The Dark.

James Herbert.

Part One.

. . . And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness . . .

Genesis 1:4.

(R.S.V.).

It was a bright, sunny day. Not, you might have thought, the sort of day for hunting ghosts. Nor was the house the kind of house you might expect to be haunted. But then psychic phenomena pay scant attention to time, place, or weather.

It was a nice road, but ordinary, with that mid-morning, suburban quietness that areas only minutes away from high streets have. The houses themselves were an odd mixture of semis and detached buildings; bright new town houses sparkled at the far end, as yet undaunted by the daily grime.

I drove slowly down the road, looking for the right house, and drew into the kerb when I saw the sign. 'Beechwood'. Unimpressive.

This was one of the detached buildings, tall, grey-bricked, Victorian. I took off my driving glasses and slipped them into the glove compartment; then I rubbed my eyes and settled back to study the house for a few moments.

The small area in front, which obviously had been a garden at one time, had been concreted over to provide an off-the-road parking space for cars; but there were no cars there. I had been told the house would be empty. The windows were opaque from the glare of the sun and for a brief, uneasy moment, it seemed the house itself was staring out at me through mirror sunglasses.

I quickly shrugged off the feeling imagination could sometimes be a hindrance in my job and reached over to the back seat. The black case was neither large nor heavy, but it contained most of the equipment I would need. The air had a deceptive edge to it when I stepped out on to the pavement, a hint that winter would soon have its turn. A woman whose small child preferred to skip rather than walk gave me a curious look as they passed by, as though my presence in her road had broken a routine. I nodded but the contact made her lose interest.

After locking my car, I crossed the concrete area and climbed the five stone steps leading to the front door. There I paused, placing the case by my feet, and searched for the key. I found it and dropped it. The attached faded address card flapped loosely in the air when I retrieved the key and inserted it into the lock. For some reason I stopped and listened before I pushed the heavy door open, peering uselessly through the leaded glass of its top section. There were no sounds and no moving shadows.

I wasn't nervous, nor even apprehensive, for I saw no reason to be. I suppose my initial hesitation was simply due to caution. Empty houses had always made me so. The door swung open and, picking up my case, I stepped inside. I closed the door behind me.

The rays of the sun shone brilliantly through the leaded glass of the door and windows on either side, casting my own shadow deeply and well-defined along the hallway. A broad staircase, its ascent beginning only five feet from where I stood, disappeared into the upper portion of the house, and near the top, from the overhang of the first floor, there dangled a pair of legs.

One shoe a man's had fallen off and lay on its side halfway down the stairs; I could see the heel of the man's sock was worn, the pink flesh almost visible through the punctured material. The wall beside the hanging legs was scuffed and blackened as though it had been marked by the man's death-throes. I remember dropping my case and walking slowly down the hall, craning my head upwards, not wishing to mount the stairs, but strangely curious to see the rest of the corpse. I remember peering into the gloom of the stairwell and seeing the bloated face above the grotesquely stretched neck, the ridiculously small loop of plastic flex, no more than three inches in diameter, biting into his flesh as though someone had tugged at his legs to pull it tight. I remember the smell of death coming to me, subtle yet cloying, elusive but all around. It was fresh, unlike the heavy, pungent odour of stale corpses.

I backed away and stopped when I came into contact with the edge of the open doorway opposite the staircase. I turned in surprise and looked into the room; the others were in there, some lying on the floor, some sprawled in armchairs, some upright, staring, as though watching me. But they were all dead. I knew it not just from the smell, the unseeing eyes, the mutilated bodies. I knew it from the stagnant atmosphere, the stillness of the room itself.

I pushed myself away from the door, sliding my body along the wall for support, my legs suddenly weak. A movement ahead made me stop and I saw there was a small door beneath the staircase. I could only go forward towards the sun-filled front door, not daring to rush back into the depths of the house. The door under the stairs moved again, only slightly, and I realized a draught was disturbing it. I moved closer, keeping my back pressed hard against the wall, and soon I was level with the small opening, sliding past, going beyond it. And then, for some reason still unknown to me, I reached out and pulled the door open, its back slamming against the rising staircase, rebounding so it half closed again. I thought I saw movement but perhaps it was only the shadows receding from the sudden light.

There were stairs leading down to what must have been the cellar. All I could see was the blackness down there, a deep, almost solid darkness. And it was the darkness more than the corpses that made me flee from the house . . .

1.

She sat at the kitchen table, lonely, brooding. She knew she had to face up to it: their life together was no good, it never would be. The idea of moving into the new town house seemed fine at the time; she thought a real home of their own would change his attitude. No more drab flats where everything mended, everything painted, was for the benefit of the landlord. A chance to build something solid, a foundation for their relationship. Marriage didn't matter to her, she'd never pressure him. But the house was right for children . . .

They had snapped up the chance of buying the place, for property prices were constantly soaring, reaching an unbelievable level, settling for a few months, then continuing their relentless upward flight. They had been hesitant about asking the agent to repeat the purchase price again, almost afraid he would realize his mistake and add on an extra three or four thousand. He had confirmed the original cost.

Richard had been a little suspicious and she had stepped in quickly with a firm offer. Whatever unseen drawbacks there might be, this was at least a new start for them. Besides, it was mostly her savings that would pay the ten per cent demanded by the building society towards the cost of the property. The existing owners had already moved out 'Gone abroad,' said the agent so within a month they had settled themselves in. It wasn't long before the rumours reached them.

She looked down at the empty Diazepam container before her on the table, picking it up and twisting the plastic tube between her fingers. There had been seven left that morning. She had steadily cut down the Valium tablets, making progress, moving away from her breakdown of six months ago, suppressing the memory, coping. But Richard hadn't changed. Her near self-destruction had only stemmed the flow briefly; his old ways had soon come slinking back. His excuse was the house now, the road, the other houses. The place made him uneasy, people were unfriendly. Others were moving away at least three families in the two months they had lived there. There was something wrong with the road.

She had felt it too, almost as soon as they had moved in, but her uneasiness had been quelled by her new hope. Things were meant to change, to become better; instead they had become worse. His drinking had always been hard to take, but bearable his job as a rep for a finished-art studio demanded he drank with clients, anyway. The women he occasionally slept with didn't matter to her any more knowing his inadequacy, she doubted he even enjoyed himself. It was his resentment that had become impossible to live with.

He resented being trapped by the responsibility of owning a home, resented being in debt to a building society, resented her demands, both physical and mental, on him. He resented being the cause of her breakdown.

Now that she had finally come to bear the physical marks of his bitterness bruising, scratchmarks she knew it had to end, it was pointless going on. Even though they were not married, the house was in their joint names. But who would be the one to go? Would she come out with nothing after four years of torment? If he insisted, she knew she couldn't stand up to him. She smashed the empty tube down on to the kitchen table. The pills hadn't helped at at all.

She stood, her chair scraping harshly against the tiled kitchen floor, and strode towards the sink. She filled the kettle, water splashing fiercely off the metal side, soaking her blouse. She swore, dumping the kettle on the gas ring. After switching on the gas she reached for her cigarettes, the packet lying open on the breadboard. She snatched one out and thrust the end into the gas flame, then quickly into her mouth, drawing her breath in sharply to make it light. Her fingers drummed against the aluminium draining-board, becoming more rigid as she tapped until it was her fist beating down, harder and harder, the sound echoing around the small kitchen. It stopped when a tear slid from her face on to her thinly covered breast, the single damp sensation more disturbing than the overall tap splatter of a few moments earlier. But one tear was all she would allow herself. She rubbed a hand roughly against her eyes, then drew in deeply on the cigarette, looking out through the window into the street below, the lights casting isolated silver pools along its length. Would he come home tonight? She was no longer sure if she even cared. She would have her coffee and go to bed; there she would decide what to do.

She lit another cigarette the last one, she noticed with annoyance before carrying the coffee through the kitchen towards the stairs leading to the bedroom. The town house consisted of three floors, the ground being the garage and back workroom, the second level the kitchen and lounge-dining area, the third the two bedrooms and bathroom. She paused at the top of the stairs descending to the front door: should she lock him out? Steam rose in spiralling wisps from the coffee as she pondered. Abruptly she stepped on to the top stair, her mind made up and, just as abruptly, her hand grasped tightly around the balustrade. It was dark down there.

Normally light shone in from the outside street-lamp through the reeded glass door, bathing the tiny hallway in its diffused light. Now she could only see a heavy blackness. Strange, she hadn't noticed the street-light not working from the kitchen. Twisting her body, she flicked the switch controlling the downstairs light. Nothing happened, but the sudden movement caused hot coffee to spill over on to her fingers. She gasped with shock and quickly changed the mug over to her other hand, sticking her burnt fingers into her mouth to lick the offending liquid off. The pain served to remind her of the pain she might receive if she did lock Richard out. She stepped back on to the landing and walked down the hallway, her troubled mind not noticing the bright artificial light shining through the hall window from the street-lamp outside.

Pinky Burton was still angry. The boys in the house opposite had no right to call him such names. They were nothing more than pimply-faced louts, yobbos. He couldn't understand why he had even bothered to be friendly with the younger one, the one with the long, golden locks. Golden when he bothered to wash his unruly mop, that is. Neither had any respect for their elders, not even their father. Father? God, it was little wonder the boys were so offensive with a big abrasive man like that as a father. It was hardly surprising the brute's wife had run off years ago. She obviously couldn't stand any of them.

It used to be a nice respectable road at one time, before the riff-raff moved in. He could remember when one had to have wealth to live in this road, and every family was respectable. And respected. These two guttersnipes certainly had no respect for him. It was nonsense to suggest he would take the time and trouble to spy on them. Perhaps he had watched them sometimes as they had worked, stripped to the waist, on the older one's motorcycle. What of it? He was interested in machinery, always had been since his RAF days. The younger one wasn't so bad at first at least one could have a conversation with him but the other yobbo, the sneery one, had obviously influenced his brother. How dare they suggest . . . just because a man . . . how did they find out about that anyway?

Pinky turned over in bed and pulled the covers up over his ears. The road was full of nastiness. Never used to be. Nasty modern boxes they called town houses at one end, the old, bigger houses becoming dilapidated, allowed to run down; and greasy-haired louts like those two roaring up and down all night on motorbikes. Well, perhaps they were the only two, and they had one machine between them, but they still made enough noise for a dozen or more. And then there was the house further down, the big detached one what on earth could have caused something like that? Totally unbelievable. Totally insane. Sign of the times. New worse atrocities every day. Made one wonder if there was any goodness at all left in the world. But nothing could match the inhumanity he had found in . . . Pinky still found it hard to form the word in his mind. Why had they sent him there? Hadn't he done enough for his country in the last war? Had it been necessary to punish him so harshly for one misdemeanour? The child had suffered no real harm. All right, so there had been other minor offences to take into account. But they were minor, small lapses on his part. It wasn't as if he had ever actually hurt anyone. The degradation inside that . . . place. The degenerates. The vicious, mean bullyboys. To put a man like him alongside such animals. And when he had been released after months that seemed like a thousand years, his position at the club had gone. None of the members had rallied round to support him as their bar manager. No, it was the cold shoulder, them and their bloody tweeds and afternoon golf, their bloody cocker spaniels and crusty-fannied wives. People he had known for years saying nasty, spiteful things. Thank God Mother had left the house thank God she was long dead before it all came out. The shock would have killed her. He would never have been able to afford the place on the measly sum he earned as a part-time barman. And it was humiliating to be on a 'suspect list' of sex offenders. When any crime was committed in the area that had any sexual connotations he could be sure of a police visit. Routine enquiries they always said. Well it wasn't bloody routine to him!

He turned over restlessly on to his back and stared hatefully at the light patterns on the ceiling. The nebulous shapes shivered as a breeze disturbed the leaves on the tree outside, giving the reflected light from the street-lamp a living, embryonic quality. Pinky swore at the ceiling.

The jeers, the sly insinuations, from the two louts over the road had cut deep that day. His other neighbours had always treated him with respect, had always politely acknowledged his greetings, had never pried into his affairs. But these . . . these scumbags had shouted out their obscenities for the whole world to hear, had laughed at him when his own temper had forced him to run back indoors. He did not know what he might have done if he hadn't. Well, tomorrow the police would be informed of the racket they made with their infernal machine. He was still a citizen and, as such, entitled to his rights. Just because he had made a mistake once, it didn't mean he had lost his civil rights! He bit into his lip and choked back a sob. He knew he would never venture into a police station again, not of his own volition. Those bastards, those dirty, little, long-haired bastards!

Pinky closed his eyes tightly and when he opened them, wondered why it had become so dark, why the patterns on the ceiling had disappeared.

She knelt on the bed, a small, huddled form. Susie was small for an eleven-year-old, but her eyes sometimes had a knowing look of someone way beyond her years. At other times they were completely blank. She pulled methodically at the hair of her Cindy doll, the silver strands falling on to her lap. Glass-mounted pictures of Beatrix Potter animals gazed down impassively at her from the blue walls of her little bedroom, oblivious of the sharp snap as a plastic arm was wrenched from the doll's body. The tiny limb bounced off Peter Rabbit and clattered to the floor. Susie pulled at the other arm and threw this, too, across the room, towards the closed window. It fell on to her toy chest beneath the window and lay there, the hand bent back supplicatingly on its swivel-joint.

'Naughty girl, Cindy,' Susie scolded in hushed anger. 'You mustn't stare when you're at the dinner table! Mummy doesn't like it!'

The doll's expression did not change as her leg was pulled back and tugged. 'I've told you time and time again, you mustn't smirk when Uncle Jeremy tells you off! He doesn't like it it makes him angry. It makes Mummy angry, too!' The leg came away with a sucking sound and was tossed towards the door. 'Uncle Jeremy will go away and leave Mummy if he gets cross. Then Mummy will send me away. She'll tell the doctors I've been acting bad again.' Susie drew in a deep breath at the effort of tearing the last limb free, her small body sagging into a relaxed position when her exertions were rewarded.

'There! Now you can't run away and you can't get into mischief.' Susie smiled triumphantly, but her happiness lasted only seconds. 'I hate that place, Cindy! It's nasty. And the doctors and the nurses are nasty. I don't want to go there again.' Her eyes became tearful, then her face suddenly screwed itself up into an expression of spiteful anger. 'He's not my uncle, anyway. He just wants cuddles from Mummy. He hates me and he hates my dad! Why doesn't Daddy come back, Cindy? Why does he hate me too? I wouldn't touch matches ever again if he came back, Cindy, I promise I wouldn't.'

She fiercely hugged the limbless doll and rocked to and fro on her knees. 'You know I wouldn't, don't you, Cindy? You know I wouldn't.' There was no reply from the doll and Susie thrust it away from her in disgust. 'You never answer me, you naughty girl! You never show you love me!'

She pulled at the pretty plastic head, her arms quivering with the effort, a scream building up in her throat. She suppressed her cry as the head popped free and laughed when she threw it at the stars outside the window. Her body went rigid as the doll's head rebounded off the pane and rolled to the floor. She dared not breathe for a few moments as she listened for footsteps to come thumping along the corridor. She sighed with relief when no such sounds came. They were both asleep. Him, with her, in Daddy's bed. The thought made her angry again. It wasn't just cuddles he wanted. He did other things. She knew, she'd heard, she'd watched.

Susie sprang from the bed and padded towards the window, careful not to disturb the toys lying scattered in the dark on the bedroom floor. She examined the pane of glass which had been struck by the doll's head, looking for a crack to show up against the stars outside. It would mean more misery for her if the glass had been broken. She grinned when she saw there was no damage.

Pressing her face to the window she tried to pierce the gloom of the garden below. She spent most of the summer days there when she wasn't at the special school; a prisoner, not allowed to go out on her own. Susie could just make out the shape of the rabbit hutch, weather-beaten and empty, not understanding why they had taken the rabbits away. The baby ones had been gorgeous, lovely to hold, to squeeze. Perhaps if she hadn't squeezed so hard they would have let her keep them.

She returned to the bed and squatted on it, ankles crossed, her arms hugged around her raised knees. The blankets lay rumpled around her. If Uncle Jeremy went away, perhaps Daddy would come back. They could all live together again and be happy, like before. Like before the time she'd been really naughty. Before the trouble.

Susie lay back in the bed, pulling the clothes up around her. She gripped the silky edge of the blanket and brushed it rhythmically against her cheek, staring out into the deep blue night framed by the window's edges. One by one she began to count the stars, determined this time to number every one in the rectangle before falling asleep. And one by one, as she silently counted, the stars went out, until only blackness filled the window-frame.

2.

Bishop glanced discreetly at his watch and was relieved that the two-hour lecture was nearly up. Usual mixed bunch, he thought wryly. Most of them deadly serious, several just curious, one maybe two sceptics. And, of course, the token headcase. He smiled generally at the gathering in the lecture hall.

'So you can see by my list of equipment on the blackboard, parapsychology the study of paraphysical phenomena -uses technology rather than the more unreliable and, if I may say so, the dubious spiritualistic methods. Graph paper will usually tell you more about strange disturbances in a house than self-imposed mental trances.'

A nervous hand fluttered in the air from the second row. Bishop noticed the man wore a clerical collar. 'May I, er, ask a question?' the equally nervous voice said. All eyes turned to look at the cleric who steadfastly kept his eyes riveted on Bishop's as if embarrassed by his own presence.

'Please do,' Bishop encouraged. 'In fact, we'll spend the last ten minutes discussing any points you might want to raise.'

'Well, it was just that for someone whose profession is the investigation of the paranormal or paraphysical . . .'

'Call it ghost-hunting it's simpler,' said Bishop.

'Yes, ghost-hunting. Well, it hasn't really been made clear by you whether or not you actually believe in ghosts.'

Bishop smiled. 'The truth of the matter is, having been involved in the study of parapsychology for some years, I'm still unsure. Certainly I've come up against the inexplicable time and time again, but every day science is uncovering new facts about our own powers. Somebody once said that mysticism is just tomorrow's science dreamed today. I think I'd go along with that. For instance, we know concentrated thought, or often unconscious thought, can physically move objects. Scientists throughout the world, particularly in Russia, are now studying the psychokinetic power. Years ago it would have been called witchcraft.'

'But how does that explain spirit sightings?' A middle-aged woman, plump and pleasant looking, had asked the question. 'There are so many cases of hauntings you hear about practically every day.'

'Perhaps not every day, but there are between two and three hundred sightings each year, and probably just as many not publicised. One of the many theories is that ghosts are caused by someone under stress, their minds giving out electrical impulses in the way the heart does, and these impulses are picked up later in particular circumstances.'

The puzzled frown on the woman's face and on the faces of several others in his audience told Bishop he wasn't making himself clear. 'It's rather like a mental picture being transmitted by one individual to be picked up later by someone else who acts as a kind of receiver. Like a television set. This could explain why apparitions are often misty, faded or why sometimes only faces or hands appear: the pictures, or transmissions, if you like, are wearing out, fading until there's nothing left.'

'What about places that have been haunted for centuries, then?' said a young, bearded man in the front row, who was leaning forward antagonistically. 'Why haven't they just faded away?'

'It could be explained by regeneration: the transmission, or apparition, draws on energy from electrical impulses that surround us all. This could account for the appearance of a ghost. A spirit can "live" on indefinitely as long as its image can be seen by others: the ghost is actually telepathic waves, the image created in the mind of a living person years, days, perhaps centuries before and transmitted into the mind or minds of others living today.'

Bishop sighed inwardly: he could see he was losing them. They hadn't expected him to explain ghosts as a scientific phenomenon. They wanted the subject romanticized, the mystic aspect heightened. Even the sceptics among them looked disappointed.

'You're putting it down to electricity, then?' The bearded man in the front row sat back and folded his arms, the slightest indication of smugness in his smile.

'No, not exactly. But an electrical charge given to the nerve tissues of the brain can make a subject see flashes or hear noises. It would seem that a charge given to the appropriate receptive area of the brain can create a phantom image. Remember, the brain functions through electrical impulses and we're also surrounded by them. Impulses picked out of the air by our senses that's us acting as receivers isn't a difficult concept to understand. You may have heard of crisis apparitions, where someone sees an image of a friend or relative who is going through some traumatic experience, perhaps dying, many miles away. A voice may even be heard at the same time.'

A few heads nodded appreciatively.

'This can be explained by the person who is undergoing that extreme moment of stress thinking of the person closest to him, perhaps calling out to them. At such times, brainwaves are extremely active this has been proved by the use of electroencephalograph machines. When they reach a certain pitch a telepathic image can often be transmitted either to a recipient or into the atmosphere. New factors concerning our own brain power are being brought to light by science at an ever-increasing rate. My guess is that by the end of the century, mysticism and technology will be one. There really will be no such thing as "ghosts".'

A low murmur ran through the gathering as they looked around at each other with various expressions of bemusement, disappointment, or satisfaction.

'Mr Bishop?' The woman's voice came from the back row and Bishop squinted his eyes to see her more clearly. 'Mr Bishop, you term yourself as a ghost-hunter. Can you tell us, then, why you've spent so many years hunting electrical impulses?'

A small ripple of laughter ran through the audience and Bishop smiled with them. He decided to use his reply as a closing statement for the lecture.

'I'm involved in the investigation of hauntings because I believe they have special scientific significance. All phenomena have some rational explanation it's just that we are not yet advanced enough to perceive that explanation. Any useful information we can gain towards those ends must have value. Mankind is at an exciting stage of development where science and the paranormal are heading towards a meeting point. We have reached the time where parapsychology has to be taken seriously and studied logically with all the advanced technology we have at hand. We can no longer afford to tolerate the fools, the romantics, the misguided; even less can we tolerate the charlatans, the professional ghost-seers, or the mediums who live off the ignorance and distress of others. The breakthrough is nearly here and cannot be allowed hindrance by these people.'

His last words induced a smattering of polite applause from the audience. He held up a hand to let them know he had not quite finished.

'There's one other point. Many people have been emotionally disturbed or frightened by evidence of the paranormal, by "ghostly" appearances: if I can help them understand such occurrences and not fear them, then that alone justifies my work. Now, I have a list of organizations dealing in psychical research, paraphysical studies, metaphysical and ESP research groups and plain old ghost-hunting organizations. There's also a couple of addresses where you can find your own ghost-hunting equipment. Please help yourself to a copy before you leave.'

He turned his back on them, shuffled his lecture notes together and placed them in his briefcase. As usual, his throat was dry after the two-hour talk, and his thoughts now were only of the tall glass of beer that would soothe it. He hardly knew this town, but he hoped the pubs were decent. First, though, he had the gauntlet to run, for there were always those eager to continue the debate on a more personal level long after the allotted time was up. The chief librarian, who had arranged the series of talks in the town library's lecture hall, was the first to come forward.

'Most interesting, Mr Bishop. I'm sure next week's attendance figure will be even higher once word gets around.'

Bishop smiled cynically. He wondered if there would be half as many judging by the disappointment on some of the faces.

'I'm afraid they didn't hear quite what they expected to,' he said without apology.

'Oh no, on the contrary, I think many now realize just what a serious subject the whole matter is.' The librarian rubbed his hands together as if in glee. 'I must say, you've certainly whet my appetite. Let me tell you of the strange experience I had just a few years ago . . .'

Bishop listened politely, knowing he would have to hear several 'strange experiences' from the others in the hall before he could take his leave. As an authority on the subject, he was constantly used as a kind of father confessor by the many who had witnessed real or imaginary phenomena. A small group had soon gathered round and he answered their questions, encouraging them to make a serious study of the paranormal themselves. He also reminded them to keep an open mind and to maintain a careful balance between belief and scepticism. One or two expressed their surprise at his own reservations and he informed them his researches had always been more clinical than biased. The fact that a few years ago an American university had offered 80,000 to anyone who could prove conclusively that there was life after death and as yet the amount was still unclaimed had to have some significance. There was much evidence but still no substantial proof and, although he believed in the continuance of life after death in some form, he was still unsure there was a spirit world in the sense of latterand present- day concepts. While he spoke, he saw the woman who had asked the final question of the lecture period sitting alone at the back of the hall. He wondered why she hadn't joined the group. Eventually, Bishop was able to disengage himself from his inquisitors, mumbling that he had some distance to travel that night and further questions could be asked during the course of the following lectures. Briefcase in hand, he strode briskly down the centre aisle towards the exit. The woman's eyes gazed at him fixedly and when he drew near, she rose from her seat. 'Could I talk to you for just a moment, Mr Bishop?'

He glanced down at his watch as though worried about a pending appointment. 'I really haven't the time now. Perhaps next week . . .?'

'My name is Jessica Kulek. My father, Jacob Kulek, is . . .'

'Is founder and president of the Research Institute of Parapsychological Study.' Bishop had stopped and was looking at the woman curiously as she made her way from her seat towards him.

'You've heard of him?' she said.

'Who in the field of psychical research hasn't? He was one of the men who helped Professor Dean to persuade the American Association for the Advancement of Science to finally accept parapsychologists as members. It was a giant step in forcing scientists throughout the world to take the paranormal seriously. It gave the whole business credibility.'

She gave him the briefest of smiles and he realized she was younger and more attractive than he had at first thought from a distance. Her hair, neither dark nor fair, was short and tucked in closely to the nape of her neck, her fringe cropped high and neatly across her forehead. The tweed suit she wore was stylishly cut and emphasized her slim figure, perhaps too much so she seemed too slender, frail even. Her eyes were made to look larger by the thinness of her face and her lips were small but finely drawn, like a child's. She seemed hesitant, almost nervous now, yet he felt there was a determination about her that was belied by her appearance.

'I hope my comment didn't offend you,' she said, an earnestness in her expression.

'Hunting electrical impulses? No, I'm not offended. In a way you're right: I am hunting electrical impulses half the time. The other half is spent searching for draughts, land subsidence and water seepages.'

'Could we talk privately for a few moments? Are you staying here tonight? Perhaps your hotel?'

He grinned. 'I'm afraid my talks don't pay well enough for me to stay overnight in hotels. I'd have nothing left over from the evening's work if I did. No, I'll have to drive back home tonight.'

'It's really very important. My father asked me to see you.'

Bishop paused before answering. Finally, he said, 'Can you tell me what it's about?'

'Not here.'

He made up his mind. 'Okay. I'd intended to have a drink before I hit the road, so why not join me? We'd better make our exit fast, though, before the throng back there catches us up.' He pointed over his shoulder at the remaining group of chattering people who were gradually edging their way down the aisle. Bishop took her arm and guided her towards the door.