine, but he was there with the rest of them, a dozen or maybe fifteen others, armed with shotguns and a whole array of blunt and sharp weapons. It was like a peasant uprising from the old days.

One big man wielded a garden fork, for god's sake, and he was shambling along with the rest of them, staring straight ahead with a blank look that was more frightening than if it had been fury.

'Move,' Donald shouted. 'Quick!'

We moved quickly, in the direction we'd been heading. There was another blast that hit the hedge again. The shooter was no expert. I hustled Paddy along the path and risked a glance back. Donald was down on one knee with the stock of the gun ticked tight to his shoulder.

There was a sharp crack, not as loud as the shotgun, and an immediate cry from behind us. Wee reached the stile and I lifted Paddy over. Colin followed and I looked back again.

The major was on his feet and running.

'Keep moving,' he ordered. 'Fast as you can.'

He caught up with us on the other side and I got a whiff of cordite from the barrel.

'Too exposed there,' he said. 'I need somewhere I can hold them off. I don't want to shoot them all.'

'Why not?'

'Just the ones with guns,' he said. 'But there's too many. They could outflank me in the open.'

We got behind Swanson's farm and over the gate to the path that led to Ardmhor. The farmyard was deserted, which was good. I didn't want any more opposition.

About a hundred yards down the track, with the crazy cries of pursuit behind us, we came to the narrow space between the trees where I'd had the fright with the moving bramble vines on the night of the storm. Donald rapped me on the shoulder.

Colin stopped when I did.

'This will do,' Donald said. 'I can hold them off from here.'

'Won't they get around you?'

The old soldier shook his head. 'No. I can see right and left. If they come at the side, it'll be through all that undergrowth. I'll hear them. You go on and I'll catch up later. Get moving now.'

I reached and gripped his arm. I would have preferred that he came with us, but I knew he would have to hold the others off. He knew he would have to stay and make a stand, and Colin and I had to get to the rock and whatever awaited us there.

We didn't say anything. Donald and I just looked at each other, then he said: 'Go on, laddie. Just watch out for those two.'

I let go of his arm and was about to move along, when Paddy stopped me. She reached up to Donald and he bent down, letting her wrap his arms around his neck to give him a warm, quick hug. He ruffled her hair, the way I often did.

'You look after both of them, bonny lass. Now be off with you. Scat!'

'Come on Nicky,' Colin said. We followed him down the path, leaving the major behind. Within fifty yards, the grey mist swirled around us like thick smoke and we went through the gap in the hawthorn hedge and into the domain of the thing that waited behind the old walls.

The fog dulled everything and made strange shapes that writhed in front of our eyes and disappeared in wisps. Trees loomed out of the gloom and faded behind us and even the noise of our footsteps seemed deadened, sucked away by the fog. Paddy gripped my hand more tightly and I kept up the pace to ensure I didn't lose sight of Colin who was moving briskly ahead.

Behind us came a muffled roar, followed instantly by a muted crack, like a squib. A faint cry diminished rapidly. I hoped Donald was all right.

In the shadow of the big beech trees, the mist merged with the dark cloud looming overhead. The wind was rising now and it seemed as if the air pressure had suddenly increased, making it somehow more solid, but the mist stayed in place. It writhed in ghostly shadows.

We stopped for a moment beside a big tree. Colin was keep to get on, to face the enemy. I knew I also had to, but was far from enthusiastic. Up close, in the half light, I saw a fierce, burning anger written on Colin's face.

He stood with us, leaning against his spear, a warrior steeling himself for battle, psyching himself up.

Paddy saw the movement first. She jumped so suddenly, she almost landed in my arms. Under my feet, the ground shivered and I heard a creaking sound. Right in front of us, a grey root twisted and heaved out of the soil, sending leaf mould scattering.

I edged back and the root tore free, thick as a man's thigh and covered in fine rootlets. It slithered towards us. We all backed up until we were up against the trunk. It whipped around, questing, then it coiled, tensed and unleashed it's length right at us.

I lifted Paddy away and jinked round the tree, shoving Colin to the other side as I moved. The ground heaved again and another big root started to flex. Then another and another, until all around us they reached and squirmed.

We just ran for it.

The stand of beech wasn't too wide, but it seemed like a mile as we raced through. At one point something looped out and caught my foot, wrenching me right off balance and I fell heavily, twisting so I didn't land on Paddy. She yelped. Something lashed at me as I lay sprawled in the dead leaves, and a stinging pain shot of my thigh.

Colin grabbed my collar and hauled me upright and shoved me forwards, both of us leaping like hurdlers over the reaching roots.

Then, suddenly, we were out of it and on to a clearing. At the far side, the wall of basalt loomed.

Ardmhor Rock's black face towered up into the cloud.

'That's it,' Colin said, breathless. 'Here's where he is.'

'What now?' I had to yell to be heard above the tumult from under the trees.

Colin pointed to a scree of fallen rocks that had slipped off the face.

'There. Where we were the last time when he...'

Colin's words were cut off as the ground heaved and buckled violently. Both of us were sent stumbling.

There was an immense crack of sound, as if a volcano had blown and a rumble like a train racing at us down a tunnel. The intense noise sent pressure pains in my ears. Then from the swirling cloud there was a crash and a flash of lightning that stabbed down, almost in slow motion, and hit the rock face where the stone met the short turf.

A purple after-image fuzzed my vision and the ringing in my ears fogged my brain, but I still held Paddy tight, waiting for the earth to open up and swallow us, or for another bolt of lightning to roast us to a cinder.

For a second, I couldn't even move.

Then Colin spoke. 'There. Look Nicky. That's where we have to go.'

His voice, over the sound in my head, was faint and scratchy, but I heard what he said.

Where his spear was aimed, I saw a deep dark triangle in the rock face that seemed solid. But it wasn't solid.

There was a flicker of green light above us and I suddenly saw what Colin meant.

Cu Saeng had opened the door.

There was nothing for it but to go in

29

The sound of the thrashing in the trees died as soon as we crossed the threshold of the hole in the rock and again I experienced the inside-out sensation of déjÃ -vu when we walked into the dark.

One inside, there was light of a sort, as if the very stone was giving off a dim, sickly luminescence.

Ahead of us the cavern widened and went straight for some distance and curved left in a steep descent. I could make out the knotted twists of ancient lava. Cu-Saeng's entrance was a natural fumarole, a volcanic chimney where magma had one flowed, leaving a snake-twist of tunnels. I've been in places like that before, in Hawaii and Iceland, but there was no eerie light in those tunnels.

Paddy was dead quiet and I kept her close by me. We made little sound, except for the tapping of my stick and the scuffle of our feet as we almost tip-toed along.

We held our breaths, waiting for something, something dreadful, to leap from one of the vertical clefts in the walls. We rounded the bend, and the tunnel entrance disappeared from view behind us.

Up ahead, in the phosphorescent dimness, the cave narrowed in and the pathway became steeper so I had to rely on my stick for balance. The rocks glistened with slime or water. I couldn't quite tell, but the strange light made it look diseased.

'Sssh...' Colin whispered, holding his hand up for silence. Paddy tensed against me and we both stopped.

We strained, listening. At first I heard nothing. Then came a soft chittering sound, like a half-heard whisper in the distance, like the sound of insects crawling on a hard surface. It rose to a murmur, then faded and then I felt a vibration in the rock itself as if it flexed slightly.

I had a sudden panicky dread that the walls were going to buckle and close together, to crush the life out of us, but the tremor slowly died away.

We walked on downward and the tunnel widened out, arching high overhead. The tapping of both my stick and Colin's spear echoed aloft to fade out.

A peal of hoarse laughter scared the daylights out of me. It came roaring down the tunnel, amplified by the narrow space.

It was the kind of laugh you imagine in a mental hospital, deranged and guttural and somehow mindless. It did not sound human. Nor like anything on this earth.

Paddy gave a little moan of pure fear as the laughter rose in pitch and trailed off in an obscene giggle. My knees were trembling again and I hoped Paddy didn't sense it. Colin stood stock still, and if the maniacal laughter had scared him, he didn't show it. In the sick light, his face looked as green as mine felt, but his eyes were black and his mouth was twisted down at the corners.

We kept on going and the cavern widened out until we were in a spacious amphitheatre deep under Ardmhor. Colin stopped me again and gestured with his spear.

We could make out a mass in the middle of the open space, a dark shape on the ground, right in the centre. I pushed Paddy behind me, keeping a grip on her shoulder, while with the other I raised my blackthorn stick. Colin was by my side, with the stone spearhead pointing forward.

It was a boat. Sitting in the middle of the cavern, set square on the rock.

We inched forward some more, and as my eyes grew more accustomed to the faint light, I could make it out in more detail and my stomach made one of those sickening loops when I took it in.

There were men in the boat. Or what had been men, for they were now rotted corpses, with gaping jaws and protruding bones through peeling flesh. They sat on the thwarts of the lifeboat as they would have done on the night of the storm. But their eye sockets were black pits and the bones which showed through the mouldering flesh were tinged with green.

'It's the Cassandra lifeboat,' I whispered.

'What's that?'

'The boat that went missing. We couldn't find it. No wonder.'

'They're all dead,' Colin said, still whispering.

'Can we get past it without Paddy seeing?'

He shrugged and pointed past the beached lifeboat and its grotesque crew. Clumps of seaweed and kelp dripped over the gunwales, beyond it, the cavern narrowed to a cleft. It seemed that was the way we had to go.

At the far side, only a few yards from the cleft, Colin stiffened and shivers ran up my spine again. There was a faint noise from over by the boat. Another slithering sound came and a movement I caught in peripheral vision, followed by a soft plopping sound.

Something moved on the boat. A hank of kelp slithered from where it had caught on the rowlock and slumped to the ground. I almost groaned in relief. It was only seaweed.

Then I froze.

For one of the dead crew slowly turned his skeletal profile and creaked his head round. Black, empty sockets faced towards us. The holes flickered a reflection of the green light, then faded to a pallid white.

I had seen eyes like that before. Under the bridge of Strowan's Well all those years ago.

Below them, the jaw hinged upwards, like a slow motion trap, until it grinned at me.

Colin caught the look on my face and darted a glance towards the lifeboat. Another skeletal head turned in our direction. A third started moving. A fourth. And a long, bony hand raised off the gunwale. One of the dead crew started to haul himself over the side.

My heart seemed to have crawled into my throat, blocking off my breath.

We were still yards away from the fissure, and suddenly I wanted to be out of this place. I dragged Paddy towards the cleft, unable to take my eyes from the nightmare scene as the mouldering corpses clambered out and on to the dripping weed fronds.

They came like jerky puppets, but their now-pallid sockets were fixed on us. I realised we had to reach the cleft before they did, or we'd be trapped here among the dead men.

Paddy was whimpering. I pushed her ahead of me, but Colin grabbed my shoulder.

'They'll still be behind us,' he said. 'We have to stop them now.'

I didn't want to hang about, but Colin was right. Wherever we had to go, we didn't want out footsteps dogged by something out of Dawn of the Dead. I was so scared I couldn't swallow, but Colin still burned with the fury of his lost years. He stood at the entrance to the cleft then leapt forward, screaming, towards the shambling crew. I saw the spear come up and swing in a fast arc. It smashed into soft dead flesh and wet bone. There was a splintering sound and at first I thought the shaft had snapped.

But it wasn't the spear. I saw two of the obscene corpses topple to the stone, smashed through their spines. An arm flew off and hit the far wall with a sticky thud. Colin's shoulders flexed and he swung again. Another thud and a skull bounced away.

Two of the dead men circled round to come for him from the back. I forced Paddy hard up against the wall and told her not to move.

Then I let out my own war cry. I don't know why. Maybe all the fear and shock that had been bottled up inside just exploded out, but I remember jumping forward, cursing, and lashing out with the knobbly head of the walking stick.

Something crunched and one of the things crumpled at my feet. Long fingers reached at me. I grabbed it with my free hand, too mad with fear and fury to feel disgust. I jerked and the hand ripped away from the arm.

Then Colin and I were back to back, lunging and jabbing, spear and club smashing into bones and dead flesh. Gobbets flicked into the air with every contact and we lunged and struck with all our strength until there was nothing left to hit.

Then I just ran out of steam and we stood together, among those broken corpses, panting for breath.

Then Colin really scared me rigid.

'Where is she?' He was still gasping. 'The wee girl. Paddy. Where is she?'

I whirled, almost slipping into the charnel heap at our feet, to where I'd pushed Paddy against the cleft wall.

She wasn't there.

Summer, 1991.

Colin was almost dragging Barbara behind us we ran along the farm track, spurred on my the hue and cry behind us. There was no time to think. We reached the shelter of the trees where gloom descended within yards.

Things flew at us in the shadow, insects or moths, that we batted away from our faces and then we were at the base of the rock.

The black cave loomed in front of us, a cave we'd never seen before.

We walked right in.

I felt a slow vibration underfoot, like the slow beat of a vast heart. Dim light threw wavering shadows. Colin bent to get under the low overhang, then stood up. There was only one way to go.

We kept close to each other until we came to the wide cavern that arched over our heads in inky darkness.

Colin's breath hitched, as if he was about to speak, when a movement beside the wall caught my eye. I turned and strained into the gloom.

'What is it?' he asked.

'I thought I saw something.'

We stared into the corner, then Barbara spoke. 'Over there. I see something.'

We turned and saw a slow movement. Then across to the right, another motion.

Barbara shrank back against the wall.

'What is it?' Colin hissed.

There was a soft, slithery sound right next to him and we both jerked back as a long, worm-like thing poked out from the scattered stones.

Colin let out a muted cry of disgust and stepped back. His foot landed on another of the white crawling things and it burst wetly.

Beside me, another one oozed out. It looked like a big maggot and I felt a shudder. Of all the things that gave me the creeps, it was maggots. I'd seen them before, growing bloated as they fed on a decomposing sheep on the moor.

These things were grown to giant size. I felt my gorge rise as one of them nuzzled at my shoe. I kicked out, but it clung on with two curved pincers and I stamped on it with my other foot. It squelched and ruptured, dripping its insides out in a splurge.

Behind me, Barbara squealed. Colin hit something off her leg. Then we were both jumping up and down, stamping hard for all we were worth, doing what must have looked like a manic war-dance.

We smashed and pulped everything that moved, and all the time I felt I had to vomit in total revulsion. Even though we were killing them by the dozen, there was something about them that brought the most primitive, gut wrenching sense of loathing.

Between us we must have stamped dozens of them flat, until they stopped crawling out from underground. Around us, the squashed bodies sent up a reek of corruption that stung our eyes.

'That's it,' Colin panted. 'They're gone. We beat 'em.'

I turned and vomited lustily.

When I finished, Colin pulled me upright. 'Come on, let's get going.'

He pulled me away towards the big fissure.

'Where's Barbara?'

'She was just here...' I said, pointing at the basalt wall.

'Well, where is she now?'

I scanned all round. I thought Barbara might be cowering behind one of the big fallen rocks.

We searched all the shadows and called her name, but there was no reply.

While we'd been fighting and killing those crawling things, she'd disappeared.

'We have to find her,' Colin said. He bawled her name at the top of his voice. It echoed away through the tunnels and fissures. I called out too, but no reply came back. She was gone.

'Which way?' I began to say.

Then Barbara screamed, a high and terrible scream that sent shivers all through me.

Her scream reverberated from the stone walls, filling the cave with her terror.

30

A loud scream came echoing out from the cleft in the rock..

It froze me to the spot, but Colin was quick to recover. He was ten steps ahead of me, holding his spear ahead of him, by the time I started to move. I followed him, my heart wrenched by the naked terror in Paddy's scream.

The fumarole twisted right and left, like a hole made by a monster earthworm. In the dim light, we slithered and stumbled, but kept on, getting deeper and deeper under Ardmhor. The scream had stopped very suddenly, and that scared me badly. It sounded as if something had cut it off.

Visions flashed in my mind, visions worse than the dreams that had woken me on the bad nights, worse than the crawling roots and those impossible, moving, rotting corpses. I could live with their images seared into my brain.

But I couldn't live with the knowledge that Paddy had suffered from my carelessness. She'd been in my care and my job was to protect her from whatever might come.

Some instinct also told me that she was very crucial in this whole nightmare.

Most of all I knew that if she were killed, I would never be able to live with myself.

I kept up with Colin, driven by the adrenalin surge,

Suddenly the passage widened and we stumbled into a chamber that was even vaster than the one before. In the wan light, I saw great stalactites come down to meet the teeth of stalagmites. Sharp tumbled rocks littered the floor.

The scream came again, piercing in its intensity. It came from the centre of the huge cavern.

I remember letting out a gasp that was a mixture of anguish and relief. At least she was still alive.

But what absolute terror was encompassed in that scream.

Colin and I came top a halt in the centre of the chamber. This was where the sound had come from, right where we were standing. We swung right and left, searching for any sign.

The scream came a third time. From right beside us. I turned fast.

Paddy stood there, behind a stalagmite, her face white and her mouth agape.

I leapt towards her and all of a sudden, I felt as if I was running in glue. The air around her had thickened, just like the first entrance to the cave, where time itself seemed distorted and slowed. I pushed my way towards her, agonisingly slow.

She screamed again, and I felt the sound inside my head, as if she was reaching out with her mind.

I pushed against the invisible barrier. It took a long, slow, age. The closer I got to her, the thicker seemed the warp that held us both. All around, I sensed flickering motion and heard sounds inside my skull. Paddy was stock still, with that unfinished scream distorting her features, as if frozen in time.

It seemed I got no nearer, though she had only been yards away when I'd started towards her. Everything slowed to a crawl.

I reached a hand, watching it recede from me, elongating into the distance.

Then it touched her fingers.

There was a loud, snapping sound as the world gave a jolt and Paddy and I were tumbling through the air in slow motion, getting faster and faster as we fell towards the ground. I hit with a hard thump. Paddy landed on top of me, and the scream in her mind now exploded from her throat.

She landed on top of me and all her breath gushed out in a whoosh. The scream stopped instantly. But she held me so tightly round my neck, I thought I would choke.

Colin called from the centre. 'Nicky. Come here. Quick.'

I got to my feet, allowing Paddy to keep her grip, using my walking stick for balance.

'Look at that.' Colin pointed his spear at the wall.

A man stood in a patch of shadow.

Colin went into a crouch, swinging the spear back, ready to stab. I held Paddy to the side, keeping between her and the figure in the gloom and I wished Donald had been here with his rifle.

The man did not move. It just stood in silence. Colin edged towards me. Paddy stiffened and I turned. Another figure stood against the wall. Close by, I made out a third and scanned all round. The whole place was ringed with standing, silent men.

We were surrounded.

Colin eased forward. I did too until we could see.

It was a soldier in full armour. His breastplate glinted in the dim light. A crested helmet came down to his brow and he held a short, straight sword in his hand. The free hand was up at his head and I could see the nails were dug right into the skin. I peered closer and saw the fingers had pierced the eyeballs, and there was an expression of such agony on his face that it made my blood run cold.

Beside him, a second soldier looked as if he'd frozen in the act of turning. He held a staff topped with an eagle carved in wood over roman numerals. IX. His left hand was half-way to his face, fingers clawing like talons.

Something jarred in me. A memory from the past. This was something I knew about.

Then it came to me.

It's the eagle of the ninth legion,' I whispered. 'The lost legion.'

'Who?' Colin sounded horror struck, but still puzzled.

'Romans. The ones who disappeared.'

I'd read the story as a boy. The ninth legion sent north from Old Kilpatrick to quell the Picts. They'd marched out, past Levenford and Kirkland and were never heard of again.

They hadn't found the Picts.

The thing on Ardmhor had found them.

Dead men stood all round the chamber. And not only Roman soldiers. There were warriors in leather and plaid. There were men in skins. There was a man with monk's robes.

And, god help me, there were children, all frozen, as if in blocks of ice, and they all looked as if they were witnessing all the horrors of hell.

Some of the silent figures had torn at their faces, their eyes, and their mouths were agape in frozen screams that told of the horrors they had seen on the point of death.

Some were crumpled heaps of skin, as if they had been sucked dry. Others were bare shadows on the stone. They looked very, very old.

As I looked around, my mind made one of those intuitive leaps again, and I suddenly realised what this place was. With it came the realisation that these were not corpses. I had seen these things before, a long, long time ago, and had not known why they were here.

But now I knew. This was a storeroom.

And somehow, in their dreadful stasis, these agonised men were not quite dead, not in the way we know death. They were trapped in the unending pain and horror of the kind of time-snare that had caught Paddy. Like the tunnel under Strowan's Bridge where the air had thickened and time stretched out, this was how the beast kept what he fed on. This was its larder.

And it had been feeding off their suffering for thousands of years.

With that sudden realisation came the knowledge that it could have been Paddy or myself. Caught in frozen time and seeing what the monster chose to show us, feeding off the ecstasy of our fear.

Beside me, Colin stared in fascinated revulsion, the way the soldiers in the old newsreels did when they reached Auschwitz. Every face trapped in those timeless warps was suffering agony, agony that would keep going forever as long as this obscenity under Ardmhor remained on this earth.

As we stood there, the cocoons of darkness that shrouded the figures began to fuzz at the edges, dissipating into the shadows, and as it did, the victims faces became clearer.

Then, without warning, and with a displacement in the air that caused my ears to pop, whatever force that held those prisons intact let go and first one, then another of the damned souls slumped against the bare rock.

That was when the screaming started. The soldier with his fingers gouged into his eyes, a motion that had started maybe two thousand years ago, completed it in one jarring thrust that sent blood pulsing out. Paddy jerked against me.

Another man, a big red-headed soldier. Fell to his knees, dazed. Then he brought his head forward in a fast strike and smashed it straight on to an edge of rock. There was a wet snack and a dark pool streamed out while his body twitched in final death.

All the time, the wails and screams of the tormented souls, the screams they had been silently crying for eons, rent the air all round us.

The victims jerked and twisted in their agonies. It seemed to go on forever, but it could only have been minutes.

Then the sound suddenly stopped. The echoes faded in the distance until an eerie silence settled in the chamber.

And we watched in horrified fascination as those faces all turned to stare at us. Even the eyeless Roman swivelled in our direction.

Almost as one, they began towards us, tottering, as if they had little control, but still they came. I could feel Paddy's heartbeat and she hugged me tight.

I gripped my stick and sensed Colin bracing himself.

Implacably, the stumbling prisoners of Cu Saeng tightened the circle around us, closer and closer until I could have touched them with the stick.

Eyes stared, wide and agonised. And in their depths, I saw pity, and sadness, and pleading, and maybe that was the worst of it.

Almost as one, they stopped moving, maybe a hundred or more. Romans, clansmen, tribesmen and the suffering little ones, all silent and staring it us in mute supplication.

I caught a movement and turned. One of the soldiers had raised his sword. Slowly, as if fighting a force trying to prevent him, he managed to raise the hilt and then, with intense effort, and still with the most profound horror etched on his face, he turned it until the blade pointed at his chest. He braced his legs and thrust.

The sword went through him with a ripping sound and he sank to the ground. More blood drenched the stone, but I could see the awful agony ebb from his face. It was as clear as anything could demonstrate. Death was bliss by comparison to Cu Saeng's grip.

Something else moved, on the face closest to me, an old man whose face was scared and pitted. As he stared at me, the lines in his leathery face began to crack and split. The same thing was happening to the tribesman next to him. Their skin crinkled and distorted.

It was as if they had been taken out of preservation and begun to rot in the air.

All around us, bodies began to shrivel and sag. One of the Romans fell in a clatter of armour. A child slumped to a heap. All of them were twisting and writhing as whatever strange life had kept them preserved all this time simply flowed out of them, until the cave floor was littered with the finally dead.

The bodies were dried out husks, sucked dry in their moment of release from Cu Saeng's power.

That was better for them, surely, I thought.

I hugged Paddy right and turned to Colin and said....

Summer, 1991.

'Come on. It's Babs.' He spun on his heel and followed me down the crack in the wall where the scream had come echoing to us.

We ran through the tunnel, down deeper and deeper in that long slant into the bowels of the earth under Ardmhor Rock.

It took an age, so it seemed, but I knew where I was going. The compass inside my head had locked on to her scream, so I ignored the side tunnels and fissures. I just plunged on, slipping and sliding on wet rock.

Then we reached the big chamber, almost falling flat. Another shriek made me real back. Colin raised both hands to his ears. We could feel her fear and pain. It came to us - and through us - in waves.

'Over there,' I bawled. 'That's where she is.'

He paused a few seconds, to string the bow he'd carried all the way from our gang hut and followed me past the stalagmites.

Another scream, even more shattering, tore the air, and then I saw Barbara on a clear piece of ground near the centre. She squirmed and twisted as if some invisible hands held her, and above her head, a heavy darkness expanded, oozing down to where she lay.

'What is it?' Colin yelled. 'What's doing that?'

'Just get her away,' I bawled, staggering through the force of Barbara's pain towards her.

Her pain was my pain, and it was Colin's too. We had to fight it to get to her, but it felt like acid in every nerve in my body. But there was some power between us that was greater than the pain, some binding, wonderful force that gave us the strength. My eyes were streaming and my throat burning. Colin reached where she was squirming against the unseen hands.

Above her the dark shadow pulsed and swelled, expanding now towards both of them. Colin snatched one hand and I got there in time to grab the other and as we did so there was a searing flash of light that scoured the vast cavern into sharp relief, just before the black cloud closed down on all of us.

Barbara was hugging us both.

'Oh Colin. Nicky. I was hurting.'

'Yeah. I know,' Colin said. 'But we've got you now.'

She started sobbing then, from relief perhaps, or it could have just been shock.

And then she did something she'd never done before, ever.

She pulled Colin towards her and kissed him hard and desperately and then she turned and kissed me too, forcing her lips on me so powerfully I could feel the wet tears on her cheek.

'I love you,' she said. 'I love you both. And I'll love you forever.'

Colin and I just stood there, with Barbara between us, in the middle of the big cave, holding on to each other as if we could never let go.

Gradually the after-images of that searing light faded.

And that's when Colin first saw the soldiers.

The hairs on the back of my neck went marching again.

31

'This is where it was.' I knew we had reached the end of this road.

'I know, I remember,' Colin said in a low voice that carried up into the shadows. How deep we were under Ardmhor, I can't say. I couldn't even tell you whether the time and space there actually existed in the way that we know it. But even so, it felt real to us, as it had the first time. It felt like a hole in the very fabric of rightness.

Around us, the husks of the dead in their armour, their skins and their rough-woven rags. There was a small rattle as a bone settled, a metallic click as a helmet shifted on an ancient skull, and then there was silence, the kind of silence that is big and desolate and solid enough to feel.

As we stared, the question rose in my mind. Was it time that caused the decay, or did the unseen beast suck out the last drops of the souls he'd kept stored in his lair?

'It's coming,' Colin broke into my thought. I nodded. I could feel it, deep inside me, where instinct crouches, watching for danger in the shadow, alert for the horror of night. Colin stood motionless and I saw emotions flick across his face, each fighting for control.

He was afraid, and so was I. After twenty years in the miasma that had been his life since we had come here as kids, he had woken up, and he had good reason to be scared. He had come alive, come to an instant manhood, making the transition from child without the benefit of sunny teenage years and hectic adolescence, the experiences of life.

He knew he was about to face what had robbed him of that life and those years, and he was terrified.

But his teeth were clenched, making the muscles on his cheeks stand out. He held the fear within himself and his knuckles, gripped on the rowan staff, would have been pure white, had there been light to see them by.

We stood in the silence, in the gloom, sensing the change in the air, a vibration that pulsed, almost imperceptibly, through the rock and through us.

From what seemed very far away, the pulse came again, like a creeping cold breath, a black, sluggish heartbeat. Then again, a little louder, a little stronger. Closer.

Colin shifted his stance as another pulse shook, I touched his shoulder and motioned him away from the centre, closer to the wall. We waded through the mound of dead that crackled like twigs underfoot. There was no way to avoid it. They sagged like empty sacks.

The pulse echoed through the chamber, now a deeper rumble. It seemed to come up from the depths of eternity, approaching from a vast span of time to the now that we were in. Paddy stiffened against me, hands still dug in. Colin raised the spear.

The throb became a pounding beat that filled the cavern, then a juddering roar shook the rocks, tilting the very ground as if a wave of hunger and hate passed through it in a seismic shock.

And then it was there.

A black mass, huge and ponderous, hunched in the basin in the middle of the cavern close to where we had stood. Around it the air crackled and swirled in a hurricane maelstrom. And within it I could make out something vast that had no real form, blacker than black.

Cu Saeng. The ravener.

'Get back' I urged Colin, shouting to make myself heard over the shriek of riven air. His eyes were fixed on where the spinning air was so compressed it was almost solid. A red-orange glow touched the edges of the basin, as if great heat was building up.

'What is it?' Paddy's high voice was snatched by the wind.

All I could do was hold her tighter. The black tornado screwed itself into the basalt rock. It was like looking into infinity and I felt if I stared, I might see whole star systems in a vast empty dark.

I felt myself drawn against my will towards the edge, to see the thing that sat at its centre. I tried to stop myself, but I took the step. I took another, even though I fought against it. I grunted with the exertion of trying to prevent a third step and felt my muscles shriek.

Panic screwed up inside me.

The fourth step was physical and mental agony as my fear exploded. My survival instinct was overloaded to breaking point. I knew the eternal horror I would suffer when I got to that edge. My foot dragged over the stone and then I was close to the rim of the pit that only moments ago had been a few yards wide. Now it stretched like a great arena, red on its lip where the rock steamed and bubbled without heat.

Another step and I would fall a million miles in one long and continuous scream, like Lucifer falling to hell. It was going to take me. It was going to....

I was suddenly flat on my back and the scream that had been building up came out as a hacking groan as my breath was slammed right out.

Colin's hand gripped my collar. He'd almost jerked me out of my jacket with the force of his desperate heave.

'Don't do that. Don't go in there.'

From the look in his eyes, he must have thought I'd had a choice. In that moment, all I could think of was that I was still alive.

Sweat slathered my brow and ran into my eyes. I knuckled them clear and let my clothes take care of the rest that had drenched me all over. I had heard of cold sweat before. This was the first time I had experienced it. I felt I would throw up once again. Colin still gripped my collar as he helped me to the wall, Paddy held tight.

'Don't look at it,' I finally gasped. 'It pulls you in.'

'I won't,' Paddy said.

'What is it?' Colin asked. Within the swirling tornado, the bulk that hunched in the centre couldn't be clearly seen. But I could just feel the pressure of its hunger.

'It's the...' I began.

And the storm exploded with a boom of shattering intensity, like the scream of a jet engine. Rocks tumbled from high above us. A stalactite broke off and lanced down to shatter on the stones below. The dry carcasses were blown upwards and away, like rags. Everything flashed out in a pressure wave that blinded my eyes for a second. Sight returned in flashes.

And then I saw it.

The shape loomed from the centre of its cauldron, a twisted, angled blackness that seemed to grind as it moved. It was solid, yet not solid; crystalline, yet viscidly liquid. It was something with dimensions that did not belong in this universe.

As I stared, sometimes I could see something clearly, but in an instant it would flicker and warp. It was a huge, dark, impossible presence that had no true form. But I could feel its alien mind, so cold and utterly evil that it seemed to freeze everything around it.

It expanded and contracted impossibly, shifting and warping with incessant motion.

It's hideous geometries hurt the eyes.

I felt the focus of its will as it cast around. It turned round and through itself and speared me with the repugnant and alien inhumanity of its thought. As if a scaly hand had reached through me to my heart and squeezed hard.

A jolt of revulsion shuddered through me as its mind sought to probe mine. It scraped on my brain, like claws. Pain shot up and down my spine.

Then, in an instant, it changed. There was a lurching sensation deep inside me and the mass in the pit warped and twisted.

There was a dizzying flick of unreality.

Then my grandfather stood there, tall and gaunt, a shimmering figure of shadow outlined in deeper dark.

There was a creaking protest as his head - looming twenty or thirty feet above mine - swivelled and he leaned out of the dimensionless black, fixing me with his eyes.

Then he smiled, a great wide smile, and that chilled me as much as the dead, cold touch of the beast's mind.

My grandfather? Why?

I'd loved the old man, uncompromisingly, unquestioningly.

He had been the foundation stone of my early years. He'd taught me and helped me and he'd loved me in the same way that I loved him. It had been he and Kitty Macbeth who had dragged me from the rock fall was back then. He'd scoured the countryside and organised the search parties. He'd been the one who had backed me and help make me what I wm.

I would have done anything for the old man, and when he'd died when I was still in my teens, I would have done anything to bring him back.

Now he was back.

But it wasn't him. It was the beast, bringing back his image to mock him and terrify me.

The smile widened, became a grimace, a hard wide leer, looming high above us.

'Ah, Nicky lad,' his voice boomed from a cavern of a mouth, rumbling up from the deeps. 'You've come back again have you? I warned you never to come back here.'

'What do you want?' I cried.

'I want you, Nicky. I want you to join me. We can be together. You and me. For all time.'

'No. You're not real. You're the beast.'

'Come on Nicky. Come to me. First throw the stick away.'

'Get out of my fucking head.'

The thing that looked like a grotesque image of the old man leaned impossibly far out until it loomed over me. The eyes changed from deepest black, shading to grey, then milky to maggot-white. Blind snake eyes. They rolled and the head swivelled. They glared into mine, trying to suck my will.

'Yes Nick. You have to throw it away. That's my walking stick and we don't need that. We don't want that. You be a good boy and throw it away, because it's mine. You shouldn't have it.'

'Get out. Get away!'

'I'm old, Nicky boy. Old. And I need you to help me. But you don't want that old blackthorn. It's bad.'

I gripped the stick tighter. Somebody had said something about hawthorn and blackthorn. Was it Kitty MacBeth?

A memory flooded me then.

It was Colin. Colin with his bow and blackthorn arrows. He'd fired at it back then and hit it right in its eye.

That's what helped stop it. The Blackthorn. That's why it was important.

'No!' I bawled.

'Throw it away now!' His voice rose to a rasping screech.

Something else flashed into my head. I don't know where it came from, or how it got past the grip the beast's will had on me at that moment, but it came fleeting in and I heard the voice of Kitty Macbeth, Catriona O'Connor MacBeatha, the daughter of the sons of life. Her voice was old and wise and it spoke to my soul.

'A wall of hawthorn that was sacred because it has power, like the blackthorn and the rowan. An earth power that is strong in the earth-day born. A weapon to fight the Cu Saeng.'

Then I knew why it wanted me to discard the old blackthorn stick. It was afraid of its power, something it couldn't control.

With that realisation came a wave of anger that washed up and over and through me: anger at the destruction the thing had brought to Arden time and again.

Anger over what it had done to Kitty Macbeth and to Barbara and Colin and all the rest. In my mind's eye I saw the madness in Jimmy Allison's eyes and I saw Duncan Bennett's hideously swollen face.

I saw that black shoe and the red skin dangling from the boar's jaws and my anger soared.

I felt a huge fury at the madness and hate it sent out from this rock. And I knew that we couldn't stop it, what had happened to Arden was nothing compared to the devastation if it broke free.

Suddenly, my mind seemed to twist out of the power that had pinned my feet to the rock floor and I jumped upwards and forwards towards the thing that sometimes looked like my grandfather and had a mind like festering disease.

I raised the blackthorn stick and swung it with all the strength I had, the strength of righteous fury, with the knobbly handle pointing forward. I smashed it into the face that loomed above me.

There was a shock of impact that ran like fire up my arm then a horrendous snap as reality twanged back and forth and the thing in the pit let out a shriek that shook the very stone. I heard myself yelling as I beat at it with the blackthorn and it shimmered and changed before me, drawing itself back into the formless dark.

From behind, I heard Colin roar like the bull at McFall's farm. He darted in front of me with the spear raised and the white lines in his hair standing out like war plumes. His back bent as he coiled, then launched forward. His arm, whipped out in a blur as he drove the spear-head right at the other great pallid eye near the top of the mass.

The spear crackled through that warped space, seeming to slow to a standstill, then inch by inch the obsidian point was driven forward until it met that bloodless eye.

The stone stabbed in with a rending sound.

Viscous fluid spurted, but Colin just put his whole weight on the rowan shaft and kept driving it in until the whole spearhead was buried deep inside the eye, and half of the shaft with it.

Where the fluid dripped, the stone hissed and bubbled.

I pulled Colin back then, just in case any splashed on him. I knew it would eat his flesh away.

Another mental blast exploded, this time of anger and agony. It ripped out in all directions and almost bowled us over. The black shape seemed to go into a frenzy. It expanded up and out of the pit in a great shuddering motion that defied sanity.

The spear angled out of the puckered eye and it seemed the thing was trying to shake it loose,

Beside the spear, another eye was half closed and crumpled as if it had rotted away. A smaller shaft stuck out from the puckered lid.

And I recalled the moment when Colin had fired his arrow two decades ago, before Cu Saeng had reached out and grabbed him with such force it locked his very mind.

Another shriek rent the air, and the huge, eyeless face twisted towards us, shimmering and warping as if seen through frosted glass. I scrabbled backwards. Paddy screamed. I twisted to grab her and she pointed at the pit.

At the very centre there was a motion and a scraping sound of rocks grinding together. The shape expanded as two masses formed on each side. They grew, like faceted crystals rimmed with green light.

I felt another instant sensation of déjÃ -vu. It was coming for us again, and I could not avoid it.

The final vision of what had happened down here finally clicked in my head and suddenly I was a kid again, scared out of my wits and screaming with a mad fear.

In that clarity of recall, I saw Colin's arrow streak towards that malignant eye and drive deep inside.

And an arm black as night snaked out and an impossible claw snapped shut on Colin's head. It lifted him clean off the ground. Colin had started to scream. I felt it in my head, a mental blast of agony that ripped through Barbara and me.

His pain was so intense that it almost paralysed us.

But what Barbara and I had felt was a mere echo of what Colin suffered in those seconds as the beast took its revenge for the blackthorn arrow, but it had been intense enough to make my legs buckle.

With that memory right up at the front of my mind, I knew what would happen now. It was coming for us again and it wanted revenge.

The arms elongated towards us, growing across the space between us and the pit.

'Back. Get away from it,' I shouted, trying to avoid the reaching claws.

The thing was blind, but bit could sense us. Something snapped around my leg and a pain jolted through me in an electrical surge. I jerked like a galvanised frog.

The pain was immense.

Beside me, Colin let out a hoarse cry. The thing had him too.

He struggled, still bawling. His pain interfaced with my own. In an instant we were hauled up and into a roiling black and into the place where it existed.

There was a racking twist and we were in a vast space. There was no sound except the throb of something that might have been a heart. Colin's emotions came through me like waves.

And the beast came into view.

It was an amorphous shadow, with eyes that dripped pus. Only the arrow and the spear shaft shone with clean fire, the only true light in this place and I could feel its suffering. I knew it would never lose the pain if it lived forever. But I could smell its stink and sense the foulness of its mind. It was something that should not exist on this earth, the thing that had brought madness to Arden down those eons.

I fell into a darkness and time itself seemed to flicker and change....

I saw myself watching the flow of Strowan's well when we breached the dam.

I saw me lying unconscious under the rock fall, and my grandfather struggling to get me out.

I saw my mother in bed, giving birth to the squalling thing that was me.

And back and back in time.

To Kitty Macbeth on the foreshore, her hair long and golden, watching the rock.

And yet further, to the horrors that had visited Arden. Terrible things done under the bale force that dominated the rock.

I saw before that. A time when Arden was clean. I saw it all. The history of bad times again and again.

Then, in a flickering twist, I was back here, back below Ardmhor. Colin was beside me, struggling and kicking in the grip of what held us, but he was alive.

And the pain was gone, from him and from me.

A golden light sent sparkles of brilliance all around us, a light that should have burned our eyes, but only washed them with balm. It came from far below where we were held, a pinpoint of radiance that flowed up and around us.

A high pitched voice came from very far away.

Whatever held us faltered, loosing its grip. The mind that subdued us was diverted. Its power drained by something that was more powerful.

And that power suddenly freed us from the terrible force that had invaded our minds.

32

Paddy had called him out. She had ordered the beast to bring us back.

The voice I had heard, as if from a far distance, had rebounded from the stone walls, was her scream of righteous anger.

She had demanded that Cu Saeng come back and face her.

And he had come back, bringing us with him. But he did something else too.

The mass twirled and changed again. There was a flicker, and then Paddy's mother appeared. She gazed down.

The thing that looked like Barbara bent towards the child.

'It's all right. Everything is fine.'

I heard the words like a scrape in my brain.

'Run away!' The warning blurted out of me, before I even realised I could speak again. 'It's not your mother.'

'Come to me,' the image said. 'Just take that thing off your neck. It's a bad thing.

Paddy's hand flew to her neck and touched the golden torc, the gift from Kitty Macbeth.

There's power in that, the old woman had told me. And now there truly was.

As soon as Paddy touched the necklet, her hand was bathed in a coruscating white light which was the complete converse of the black force within the pit.

'No!' Paddy screeched. 'You're not my Mom. She's in the hospital.' She stamped her foot on the rock, in real fury. 'And it was you that put her there. It was you that hurt my friends. And I hate you.'

The thing that looked like her mother reached towards the child. Under the surface, I saw things twitch and squirm. Paddy stood her ground. She touched the torc again and there was a searing flash of light that caused the thing to jerk back with a hiss.

'You stay away from me,' Paddy yelled. 'I wish you would just die.'

The light flared more brightly, and the thing recoiled again. I felt the grip on me slacken. Close by, Colin struggled to get free and I fumbled for the walking stick that had fallen amongst the rocks. It was two feet beyond my reach.

Paddy slipped the torc from her neck and held it up with both hands. It' pure light was almost blinding.

There was a split second of silence, a frozen moment of time, then a wild force shuddered through the whole cavern. The grip that held me gave up completely and I stumbled. I heard a crackling sound, like an electrical arc. The thing in the pit swelled, gathering itself for an assault, drawing power from somewhere far below in the deeps.

Electrical sparks flickered over its surface and without warning, a bolt of energy exploded from its centre, a surge of raw power, straight for where Paddy stood.

Then it stopped dead. Only a few feet from her head, it seemed to hit an invisible barrier.

The torc blazed its own force of pure clean energy that surged out to face the dark.

For that moment in time, Paddy herself became the power of the ancient prophecy. Whatever was locked in that golden circlet, whatever magic had been forged into its making, was now in that little girl. The two combined in something that was greater than either.

I think it was Paddy's anger that finally unlocked the key to Kitty Macbeth's gift. And now I reckon that Paddy, an innocent child, was the only one who could have opened that door and unleashed it. The power was not just in the torc. It was in her and it was her.

I was reaching for the blackthorn walking stick.

Paddy's shoulder twitched and the water bottle she'd carried since we escaped the nightmare in the tunnel, slid down her arm. She swung it and caught the bottle in her hand, still holding the torc up high with her other. I saw her twist the top until it came free.

'You hurt everything,' she said. No screaming, no screeching. And no fear.

'You hurt my mother and my friends and you make everything dark and bad.'

Her voice seemed to smooth out, beginning to sound like someone who might live down on the foreshore, at one with the estuary and the birds and the breezes.

'You tried to kill us. But we will stop you. You don't belong.'

Her voice rose again, in a high clear battle cry.

'You should just die.'

She twisted fast and swung the water bottle by the strap, once, twice, three times round her head. Then she let go.

It spun out, tumbling through the sickly green crackling energy, sending out a curve of crystal droplets that spangled in the torc's radiance.

It hit the black shape and the water splashed all over it.

There was an instant, shuddering recoil and an immense rending sound of pure, unearthly agony. The thing convulsed as if an explosion had blasted inside it.

In the pit, the beast writhed and swelled. A green-black vapour belched out where the water had splashed. The swelling shape suddenly collapsed. It seemed implode in on itself. The ground shook.

It shrank down, losing whatever impossible shape it had, getting smaller and smaller as if it fell into a deep hole into hell. There was a sudden, faint pop, like tension being released, as it dwindled to a pinpoint in the far, far distance. And it was gone.

Paddy stood on the rock, staring into the hole, as the radiance flickered and pulsed from the torc. It was softer now, fading slowly to a warm glow, Paddy's face was composed, almost serene. She slipped the torc back on her neck as it's radiance became a mere glimmer.

We stood there for a long moment in silence.

Then I whirled as a rumbling sound came from the pit. My eyes caught a movement and I thought the beast was coming back.

But it was just the void that he'd left, filling itself in again. Forces under the rock were gathering and compressing to re-fill the vacuum.

Colin took Paddy's hand before I could reach her and swung her off her feet into his arms.

'Quick, Nicky. We have to get out.'

Just as he said that, the rock wall shuddered with a deep seismic shock. Another stalactite came crashing down.

Colin was just ahead of me as we ran for it. A big stone tumbled from above and shattered in bulleting fragments. We raced for the cleft and skittered up the narrow passage, Colin carrying Paddy as once I had carried him, battered and bleeding, that first time.

We never broke stride, although the walls of the tunnel juddered and heaved as the spasms of Cu Saeng's passing twisted the earth all around us.

It seemed we ran for an age, through the twisting fumarole, until, at last, we saw light ahead.

True light. Daylight.

I took Paddy from Colin on the last stretch, again without missing a step, and her arms locked tight around my neck as I sprinted for that far bright triangle.

Just feet from the cave mouth, there was a last, cataclysmic shudder that rippled through the rock in a wave that almost knocked me off my feet.

But I now recalled the rock fall from the first time and I just knew, with absolute certainty, that history would repeat itself. I kept going, keeping my balance just at the last moment.

All around us, rocks and boulders started peeling off the sides to crash down like bombs.

I raised my arm to protect our heads, and maybe it was pure luck or perhaps the residue of the power that Paddy had displayed down in that hellish arena that got us through unscathed. Behind us the tunnel was filled with the roaring of falling rocks as if the whole twisting cavern was caving in.

We came streaking out of the dark and into the light of day just as Ardmhor Rock gave a final heave and the cliff face peeled off in an avalanche that brought down tons of basalt stone. The earth shuddered under our feet, but by then we were past it and heading for the trees before the rocks hit, sealing the cave once more under a great mound of broken stone.

Just at the trees, I slipped and went down, twisting once more to avoid crushing Paddy who, it seemed, I'd carried almost non-stop for the past couple of days. My breath was punched out of me for a moment and I lay there, with Paddy locked in my arms, both of looking up at a clear blue sky.

Colin knelt down beside us as I got my breath back.

Behind us, the rumble of falling rocks was fading away and a cloud of dust billowed out from where the cave mouth had been.

Paddy loosened my death-grip, then she threw her arms around me and planted a big kiss on my lips. Then she reached for Colin and gave him the full force. She held on to us both, just a wisp of a girl, and looked very earnestly from me to him.

'I love you Nick. I love you Colin,' she said. Then she hugged us tight again.

In that moment, I saw her standing on the rock and facing down the beast, with white radiance all around her. I knew Colin saw it too.

And we loved her too.

We got to our feet and Colin stood beside me with Paddy between us. She put her hands in ours and we walked through the now quiet forest where the sunlight lanced through the branches as the light breeze sent motes of pollen dancing prettily in the beams.

Behind us loomed the bulk of Ardmhor Rock. It now held no threat for me. It was just another lump of rock standing beside the estuary, the worn-down remains of a long-dead volcano.

Paddy and Colin and I walked towards the edge of the trees where the fields opened up at the silver fork of Strowan's Well, and the path that would take us back to Arden in the sunlight.

33

Aftermath

It took Arden a long time to settle down again. The process of healing takes a long time. The scars are raw, but they are healing slowly and painfully.

The council's road workers breached the landslip blockage on the Kilcreggan Road west of town just about the time that Paddy, Colin and I were tumbling out of the cave and into the light. Things started to get better from then on.

The road crew squeezed through the gap they'd cleared and drove into a town that was still in the shuddery grip of the nightmare.

Nobody outside had had any idea of what had been going on. It was as if Arden had slipped out of reality for a spell and suddenly been brought back. I suppose that's true enough.

Then came the emergency teams. Then the newspapers and television crews who buzzed around like flies round a carcass. They must have knocked on every door in the parish, and panned every view that was worth swinging a wide-angle on, and they drank the Chandler dry.

The TV crews drove their units slowly along the house fronts where curtains stayed firmly closed.

They took shots of dead animals and crashed cars, and the rare inhabitant that they managed to find out in the open, slowly walking the pavement, dead-eyed and numbed.

Arden made prime time. The headlines screamed nightmare and madness. Names were named. Gory deeds where charted and in detail. There were later inquiries and official investigations.

Teams of scientists mingled with the swarms of reporters, each only too ready to get their face on TV and their name in print with as many theories as there were dead bodies, and that, in the earned, turned out to be a lot.

When the medical and scientific teams eventually got down to serious business, it was the ergot, that stray fungus spore, that got the blame for the whole sorry mess.

They cited historic cases when the hallucinogenic wheat fungus had caused mass hysteria, of what they said was mass madness. It was convenient enough, realistic enough, to let the brains trust indulge in a mutual back-slap and wrap up the mystery.

Arden, dazed and shambling, knew better than that. Maybe the people didn't know the full story, but they knew it wasn't just the ergot. That can make you see things, and act a bit strange, like LSD, but it doesn't cause a town to turn into a mad killing ground.

The people had lived through bad summers before, and somehow they sensed that something deep and dark and old had woken up and fed and was now gone. By some unspoken intuition, Arden kept its mouth shut about such matters.

Officialdom totted up the bodies and the missing (never to be found again in all but a few cases), and there were fifty two.

At the seminary, twenty priests and students had died on their knees in the chapel, seemingly oblivious to the fire that raged through the building. They never did find a cause for that fire. Old AJ Cronin was one of them, that good old man with a face of fury and a heart bursting with humour. I wish I'd got to know him better. I won't forget, not ever, that without his special gift in that water bottle we would never have made it out of that festering hole. His gift had allowed Paddy to complete the old prophecy that was made a long time before the old priest's God came out of the desert.

Billy Ruine was dead. Donald shot him through the head at a hundred yards, after the old soldier took a shotgun blast in the leg that took a while to heal. We three had found him sitting at the gate, with a tourniquet round his thigh. All he wanted, before any medical help, was a cigarette. There was one left in the pack. I haven't bought another since.

Without the Major's courage, without him at our backs, we'd never have made it.

They found Alan Scott a week later, in his car, or what was left after the blue-bottles had done their work. The only Milligs boy who ever made it to Upper Arden. His wife didn't stay long in town. She cut the price to get rid of the house and fled to god knows where. Some others did too.

Jimmy Allison died of a broken neck. That was put down to an accident, but I don't believe it. I stopped believing in coincidences a while back.

They found Mary Baker blown up like a blimp, and they took Tom Muir away, along with the bits and pieces in his butcher shop. He's still in the mental hospital and will probably never get out. Another couple of folk joined him, because they just didn't make it back from where they'd been flipped over by that thing under the rock.

Farmer McFall hanged himself after they dug out the remains of his son from that mean old boar that Donald shot.

They repaired the bridge on the east side, and then, with the official opening of the by-pass road, traffic flowed through town in ever decreasing numbers. The flood of pressmen trickled away as other catastrophes hit other places, and Arden became a kind of sleepy hollow, which was for the best.

It gave us time to start pulling ourselves together. As I've said, Arden has been around a long time. It's survived before.

Now you, reader, you may think, like so many people, that all of what happened can be put down to the chance mishap of the ergot fungus spores landing in the right place for it to grow. A freak psychedelic trip into hell.

Well, you can think that if you like. Maybe I imagined it all.

But remember, not everybody ate the bread at the festival. I know for a fact that neither Paddy nor Barbara had any. Donald has a wheat intolerance and never eats bread. I didn't have any that day either.

And ergot doesn't have the effect on animals that it has on humans. But bees, pigs, horses, dogs, they all went crazy at the same time. Then there were the gannets that Donald and I saw down at the bay.

Cu Saeng? Well, only a few people know the full story. I wish old Kitty Macbeth was around to tell me the whole story from way back when it started. The daughter of heroes and the Sons of Life, sitting vigil down on the point. She may have been dead, but she was with us all the way. She bequeathed the golden torc to me. It was her gift of life to us, the fulfilment of her years of watching and waiting.

Only a few people know, but the rest of the town have an instinct. They smile and Colin and Paddy and I and treat us with a certain respect. I can't explain why, and I suppose neither can they. It just is what it is. Nobody asks any questions.

I know it was all real. I saw what I saw. We did what we did, and that's that.

As for me, I'm writing now. The block is gone and the words are flowing - or at least they will when I finish this job first, and I have to do that before a new beginning.

Sure, I still get nightmares. I lurch awake, shivering and Barbara soothes my shoulders until the shudders stop, but those nightmares are fading. I'll live with them a while.

Barbara? She's in great shape now. She was in hospital for twelve weeks and spent a long, slow time recovering, and a longer painful time in therapy. But she worked at that with grim determination. She was a bit unsteady on her legs when she came home, but she insisted on climbing her front steps on her own, and the smile of triumph and joy when she reached the tip, lit by the morning sun, is imprinted on my mind forever.

She came out of the coma as near as I can estimate, just about the time her gutsy little heroine of a daughter was battling that thing in the black pit. Barbara spent some time healing at home, under her father's care, and then she just came down to my place to stay with me. She brought Paddy of course. We're a family.

I suppose I was falling in love with her before the crash, and there was no question, once she came home, that the two of us would be together. There's something special that binds us and I think it's more than just the love between man and woman. It's something that was meant and from a long time ago.

We are very happy.

Paddy is set to become the stunner her mother is. She came out of the whole thing better than any of us, and maybe that's because she had more pure power than any of us knew. She has never had nightmares.

Most of the time, she's an ordinary kid, doing ordinary kid stuff.

But there are times when I look at her as she sits quietly and I sense the serenity that is in her heart. She is the distillation of what made the one-and-onlies special.

Oh, and another thing. The golden torc around her neck never comes off. Unless it is cut in two, it never will. Whatever happened down in that hole under Ardmhor Rock, when Paddy and that thing were locked in the final battle of wills, the force of the white light fused the two golden balls together, welding them forever, completing the circle.

And Colin Blackwood. Badger. Some folk still call him that, and he doesn't mind. His hair still has those two white lines, though he has it cropped short now. But his eyes sparkle with bright fire, and he's one of the best people I have ever known.

Colin had a lot of catching up to do. He went down to Strowan's Well still a child and came back from Ardmhor a man. He went down to the rock to face the thing that had robbed him of his growing years and stolen his youth, and he knew what he was going to confront. That speaks for itself.

Now he's all fire and high humour, as sharp as he was in those long ago days when he was the third of us. He devours books and he's gone to college to catch up on stuff he never had the chance to learn. Before our escapade, his horizons reached no further than the parish boundary. Now they are boundless.

You can often find him, when he's not hitting his studies, down at old Kitty's shack, sitting on the step reading a book. He's working quietly on translating the whole of the message on the standing stone and he's promised to write it down for us one day. No-one else knows about that.

He's a good-looking guy and gets sidelong glances in the street, where previously there was only pity. Linda, down in Holly's Bar, seems to have a thing for him and she could do a lot worse. I keep hoping, because I love him a lot.

And then there's me. What can I tell you?

Kitty Macbeth told me I'd have a long life, and while there were a few times I would have reckoned she was dead wrong, maybe she was right after all. The old lady had some real power, and it worked through, long after the thing under the rock killed her, so, barring accidents, I am looking to a long and peaceful time, with the people who mean most to me.

The old woman said I would write, and I am writing all of this just to get the monkey off my back. After I finish, I have no fears. Donald hardly limps when he and I go fishing or bird watching, or drinking up at the Chandler. It took me a while to go back to Holly's bar, but it seems Helen has no memory of that strange incident in her bedroom. Donald has taken over from my grandfather and Jimmy Allison as the older stalwart in my life, and he looks as if he'll last forever.

As you may have gathered, I live in Arden and probably always will, I remember, when I started this, I was driving along the Kilcreggan Road and wondering which way really was home. Now I know. I'm home.

Arden is an old place, and with the ring road, it's a quieter, more secluded spot than before. It has some bad memories, terrible memories, but we'll recover. We'll live to fight another day. The nightmare is over.

So maybe sometimes I do wake up in the dark, hurtled out of a dream that has sent me back to the two times I faced Cu Saeng in his lair. But I can live with that.

And as far as this story is concerned, I can only tell you that it happened.

THE END.

What the critics say about Joe Donnelly.

" Scales the heights of sheer horror...not for the fainthearted."; - Today ".

A magnificent psychological thriller...guaranteed to send an icy shiver through even the most hardened connoisseur."; - Pulp Fiction .

" Scotland's Stephen King"; - Sunday Post .

" Expect to be gripped from beginning to end."; - Maxim.

" Joe Donnelly just gets better and better... Nightshade...generates a spiralling sense of unease as the potent force of the forest is awakened."; - The List.

" Joe Donnelly scaled the heights of sheer horror...Not for the fainthearted"; - Today.

" Exciting and highly readable."; - The Guardian .

" Donnelly's description of the natural world is as interesting and clearly drawn as that of the supernatural."; - Observer" .

" Pulse-racing horror...very satisfying."; - Glasgow Herald .

" Donnelly scores with unusually believable characters, well realised settings and thoroughly researched mythological backgrounds."; - Daily Telegraph" .

... . raises Joe Donnelly to being one opf the two best horror writers in the UK...probably the best horror novel of the year."; Fantasy Bookshelf .

Describing the book as 'fast-paced' doesn't feel enough, since the book has the feel of a movie treatment. The story really reads like a film- Editor, Ovi Magazine.

Other Joe Donnelly books available on Kindle

Dark Valley

Shrike

Incubus

Risk

Havock Junction

Nightshade

Full Proof

Plus the "Book of Ways"; Trilogy:

Mythlands

Spellbinder

The Shadowmaster