Eight o'clock came and went. Hunger drove Zaki downstairs. It was growing dark in the house and the light was on in the kitchen, it streamed out through the door into the unlit hall. Zaki's father was leaning over the kitchen table, his hands resting on either side of the spread-out plans, his head hung down between his raised shoulders. Zaki stood in the doorway and waited for his father to notice him. After what seemed a long time, his father looked up. Catching sight of Zaki, he quickly straightened and tried, with a smile, to hide the worry on his face, but it continued to hover around his eyes.

'I took the potatoes off. I think they're cooked,' said Zaki to break the silence.

'Oh, yes. I expect they are. Sorry, I forgot about them.'

'I'm a bit hungry,' Zaki ventured.

'Yes,' his father said, looking around the kitchen in a vague sort of way as if hoping a meal might have materialised while he was out. 'Yes, I . . . I got distracted. There's a problem with one of the gullies on the roof.' He tapped the plans with a finger. 'What about mashed potato and some beans?'

'Fine,' said Zaki and, when his father continued to stare at the plans, he added 'Do you want me to mash the potatoes?'

'Um yes, if you could. I'll do you some beans.'

Zaki mashed the potatoes while his father opened a tin of beans and tipped them into a saucepan.

'Where's Michael?' asked Zaki without looking up from his mashing.

'He's gone to practise with his band,' his father replied after only the slightest pause.

Zaki pictured the guitar lying on Michael's bed. Whatever the truth was, his father was hiding it. Of course, his father didn't know that he had overheard the argument.

When the potatoes looked thoroughly mashed, Zaki got himself a plate from the cupboard.

'Are you going to have some?' he asked his father, reaching for a second plate.

'No, I'll have something later.' His father folded the plans to make s.p.a.ce for Zaki on the kitchen table. He spooned beans on to Zaki's plate. The sauce ran around the mound of mashed potato, creating an island in a steaming sea. Zaki took a fork from the drawer and then sat at the table. His father hesitated before gathering up the plans and turning to leave the room.

'Can we phone Mum?' Zaki asked quickly before his father could get through the door.

For a moment his father didn't answer. In that moment, Zaki was afraid. Afraid his father would find a reason to say no; afraid he would be denied the sound of his mother's voice. He needed to hear her.

His father half turned, the smile that didn't reach his eyes, again on his face. 'Yes, if you like,' he said, the tone of voice hinting that there was something unreasonable in the request. 'I spoke to her earlier today. She knows about your shoulder.'

'I'd still like to talk to her.'

'Yeah OK.' His father returned to the table and wrote the number with its long, international dialling code on a sc.r.a.p of paper. 'You can call her when you finish your tea.'

Left alone, Zaki quickly shovelled beans and potato into his mouth. The beans were too hot, but the potato was stone cold. Mixed together they became an edible temperature.

As soon as his plate was empty, Zaki took the sc.r.a.p of paper to the phone and carefully keyed in the numbers. He listened to the tone. Was it engaged or was it ringing? 'Bee . . . Bee . . . Bee . . .' Why did Swiss phones have to ring differently?

'Guten Tag. Bitte sehr?' said the woman who answered the phone.

'Mum?' Zaki asked a little cautiously, afraid he might have misdialled.

'h.e.l.lo, sweetheart.' His mother's voice switched into the cheery sounds he was so used to. 'I heard about your poor shoulder. Does it hurt a lot?'

'It's not too too bad,' Zaki replied with careful emphasis, so that his mother would know that he was suffering terribly but was being brave. bad,' Zaki replied with careful emphasis, so that his mother would know that he was suffering terribly but was being brave.

'How did you do it? Dad said you fell on a rock. Is that right?'

'It's a long story.'

'Well, you will be careful now, won't you? Don't go falling out of a tree or something. You don't want to make it worse.'

There was a pause.

'Are you you all right, Mum?' Zaki asked, not quite knowing why. all right, Mum?' Zaki asked, not quite knowing why.

'Of course I am! I'm fine. I've been busy, but I'm fine.' Then his mother chatted on about places she'd been and things she'd seen. Zaki listened, wanting her to keep talking and talking so that he could go on listening to the rea.s.suring sound of her voice; he didn't really listen to the words, he just wanted to know that she was there.

'But I almost forgot!' she exclaimed, breaking off. 'You started your new school this week. How are you getting on?'

So his father hadn't told her about the business with the hawk. 'I'll tell you all about it when you come home,' he said.

There was another pause. Zaki waited, willing her to say when that would be, longing to ask the direct question 'When are you coming back?' but unwilling to risk the disappointment of hearing her say 'I don't know,' or 'Soon, but I'm not sure when,' or 'I'll tell you as soon as I know.'

'Well . . .' said his mother after a bit, 'I suppose I'd better be getting on.'

Zaki's heart sank. 'Do you want to talk to Dad?'

'I spoke to him earlier. Is Michael around?'

'He's out.'

'Practising with his band, I suppose?'

'I don't know.'

'I hope he's not letting it distract him from his schoolwork. But I'm sure your dad wouldn't let that happen.'

Could that have been what the argument had been about? Zaki wondered. No, surely not.

'Send your brother a big hug from me, won't you,' said his mother. 'It's all right, I won't ask you to kiss him from me.'

They both laughed.

'How's Grandad?'

'He's fine. He's got a new cat.'

'Grandad doesn't like cats!'

'He only pretends he doesn't. Anyway, it's not really his cat, but he gives it milk.'

'What does Jenna think?'

'She's jealous.'

'I'm not surprised.'

Zaki tried to think of things to say that would prolong the conversation but now his mother was saying goodbye, explaining she was going out, that she had to hurry, and as soon as he managed to mumble his goodbyes the phone went dead and she was gone.

Zaki sat looking at the phone. He reran the conversation in his head, holding on to the faint echo of his mother's laugh. He pictured her leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of tea cradled between both hands, laughing. It was the sort of laugh that made you smile no matter how you were feeling. Whenever Zaki thought about his mother, her laughter was the thing he could remember most clearly. Then he realised something he hadn't thought about before she left for Switzerland, she had stopped laughing. It had been gradual. When had it started? When they moved to Moor Lane? He couldn't say for certain, but now that he thought about it he couldn't remember her laughing in the months before she left. Did she stop laughing because she was going to Switzerland, or did she go to Switzerland because she had stopped laughing? she seemed to be happy now. Had they made her unhappy? Zaki wanted to ask her what they had done. He put his hand on the telephone but she was going out, she wouldn't be there. He folded the sc.r.a.p of paper with her number on it and put it in his pocket.

Zaki could hear the sound of the television in the living room. His father would be watching the news. He put his dirty dinner plate in the dishwasher before leaving the kitchen. Pa.s.sing the living-room doorway, Zaki saw his father sitting in one of the armchairs; the television was on but his father was staring at the window. Zaki continued on to his bedroom, where he took his mother's telephone number from his pocket and hid it in his sock drawer, as if it were something he shouldn't have.

That night Zaki tried to stay awake, listening for the sound of his brother returning, but the events of the day had worn him out and he drifted into a troubled sleep. He was in the cave again the skeleton had gone and in its place, on the rock ledge, crouched a dark, shadowy form. It was growing. Each time he took a breath, the thing on the ledge got bigger. He tried not to breathe but he couldn't hold his breath for ever. It would fill the cave. It would suffocate him! He wanted to escape, but he couldn't move couldn't turn his back on that thing on the ledge. He woke. The house was quiet. He was sure the dark thing from his dream was somewhere in the room. Perhaps he was still dreaming.

Chapter 13.

Breakfast the next morning was eaten in almost total silence. Michael had returned sometime in the night from wherever he had been and was up and dressed uncharacteristically early. Normally, Zaki would have demanded to know what his brother had been doing, maybe made some joke about a secret girlfriend, but Michael never once allowed their eyes to meet, closing himself off behind a barrier of silent hostility.

'If you're ready to go, I'll drop you at school,' their father offered. 'I've got to go that way, I need some things from the builders' merchant.'

'Thanks, Dad,' said Zaki, grateful that someone had broken the awful silence and had driven the shadows back into the corners. He raced upstairs to get his school things. He picked up the bracelet and put it in his pocket; they must ask a.n.u.sha's father this afternoon if he had any idea where it was from. Even the thought of facing Mrs Palmer was better than spending any more time in this house.

The three of them climbed into the front of the van, Zaki in the middle. 'I suppose you'll want the usual rubbish,' said their father, selecting Radio 1. Michael leant across in front of Zaki and turned the radio off.

'Oh, for heaven's sake, ease up, will you, Michael!' snapped their father. But Michael maintained his stony silence as they reversed out of the drive and headed into town.

'Is it OK if I go to a friend's place after school?' Zaki asked. He had the logbook in his rucksack. They could look at it at a.n.u.sha's house.

'Sure. Are you going to Craig's?'

'No someone you don't know.'

'A new friend good what's his name?'

'a.n.u.sha,' said Zaki. 'And it's a girl.' Zaki glanced at his brother, expecting some quip, but there was no reaction.

'Fine,' his father said. 'Will you be home for tea?'

'Probably.'

'Well, call me if you're going to be late.'

Feeling that the atmosphere in the van had lightened, Zaki decided to try to penetrate his brother's brooding silence. 'I spoke to Mum last night,' he said brightly. Michael turned slowly to look at him, and that's when Zaki saw the terrible darkness behind his brother's eyes and he shivered, even though it was hot in the van's crowded cab.

'What did she say?' Michael asked.

'Just what she's been doing, and that,' said Zaki.

'Nothing else?'

'No.' Zaki waited for his brother to say more. 'Why?'

A sudden sense of dread, a fear of something he didn't know that he should know, gripped Zaki.

'So she didn't say she wasn't coming home?'

The words circled around Zaki's head but his mind refused to let them enter.

'What?' Zaki said.

'Michael!' growled his father.

'She's not coming home,' Michael repeated.

His father braked hard and swung the van to the side of the road. There was an angry blast from the horn of the car behind as its driver, taken by surprise, had to swerve to pa.s.s them.

'Michael, it's not as simple as that,' he heard his father say, but Michael's words had broken through and were now imbedded deep inside Zaki like a barbed hook in the gut of a fish.

'It seems pretty simple to me,' said Michael.

'Michael . . . listen your mother and I need some time that's all. Nothing's settled, nothing's definite.'

'You're splitting up! Admit it. Just admit it! Don't you think we deserve to know?'

'Dad, is this true?' Zaki managed to force the words out, willing his father to deny it.

Michael opened the pa.s.senger door and got out. Slamming the door shut, he set off down the road on foot. His father lowered his head to rest it on the steering wheel as though utterly exhausted, then, taking a deep breath, straightened and sat back.

'Zaki, I'm really sorry,' he said. 'We should have talked to you.'

Zaki didn't think he was crying, his body was quite still, but the tears were pouring down his face, dripping off his chin into his lap. He picked up his rucksack from the floor by his feet, opened the van door and followed after his brother. His father made no move to stop him, but remained sitting in the parked van.

Michael was walking fast. At first Zaki wanted to run and catch him up, but it was as though the earth's gravity had suddenly doubled, dragging him down, making his limbs heavy, and it was all he could do to keep walking. The gap between Zaki and Michael steadily grew wider and wider until eventually Michael was no longer in sight.

When Zaki reached the intersection at the bottom of the hill he should have continued around to the right towards school but he felt an overpowering urge to be alone, and he turned left instead, taking the road that led out of town. He walked past the local moorings. The tide was out and the little motorboats and day-sailors were sitting on the mud, leaning at drunken angles while gulls and ducks searched the silt around them for anything edible. He continued on past the waterside apartments and pubs and then up a small rise, away from the harbour through the scatter of suburban houses on the outskirts of Kingsbridge. He hadn't meant to skip school; the thought that that was what he was doing hardly entered his head. It took all his concentration to walk steady and upright in a world that had been knocked off kilter. Surrounded by the familiar, he felt totally lost.

After walking for a further quarter of an hour, Zaki reached the top of the rise and the road began to drop back down to the water. The downward slope kept Zaki moving forward, but when he came to the long, low stone bridge with its many arches that carries the road across a branch of the estuary he hesitated. Should he continue on across the bridge? Where was he going, anyway?

To the right of the road a short flight of steps led down to a large old landing stage, evidence of the days when fast fruit schooners traded between Salcombe, the Bahamas, the Mediterranean and the Azores. Now, local people used the stage to store dinghies and yacht tenders. Zaki and Michael had sometimes come here to fish. Being early on a weekday, there were few people about. Zaki descended the steps and sat on the big rough-cut stone blocks that formed the edge of the landing stage and stared out across the water. A woman walking a small dog came up the slipway from the water's edge. The dog trotted around sniffing busily at tufts of gra.s.s and weeds. The woman paused near Zaki. 'Shouldn't you be in school?' she asked. Zaki ignored her. The woman waited, but when Zaki continued to stare into s.p.a.ce she tut-tutted, then called her dog and climbed the steps up to the road.

A hole was opening up in Zaki's stomach, a hopeless, aching emptiness. He had a desperate longing to be anywhere in time except in this moment.

A herring gull alighted a few metres from where Zaki sat. It folded it wings, shaking the feathers to settle them into place. Zaki felt a rising irritation at this new invasion of his solitude, but when he turned to look at the bird his attention was trapped by the glitter of the gull's eye. He began to gather together some part of himself something that wasn't part of his body. He detached this inner self until he was free from physical sensation, and then, riding on a breath, he fled from his body into the body of the gull; fled the aching emptiness and the desperate feeling of loss. Escaped, for a time at least, from his brother's words.

He stretched his wings, bent his legs slightly for the take-off spring, then launched himself into s.p.a.ce. As he climbed upward, wing beat by wing beat, he saw his human self still sitting on the stone edge of the landing stage. He flew fast down the estuary, drawn by the emptiness of the open sea and the desire to be lost among the endless rolling waves.