'Keep . . . it away,' Edith Metlock said, her voice slurred but just coherent. 'Keep . . . it . . . away . . . The dark . . . keep it away . . .'

15.

The home crowd was angry, its wrath rolling around the stadium in a mighty roar. The ref was a wanker: even the minority away-fans, delighted though they were at his dubious decisions in their team's favour throughout the match, had to admit it. Now even the goalkeeper was going into his book for dissent and he had never received a booking in fifteen years of soccer. The overwhelming anger reached fever pitch when the tiny yellow card was raised into the air and the away-fans except for the lunatic few whose brains were in the tips of their tongues refrained from jeering. The hostility around them had made them nervous.

The home team had been playing well all season, and the smell of the First Division was in their fans' nostrils. They had completely dominated their rival clubs in the Second Division. Their new striker, imported from Italy for an incredible sum of money (to make up the loss, the club had had to sell two players, one mid-field, the other a popular left-back, and admission prices had been raised) had contributed remarkably to their success. But after only ten minutes, the Italian had been stretcher-carried off with a leg injury. The word spread around at half-time like an uncontrolled brush fire that his leg had been broken. In two places.

The away-team had played like non-league factory workers throughout the match, their studded boots scything opponents rather than playing the ball. It had been the same on Saturday when ugly brute force at their own ground had earned them the draw. Their fear of relegation next season had turned them into eleven crude defenders, only occasional bouts of real skill reminding the crowd they were playing football and not rugby. Tonight the match was a gruelling affair and already several fights had broken out among the crowd. The policemen seated on benches placed strategically around the pitch, helmets at their feet, glanced nervously over their shoulders at the ranting mob, the surge of faces merged into a dark swaying mass behind the brilliant glare of the floodlights. The mood was ugly.

Eddie Cossins pulled his girlfriend, Vicky, closer to him. He was beginning to wonder if it had been wise to bring her tonight. She didn't even like football as a rule and he suspected her insistence on coming with him was more to do with ingratiating herself with him than interest in football itself. Five weeks was a long time to be going out with a bird. Too long, really. They started getting ideas.

'What's he booked him for, Eddie?'

He barely heard her shrill voice above the uproar even though she had stood on tiptoe and bellowed into his ear.

'Ref don't like bleedin' arguments!' he yelled back.

'What's he arguing about?'

Eddie groaned. 'The ref's given the other side a penalty. Anyone could see the player took a dive. All the bleedin' fouls they've done and they get a penalty. What a tosser!'

Vicky sank back inside her heavy overcoat, pulling Eddie's club scarf tighter around her neck. Stupid game, she told herself. Grown-up men kicking a bag of wind around a field. And the crowd getting upset just because their team wasn't winning. Like a load of kids. Eddie too. Look at him shouting at the referee as if he could hear him. Poor little man was only doing his job. So this was what she had to compete against. Another girl might have been easier. Oh no. Now it's raining. Jostled, pushed, crushed, touched-up by invisible hands and now a soaking! It wasn't worth it. He could have his bloody football! He was spotty, anyway.

The crowd hushed as the away-team's skipper placed the mud-smeared ball on the penalty spot. His left foot was renowned.

On the terraces, Jack Bettney held his breath, almost afraid to watch. Twenty-five years he'd supported the club, through the good years and the lean. After a long stretch in the Second Division they were on the way up again, back to their rightful place among the leaders of the game. They had won back their old days' glory last season and this one. Nothing would stop them now. Nothing except a team full of cowboys and a bent referee. He kept the anger tight within himself.

He blinked away rainspots from his eyes and watched the enemy pace himself away from the ball. The goalkeeper danced nervously from foot to foot and finally settled down on his line, heels raised from the muddy earth. To the right, son, he'd aim it at the bottom right-hand corner, Jack Bettney told him silently. He knew the opposing captain's favourite spot. Jack could feel the tenseness around him; the apprehension passed through the mass of tightly packed bodies like an electric current. The enemy began his run, pounding up to the glistening ball like an express train. To the right, son, to the right.

Animal, sometimes known as The Beast to his friends, whooped with glee when the ball shot into the bottom left-hand corner of the net, the goalkeeper left sprawled in the mud on the other side of his goal-mouth. Animal leapt in the air using the shoulders of a fellow supporter in front to hold himself aloft. His friend's knees buckled under the seventeen stone weight, but others grabbed his arms to keep him upright. It would have been difficult to get up again in that crowd.

'Fuckin' magic, fuckin' magic!' Animal screeched. Hostile eyes turned to look in his direction.

He chortled as the goalkeeper dejectedly retrieved the ball from the back of the net. 'What a load of wankers!' he chanted.

'Leave it out, Animal,' one of his companions said nervously, feeling the resentment around them. 'We're not bloody at home now.'

Animal didn't give a shit and he let the home supporters around him know it. Personally, he didn't care much about the game either. It was the excitement he liked, not the excitement of the competition but, although he couldn't have expressed it himself, the raw emotion the game produced, feelings that could be demonstrated without embarrassment.

He turned to face the crowd behind him, his thick, porky arms raised, middle and index fingers stiff and parted in his favourite up-yours gesture. The rain suddenly fell as though someone had pulled the plug from the clouds above and it spilled on to his fat cheeks and open-necked shirt. He laughed, catching the torrent in his mouth. Their faces were just a watery blur, but he could feel their hate and it cheered him.

He found another pair of shoulders to leap on and this time his companion went down, Animal collapsing with him. He giggled in the darkness, thrashing out at the jostling legs around him. It was like being underground, subdued light sinking down through cracks in the earth, the surrounding legs like moving tree roots. He giggled louder at his friend's muffled cursing, maliciously pushing his gross body on hands and knees further into the throng, causing those above him to lose their balance and spill over. He liked the darkness as much as he liked being in a crowd. It was almost the same thing: you couldn't be seen. For a moment it had become too black down there, as though the crowd had joined together to form a solid crust above him, and he felt a little afraid. The darkness somehow had a gooey thickness to it.

Animal burst to the surface like a whale from the sea, throwing those nearest to him backwards, laughing at their shouts of anger. The fact that their club scarves differed from the one he wore tied around his wrist didn't bother him at all: Animal was afraid of nothing and no one.

Fans at the back resented the crowd ripple that had thrust against them and several saw the cause of it, the fat grinning face turned away from the pitch in their direction, thick bare arms, despite the weather, raised in defiance against them, the opposition scarf tied to one wrist. The rain had drenched them, their team was losing and this fucker was taking the piss. They surged forward as one, a ripple that grew into an onrushing wave, gathering momentum, gaining force, breaking over the fat man and pounding him like a rock on the sea-shore.

Eddie and Vicky had been standing halfway between the grinning monster and the fans at the back who had started the push. The girl screamed as they were carried forward, her feet swept off the ground, her body held tightly aloft, desperately clinging to Eddie who was powerless to resist the torrent. Eddie had been used to crushes like this before, but he had never had a girl to look after. He knew these sudden rushes could be dangerous, fights inevitably breaking out in the aftermath. The thing was not to go down you'd be kicked to death beneath all those feet. It was the poor sods at the front who took the full weight of it: they'd be crushed against the barriers. He managed to get an arm around Vicky's waist, his other arm locked tight against his body. He shouted a warning to the girl when he saw what was happening ahead of him. Bodies were going over, going down!

Jack Bettney felt the swell reach him. Fortunately, he was away from the path of the main stream, but even so he and the other fans around him were pushed back then sucked in with the flow. He kept his balance, well experienced nowadays in the art of surviving a football match. Silly bastards! he thought. No wonder the armchair was the best place to watch a game these days. Those nearest to him managed to steady themselves and they jigged on tiptoe to see what was happening in the other part of the crowd. A great hole had appeared and they realized many of the people had gone down, more bodies toppling over them as the surge continued.

Jack winced. There'd be a few broken bones among that lot. His woolly cap was sodden now, and rain ran off the end of his nose. He blinked and saw the ball was in the centre of the pitch again, the players deliberately oblivious of the reaction in the crowd. They probably couldn't see too much against the glare of the floodlights anyway. Jack turned his attention away from his team's centre forward who was preparing to tap the ball towards a mid-field player, and tried to see what was happening to the fallen spectators. The atmosphere in the stadium was bad tonight and he was glad he was a home supporter. The hostility towards the away-fans had been growing since the beginning of the match and the commotion over there was just the start of the trouble to come. Needle matches always infected the fans and tonight the infection was going to run wild. He could feel it.

A flickering behind and high above distracted him. He looked up at the tall metal tower set into the concrete terraces towards the back of the stadium, sixteen blinding lights at the top helping three other similarly situated towers around the ground to turn night into day on the pitch. Fifteen lights. One was spluttering, going dim, reviving briefly, sparks flying into short-lived arcs, then fading completely. Bloody rain. That shouldn't be happening, though. When was the last time they were checked? A cheer rang out from the other side of the pitch as another light abruptly popped off, then another. More sparks began to fly and soon the whole array of lights was fizzing and smoking. The section of the crowd beneath the tower began to grow anxious and started backing away from the area beneath it, pushing at those around them for room. All the lights suddenly exploded at once, glass and sparks falling with the rain on to the people below and a sharp, tangy smell was carried into the air. The gloom on that side of the stadium suddenly became denser and Jack felt the panic as a crowd wave started again, this time rippling outwards, the movement resembling a pond's surface disturbed by a stone.

Animal was on the ground kicking out with heavy boots, trying to clear a space for himself. It had become darker now, almost black and, strangely, rather than fearing the blackness, he welcomed it. Someone was on top of him and he managed to get one beefy hand beneath the man's chin. He pushed up sharply and was delighted to hear above the clamour of the spectators or had he only felt it? something snap. The body fell limply against him and Animal felt good. He had enjoyed that. Something chuckled in the blackness of his mind and it wasn't him.

A foot came down on his cheek and he twisted his head to dislodge it. He heaved the body on top of him away, but there were others, alive and thrashing, to take the man's place. Animal managed to get an elbow beneath himself and raised his shoulders from the ground. A figure crashed down beside him man or youth, he couldn't tell and this time he definitely heard the crack of skull on concrete. He lifted the fan's head by the hair and shoved it down to hear the sound again. Nice one.

Eddie tried to pull Vicky closer to him, but he was pinned to someone else's back. The body beneath him squirmed to free itself, but there were others on top of Eddie. Vicky's screams could be heard clearly over the predominantly male cries of alarm and anger and he tightened his grip around her waist, determined not to let her go. He felt a blow behind his ear, then another. For fuck's sake, someone was hitting him! Twisting himself around, he spilled the two on top of him over, using his elbow to help them on their way. He rolled on to someone else and he realized it was Vicky.

Pushing himself up, not caring if he was treading on anybody, he pulled at the girl, drawing her halfway out of the scrambling heap.

Hysteria was in her eyes as she grabbed wildly at him.

'Take it easy, Vicky!' he shouted. 'You'll have me over!'

Something thudded into him from behind, causing him to lose his precarious balance. Then someone had him by the throat and was pounding a fist into his face to the accompaniment of Vicky's screams. Rage replaced the fear inside him as he struck back at his aggressor. No one was going to belt him and get away with it! And as he fought, a blackness seemed to fill him.

The girl felt the mob violence. It wasn't just the physical aggression of the crowd; it was something else, something that slowly, stealthily, smothered them all. Her head snapped upwards when she felt icy, black fingers tapping on the surface of her mind, fingers that wanted to scratch their way through and explore inside. She screamed again, fearing the dark hand more than the madness around her. Someone was pulling her up and she opened her eyes, grateful for the firm grip beneath her arms. The face was smiling, she could just make that out in the gloom. But she sensed there was no humour in the smile. It was a huge bloated face, the hair closely cropped and plastered to his scalp by the rain. His body was big, his arms bare, and he held her upright against the frenzied tide surrounding them. She knew the evil that was in the air was also in him. The cold black fingers had found easy access into this man.

Animal's smile became a grin as the voices inside told him what to do.

Something was tugging at Jack Bettney and it had nothing to do with the spectators who were clawing at each other to get clear of the crush. It was something nipping away at his thoughts. No it was something nipping away at his will, he was sure of it. He had read somewhere about mass-hysteria, how panic or even adulation could pass through a crowd, hopping from mind to mind, touching every person present until they were enveloped in a binding cocoon of emotion. That was what was happening here! But it was something more than panic. There was a savagery about these struggling, heaving people. Not all of them, for many were under attack from others; but the earlier hostility had somehow manifested itself into an overwhelming madness. It was the madness that was tugging at him!

He began to hit out, not caring whom he struck, knowing he had to get away from them, sensing he was different he was not with them. They would sense it too!

Hands reached out to him, grabbing at his clothes, pulling the woolly cap from his head, reaching for his eyes. He went down and as he lay underneath the trampling feet, the darkness all around, he began to give in to the silent, pounding voices, wanting to join them if it would give him peace, agreeing to be part of them, whatever their intent. Realizing too late they were not offering him peace.

Animal was finished with the girl. Others wanted her even though her body was limp, no life left in it. He let her fall and pushed a way through the mob, making slow but firm progress, eyes fixed on the metal structure protruding from the mass of human flesh and towering over them like a soulless sentinel.

All activity on the field below had stopped, the players, linesmen and referee staring in bewilderment at the crowd on that side of the pitch. Policemen had left their benches and were hurrying around to gather just below the section where the trouble had started. But there was no longer one place of activity, for the skirmishes had spread, joined, merged into one massive battle, everyone on that side of the stadium involved. None of the constables felt inclined to wade into the thick of it, nor did the officer in charge encourage them to do so. Suicide was not part of their duty.

Animal finally reached the base of the floodlight tower, the short journey through the press of bodies taxing even his great strength. But adrenaline was coursing through him, for he knew what he had to do and it excited him. He was pushed up against the metal, its surface slimy wet with rain; he reached inside for the junction box from which heavily protected cables emerged, soaring their way up towards the rows of burst lights above. The cover to the box would not budge, for it had been built to resist the attention of destructive fans. Animal climbed the first two cross-struts of the tower and poked his foot inside. He kicked at the box, his heavy boot scarring and denting its surface. It took long minutes for the cover to work itself loose but, for perhaps the first time in his life, Animal had patience. He kept doggedly at his task and whooped with glee when the cover finally fell away. Then he reached inside and curled his huge hand around two of the heavy cables. He began to tug, the crowd pressed tight around him, the rain drenching everyone and everything.

The cables finally came away, for Animal was strong, and the power passed through him into the wet, tightly-packed crowd, sweeping outwards with paralysing swiftness, spreading like a deadly germ. Hundreds had been touched before the current finally blew itself out and plunged the entire stadium into total, screaming darkness.

16.

Bishop studied Lucy's tiny face, holding the framed photograph in one hand, his other hand resting on top of the mantelpiece. His thoughts of her had become frozen moments, still-life images like the photograph he held, single frames his memory had captured. He could still hear her squeaky giggles, her panting sobs, but they were echoes, not attached to Lucy herself. He missed her and, with a slight feeling of guilt, realized he missed her more than Lynn. Perhaps it was because in reality his wife was still there: only her mind was dead. Did it amount to the same thing? Could you still love a person when they had become someone else? Something else? You could, but it wasn't easy; and he wasn't sure he was capable any more.

He replaced the photograph and sat in an armchair facing the empty grate. A new guilt was rising in him, compounding the old, and it was to do with Jessica. Perhaps it was because she was the only woman he'd had any real association with for a long, long time. Since Lynn's illness he hadn't sought female company, nor missed it. So much had been drained from him after Lucy's death and Lynn's breakdown; only resentment had been left, the remnants of his own sorrow. The resentment had become a fierce anger which had been channelled into the new work he had found for himself. But even that had begun to die, leaving only the bitterness that clung like a withered vine to a crumbling wall. Now something inside that had lain dormant for many years had begun to breathe again, lightly at first, stirring gently, unfurling, becoming steady. The old feeling had moved aside a little, making room for the new. Was it because of Jessica or because of the passage of pain-healing time? Could any attractive woman coming into his life at that point have had the same effect? He didn't have the answer, nor did he want to ponder the question. One day, Lynn might become whole again. And if she didn't . . . she was still his wife.

Restless, he heaved himself from the chair and went into the kitchen, taking a can of beer from the fridge. He pulled the tab and drank straight from the can, half its contents gone before he took it from his lips again. He returned to the armchair, his thoughts dark and brooding.

It was crazy. Everything that was happening was crazy. The madness was growing, a virulence that was spreading like an ancient, uncontrolled plague. An exaggeration? The suicides at Beechwood had been the beginning. Then the insanity that developed a year later, a madness that had soon enveloped most of those living in Willow Road. An attempted murder on himself and Jacob Kulek. The slaying of Agnes Kirkhope and her housekeeper. And then the riot at the football stadium last night. Nearly six hundred people dead! Hundreds electrocuted, floodlight wiring torn loose and the current directed into the rain-soaked crowd. Hundreds of others beaten, kicked to death by the mob. The rest mass suicide. Any way they could find. Climbing then leaping from the floodlight towers or the girders supporting the covered stand area. Or hanging themselves with their club scarves. Belt buckles, metal combs other concealed weapons that troublemakers always managed to smuggle in anything that was sharp used to sever arteries. There had been a record gate for a midweek match in the small Second Division ground: twenty-eight thousand. Nearly six hundred dead! What kind of nightmare must it have been inside that darkened stadium? Bishop was unable to control the shudder that ran through him. The beer spilled on to his chin when he raised the can again and he realized his hand was shaking.

Others had run into the streets, most to escape the bedlam, many seeking alternative means of destroying themselves. Hands had been smashed through shop-front windows, the jagged shards used to slash wrists. Twenty youths had run into the nearby railway station and jumped as one from the platform when an express hurtled through. The nearby canal was still being dredged for the bodies of those who had chosen drowning. Tall buildings had been used to leap from, lorries or buses to leap under. Cars as weapons. The destruction had gone on through the night. Six hundred!

When daylight finally came, scores of them had been found wandering the streets, their faces blank, their minds seemingly empty. The word zombie flashed through Bishop's head, a word that had always held humorous connotations for him in the past; but now the description had a true, sinister meaning. That was what these people had become. Zombies. The walking dead.

Just how many had been found in this state was not yet known, but according to the news media, there were more still not accounted for. Still wandering mindlessly? Dead but not discovered? Or had they found a place to hide? The horror of it had been with Bishop throughout the day, for he had made the connection, the obvious connection. And so had Jacob Kulek, who was now out of hospital, and Jessica Bishop had spoken to her earlier that day. The insanity was not confined to Willow Road: it had travelled a distance of nearly a mile to the football ground.

He wondered if Edith Metlock had been touched by the same madness. When he and Jessica had found her in her home two nights before, she had mumbled something about the dark over and over again as though she were afraid that the night outside might enter the house and somehow consume her. Bishop had wanted to get her to a hospital, but Jessica had told him she had often seen mediums in this state, that Edith had become lost within herself and could only find her way back on her own. The trance would wear off; all she needed was protection until it did. They had put the medium on to her bed, Jessica covering her with a quilt, propping her head up with a pillow. While Bishop had checked every room in the house and relocked the kitchen door, Jessica had rung the hospital where her father was being kept for observation. He was fine, sleeping under mild sedation and there was no point in her coming over that late; unless there were any unforeseen developments overnight, she could come and collect him in the morning.

They had sat with Edith Metlock all night, and they had talked, occasionally breaking off to listen to the medium's sudden disturbed murmurings. It was well past three before the tension drained from Edith's face and she seemed to drift off into a deeper, peaceful sleep. By that time, Jessica's eyes were closing and he finally persuaded her to lie down on the end of Edith's bed. He found a blanket to cover her with and, half-asleep, she had smiled when he touched a hand to her cheek; then she was gone, her breathing becoming deep and regular to match Edith Metlock's.

Bishop had sat in the chair previously occupied by the medium, uneasy at being left alone with the oppression that seemed to surround the house. It was just his imagination, he told himself. There was nothing out there. It was just the result of everything that had happened catching up. Eventually the oppression seemed to lift. His eyelids grew too heavy and he slept.

Gentle prodding had woken him the following morning and he had found Jessica kneeling before him, her smile a welcome sight. Edith Metlock was propped up on the bed and, although she appeared to be exhausted, she thanked them both for staying with her through the night. She seemed nervous and constantly glanced around the room as though expecting someone else to be there hiding in the shadows. She was too confused to tell them what had happened the night before Bishop suspected she wasn't sure herself. Fortunately, because of her unsettled state, it had not occurred to Edith to ask them what had brought them to her house, and they deemed it wise not to tell her.

After a light breakfast cooked by Jessica, they had persuaded the medium to stay at Jacob Kulek's house for a few days. Edith had declined at first, but when Jessica mentioned that her father had had a slight 'accident' she would explain later and that it would be enormously helpful if Edith could take care of him for a few days until he was better while Jessica organized the day-to-day running of the Institute, she readily agreed. There was much she and Jacob could discuss over the next few days, Edith told them, a distant look in her eyes.

By the time they were ready to leave the house, some of the colour had returned to the medium's cheeks, although they still found her occasionally glancing around the room in a perplexed manner.

Bishop was surprised when he saw the home in which Jacob Kulek and his daughter lived. It was in a small, secluded lane just off Highgate Village and, as they turned into the narrow driveway almost hidden by trees, it was as if they were approaching a building constructed entirely of broad sheets of shining bronze, the sun reflecting from their surfaces, a dazzling contrast to the surrounding sombre winter greens.

'It's iodized glass,' Jessica had explained, amused by his reaction. 'You can see out, but you can't see in. At night, when it's lit inside, vertical blinds give us our privacy. My father can see shadows, you see. With daylight all around he can see any movement inside the house. It's the only vision he can enjoy.'

Jessica had rung the hospital again from the house and was relieved to hear Jacob was well and would be allowed home later that morning after one or two tests had been carried out. Bishop left and before he turned from the driveway into the small lane, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Jessica standing at the door of the house, watching him. He almost raised a hand to wave back, but stopped himself.

Once home, the drive through the rush-hour-filled city having wearied him even further, he had undressed and thrown himself into bed, not waking until five that evening. A phone call to Jessica's had disappointed him, for Edith Met-lock had answered. Jacob Kulek was resting, she herself was fine although still not quite clear on what had happened the previous night, and Jessica was at the Institute. He put down the receiver and stood by it for a few moments, debating whether or not to ring Jessica's office. He decided not to.

He cooked and ate a lonely dinner, then settled down to work for the rest of the evening. A publisher was interested in a new book he had planned and had already agreed on a small advance on production of a synopsis. Bishop's idea was to write a detailed study on the many occult associations that were now thriving in different parts of the world, organizations as varied as the Institute of Parapsychology and Cybernetics Inc., in Texas, to the Foundation for Research on the Nature of Man, in North Carolina. A list of all these associations and societies had been drawn up by him, but he would have to sift through and choose those he would major on, for there was no possibility of visiting every place in person and, indeed, some were behind the Iron Curtain and access to them might prove difficult. Several of these, however, sounded intriguing: the Czechoslovak Coordination Committee for Research in Telepathy, Telegnosis and Psychokinesis, and the Bioelectronics Section of the Polish Copernicus Society of Naturalists were just two he was determined to see for himself. His publisher had agreed to pay his travelling expenses as part of the advance, this later to go against royalties, and Bishop hoped that many of the associations would receive and accommodate him as a guest; most were eager to have their work recognized. He planned an objective study on these foundations, societies, associations, institutes whatever they termed themselves keeping his own attitudes carefully in check until the conclusion of the book. It was only then that he would know himself what those attitudes would be. In a way, the exercise was almost self-indulgent: he wanted to discover more about the paranormal. When he had begun his strange career as a psychic investigator, he had had an intransigent prejudice against mysticism in any form and had quickly come to learn that there was a great difference in what was commonly termed the supernatural and the paranormal: one had mystical connotations while the other was an unknown science, perhaps and, as yet, no one was really certain the science of the mind. He felt sure that by studying the activities of these various groups he would have a clearer picture of the overall progress this relatively new field of science had made. The growth in public interest was incredible. The young were shying away from materialism and seeking their own higher levels, their elders seeking a refuge from the chaos around them. It seemed that for many, conventional religion had failed to provide that comfort, for prayers and paying homage did not always work. In fact, for most, it rarely worked. Where was justice, where was right? The more communications improved throughout the world, the more the injustice could be seen. When the new generations looked at religion they could only see manmade ritual, manmade hypocrisy. Even history told them the pursuit of God had meant the slaughter and suffering of millions. Many turned to new cults, fringe religions such as the Scientologists, the Moonies, the People's Temple (what was the real reason for their mass suicide?). Gurus had replaced messiahs. Psychiatrists had replaced priests. Parapsychologists might eventually replace both.

There was a growing belief that man's soul was hidden deep in some dark recess of his mind, not an invisible entity filling his whole being. If it was there, it could be found; the scientists needed only to know where to look and produce the instrument to trace it. And science in its study of the paranormal, was slowly, very slowly, homing in. Bishop had to smile at his own uncomplicated logic; Jacob Kulek could probably improve on the substance of his reasoning, but he felt their separate conclusions would not be that far apart. He made a mental note: Kulek's Research Institute would be a good place to start with for his book.

Bishop worked late into the night, outlining the structure of his thesis, drawing up a shortlist of associations he would include, making a note of their locations and any specific field of the paranormal they were involved in. It was well past one when he went to bed and sleep quickly claimed him. The nightmare returned and he was once again sinking into the black, brooding depths of the ocean, his lungs crushed by the pressure, his limbs stiff and useless, his body's leaden weight dragging him below. A face was waiting for him down there, a greyish blur that grew clearer as he plunged. This time it was not Lucy's. It was a man he recognized, yet did not know. The man was grinning, and withered lips called Bishop's name. His eyes seemed to bulge unnaturally from their sockets and Bishop saw there was nothing but evil in them, a cold, mesmerizing darkness that sucked him in, that drew him into a blackness that was even deeper than the ocean. The grin was a sneer and Bishop suddenly knew it was the same man he had seen in Beechwood, the man who had watched his followers kill each other and themselves before putting a gun into his own mouth. The lips parted, yellow, ill-formed teeth guarding the glistening cavern inside, the fleshy, quivering tongue resting on the entrance floor like a huge slug waiting to curl around and engulf any intruder. Bishop floated through, the jaws closing behind him with a thunderous steely clang, and he was totally blind and screaming, the soft enveloping surface of the tongue reaching up for him and moulding itself around his feet. He tried to tug himself free but only sank further into the gripping slime and in the darkness he sensed the tongue curling round, rearing over him to descend upon his shoulders. His own panic-stricken screams deafened him as white, floating shapes came into view, rising from the tunnel that was the man's throat, their faces familiar, the images of those who had died in Beechwood. Dominic Kirkhope was with them. And so was Lynn.

Her eyes were wild, both terror and beseeching in them. Her lips formed words that were cries for help. She begged him. She pleaded. Help me.

And he couldn't; the tongue was pressing down on him, smothering his head and shoulders, choking him with its sticky juices, forcing him to fall, crushing him in a cushion of softness. Until everything exploded. And he was the bullet smashing its way through the man's brain. The man he suddenly knew was Boris Pryszlak.

He awoke still screaming, but no sounds came from his lips. It was light outside and he almost wept with relief.

The beer can was empty and Bishop placed it on the floor at his feet, then slumped back into the armchair, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, hand across his brow as though shielding his eyes from the lamp-light. His head ached and every muscle in his body felt lifeless. He had spoken with Jessica that morning, ringing her as soon as he'd heard the news on the radio. She had been at home and told him she would stay there today to look after her father. Jacob had also heard the news of the bizarre tragedy at the football stadium and he, too, felt sure it was related to the incidents in Willow Road. He was still weak from the attack, but had made her promise to arrange a meeting for all of them later that evening, a meeting that would include Detective Chief Inspector Peck. Even if the policeman thought they were all insane, they had to try to convince him there was a connection between the Pryszlak sect and the recent events. Bishop had agreed to keep himself available that evening; she would ring him when she had fixed a suitable time.

He still hadn't heard from her and he was becoming concerned. That concern finally drove him out of the armchair into the hall. He was just reaching for the phone when it rang.

'Jessica?'

'Uh, no. Mr Bishop? Crouchley here. From Fairfield.'

Fairfield. The mental home.

'Has something happened to my wife?' Dread hit Bishop's stomach like a lead weight.

'It's important that you come over right away, Mr Bishop,' said the metallic voice.

'Is Lynn all right?'

There was a slight pause at the other end. 'We've had what you might call a slight breakthrough. I think we rather need you here. I'll explain when you arrive.'

'It'll take me twenty minutes. Can't you tell me a little more now?'

'It's better that you see for yourself.'

'Okay. On my way.'

Bishop's heart was thumping as he raced upstairs to grab his jacket. What did a 'slight breakthrough' mean? Was Lynn at last beginning to emerge from the shell she had retreated into? Would there be some warmth, no matter how faint, in her eyes when she saw him? He tugged on his jacket and raced back down the stairs, a new hope urging him on.

When the phone rang again only moments later, the house was already empty.

17.

Bishop had to force himself to concentrate on driving as he sped towards Twickenham, the rain splatting off the road like tiny cannon shots. Fortunately, the traffic was light and he was able to make good progress. He was filled with apprehension; there had to be good reason for Crouchley to call him out at that time of evening. If Lynn had finally . . . he refused himself the thought. Better not to expect too much.

It was not long before he reached the quiet cul-de-sac at the end of which stood the Fairfield Rest Home. He drove straight through the tall entrance gates into the wide drive. Slamming the car door, he hurried up the steps leading to the building's main door, rain speckling the driving glasses he had forgotten to remove. He whisked them off into his top pocket, ringing the doorbell with his other hand as he did so. The home was a large redbrick building which in appearance could have been anything from a small, private school to a residence for geriatrics. Only when the discreetly lettered sign mounted on the front railings had been read did the building take on a faintly daunting atmosphere. The fact that most of the interior lights seemed to be off, made it look even more grim.

Bishop heard the lock click, then the door opened slightly.

'I'm Chris Bishop. Dr Crouchley asked me to come over.'

The door opened wider and he saw the silhouette of a short, plumpish woman standing there. 'Oh, yes, we were expecting you, Mr Bishop. Won't you come in?'

He stepped into the home's reception area and turned anxiously towards the small woman as she carefully locked the door again.

'Is my wife . . .?'

'We'll take you straight up to see her, Mr Bishop,' a voice said from behind and he turned to see another woman sitting at the reception desk to one side of the hall. Her face was turned away from the small desk-lamp that did its feeble best to light up the gloomy surroundings. The figure rose and came around the desk towards him.