John gave a sympathetic nod.

The old man stood up. "Harry's going to take the letter up to the Water Mill. Mr. Kelly will know what to do."

Cynthia spoke more loudly at her father. "Dad. John Newton here lives up at the Water Mill now. He's a famous writer."

John turned to the woman. "This Mr. Kelly. Did he live at the Water Mill once?"

"Yes. He was the local schoolteacher, but it's going back sometime now. Let's see, Dad's eighty-two next, so it must have been more than seventy years ago when Mr. Kelly lived up there. But I expect your home's changed a lot since then."

"I imagine so. I think there are some photographs of the place from around then. I'll have to dig them out."

"Color televisions," the old man was saying. "That's the future. People won't go to the cinema anymore. Not when they can sit in the comfort of their homes and-"

"Oh Dad, here's Robert. He's brought you your paper."

John looked up to see Robert Gregory walk quickly across the lawn. He didn't look one happy bunny. He was pocketing the gate key while stabbing John with suspicious glances. Nevertheless, he boomed out a hearty greeting. "h.e.l.lo there. John Newton. How are you?

"Fine thanks. And you?"

"Can't complain." The handshake was as hearty as the voice. "Do anything for you?"

Here comes reason-for-being-here time. John smiled. "As you know, I saw Mr. Price yesterday. I found myself walking by here this morning and thought I'd drop in and see how he wasa just for my own peace of mind if anything."

John was surprised (but didn't show it) by Robert Gregory's reaction. An expression of pure suspicion flitted across the man's face. But he recovered quickly. "Well, thank you. That's most decent of you, John. Most decent."

"Color televisions," Stan Price told them. "Color televisions in every home."

"There's your paper, Dad," Robert boomed.

"Is it time for supper? I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" Robert awarded John a gla.s.sy smile. "You've only just had breakfast, Dad. Now, John. Can we get you a drink of something?"

"No thanks. I just called by to see if Mr. Price was all right."

"Any reason why he shouldn't be?" Suddenly Robert Gregory's voice adopted a p.r.i.c.kly edge.

"No, not at all. But I felt guilty after rushing off like that yesterday when you were looking for him."

"Oh, of course," Cynthia said remembering. "How's your daughter? You were taking her to the hospital, weren't you?"

"She'd taken a tumble off her bike. She's fine now." He smiled. "In fact, she's so proud of the bandage round her head I don't think she'll ever take it off."

Robert Gregory had returned to his best-of-buddies voice. "I'll walk you to the gate. We have to keep it locked these days." He glanced at Stan. "Better safe than sorry."

"Of course. Goodbye, Mrs. Gregory."

"Tea for two," the old man was saying. He looked so tired it was a struggle to support his head on that pencil thin neck of his. "Tea for two and chocolate cake. Harry's hungry, too, mother."

"I'll get Dad a cold drink," Cynthia said, relieved she could return to the house. Clearly, she was acutely embarra.s.sed by her father's senility.

John made a point of saying goodbye to the old man. Although he must have been a ghost of his former self, John didn't see why he should be ignored.

"Nice weather we've been having," Robert Gregory said conversationally as he accompanied John to the main gate a moment later.

"Let's hope it stays like this. We're having a barbecue this weekend." John noticed how the man shot glances at the main gate then at the door in the wall, no doubt wondering how John had entered the garden if they were locked. That would be Mr. Gregory's very own mystery for today. Figuring out how John Newton walked through walls.

John found himself not liking Gregory very much. He was too hearty, too familiar. And there was something shifty and secretive about him.

Let's hope the mystery of my arrival keeps you awake in the small hours, you little creep.

"Here we go," boomed the man, pulling a key from his pocket like a jailer.

John squinted against the sunlight, then reached into his pocket "Uha trust me, I'd forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on tight."

"What's that, John?"

"I left my sungla.s.ses on the bench. I'll just get them."

Before Robert Gregory could respond John jogged across the lawn to where old Stan Price sat on the bench beneath the shady branches. John was conscious of Robert-the-creep-Gregory's searching stare in his back. There were no sungla.s.ses, of course; even so, he mimed picking them from the bench then slipping them into his pocket.

John had intended to talk to Stan Price one last time (he doubted he would get another chance to speak directly to him). He planned to simply ask what was in the letter, so getting confirmation that the letter was similar to the one he, John Newton, had received-and Keith Haslem, too.

Stan looked up into John's face. "You're not Harry, are you?" he said softly.

"No, I'm not, Stan."

"And I'm not young any more, am I?"

How could John answer that one?

Stan continued, "I live here with my daughter and son-in-law."

John tilted his head in surprise. Before, when he'd talked to the man, it had been like talking to a ghost. As if only a splinter of the man's personality still survived in his softening brain. Now he sounded rational.

"I'm sorry," The blue eyes fixed steadily on John's. "I didn't catch your name?"

"John Newton."

"Pleased to meet you, John Newtona call me Stan. I apologize if I got you confused with someone else. I get so forgetful these days. My G.o.da I hate what I've become, you know. I really wish I could kill myself."

"Stan, I'm sure your family wouldn't be happy to hear you saying that."

"Oh, wouldn't they, John?"

"Stan," John said gently, "I received a letter a few days ago. I think it's similar to one you received."

"You found it under a stone in the garden?"

"Yes."

"Oh, John." Stan spoke with an aching sincerity. "I'm so sorry for you, son. Really, I am. You've done nothing to deserve ita"

The blue eyes clouded a little, but he kept on shaking his head as if he'd heard bad news.

"Stan. Who was the letter from? Why do the letters frighten people so much?"

Stan looked up into John's face. A breeze disturbed the branches, sending a dappling of sunlight streaming across the old face. It looked as if spirit hands ran across the man's head, trying to steal away what was left of his mind.

"Stan? Why do the letters scare people?"

"John, I'ma" The breeze gave a ghostly whisper to the trees. Stan's voice became a croak. "I'm hungry. Harry, I haven't eaten for days. Harry, ask them to bring me my suppera pleasea pleasea"

As John stepped back, Robert Gregory's voice echoed from the garden walls. "Did you find them, John?"

John looked across to the man, nodded, and patted his pocket. Then under his breath he said to Stan Price, "Take care of yourself, Pop."

With that he crossed the lawn. Robert Gregory told him to have a good day, then he shut the gate behind John. The key turned loudly in the lock.

John walked along the street. The sun shone. Open s.p.a.ces were flooded with light. But, as if noticing for the first time, John saw that shadows were darkest on a summer's day. They seemed to hide beneath bushes, in corners, below cars. They seemed to watch him walk by. They seemeda he tilted his head, lookinga they seemed different. Altered somehow.

That night John Newton got another letter.

CHAPTER 11.

1.

"Is it deep?"

"Fairly deep."

"Deep enough to drown?"

"Easily. That's why you must treat the lake with respect."

"Does that mean we shouldn't call it rude names?"

"You know what 'respect' means, Elizabeth. Don't go messing around at the water's edge. Don't go out on the boat unless I or your mother are with you."

"Or Paul?"

"Possibly."

"Dad? Have people drowned in our lake?"

"Not that I know of. Elizabeth! Be careful when you move about the boat."

"I won't tip it up, Dad."

They were out on the lake in the row boat. The evening sun drenched the Water Mill with amber lights, turning the walls into a mottling of warm flesh tints. Elizabeth had been keen to row the boat herself. In fact, she'd been keen to play in the boat alone, but that was tempting fate too much, so John had agreed to be the pa.s.senger. Now he sat in the stern, trailing his fingers in the water.

There wasn't any real destination to head for in the boat. The lake, roughly circular in shape, covered an area of maybe four tennis courts and that was it. Long ago its purpose was to serve as a reservoir for the Mill, providing a permanent and controllable flow of water to the turbine that drove the millstones. It also served as a fishing pond and swimming pool. No doubt fish still lurked beneath the reeds, but as John had never found the idea of fishing at all appealing, the denizens of the lake would be safe from him.

"Try and pull the oars together at the same time," he told Elizabeth. "We're going round in circles."

"Like this?"

"That's bettera pull harder on the left onea no, that's your righta pull harder with this one." He tapped her left hand with his finger. "That's it. We're going in a straight line now."

"What time will Mum be home?"

"Soon, I hope."

"She's not usually this late."

"Perhaps she got held up in the traffic or had to worka whoa, watch out for the island."

The boat's underside sc.r.a.ped over a submerged stone.

"We've hit an iceberg!" Elizabeth grinned, her eyes bright. "Send an SOS to the Carpathia."

He laughed. "Women and children first."

Elizabeth effortlessly slipped into a game. John saw that in her imagination the boat was holed below the water line, that they were sinking fast. He trailed his hand in the water, watching his daughter row frantically for sh.o.r.e, her hair flying out, laughter bubbling from her lips. "She's going down by the head. SOS!" she called. "Women and children first."

"And writersa don't forget the poor old writers."

He looked down in the direction of the house. Val appeared on the path. In one hand she carried her briefcase, in the other her jacket. She looked frazzled and more than ready to unwind after what he guessed must have been a trying day at the office.

He waved, she returned the wave with her briefcase, and although deadbeat she flashed a warm smile at him.

"Mum's home," he said. "Noa Elizabeth, don't stand up in the boat."

"I'm only waving."

"You're best sitting down to wave." He smiled. "We don't want to find ourselves swimming home, do we?"