Peck looked uncomfortable. 'Just watch yourself in there.'

They sat side by side, the huge, square lights set out before them, lifeless yet threatening. Two lonely, white-clad figures, the centre-piece in an outward spreading array of technical equipment, weaponry and manpower. They were afraid, and those around them were afraid, for the tension among them was steadily increasing, feeding upon itself and touching them all as they watched. The sun had disappeared from the sky an hour before, its sinking hidden by dark clouds that had formed on the horizon, and now the site was lit only by subdued lights. The men around the perimeter were all shielded by metal screens and they wore special glasses already positioned over their eyes, making them look sinister and emotionless; a certain number were equipped with full protective headgear and gloves. They waited as they had waited for three previous consecutive nights; but this time they sensed it was different. This time, each man would occasionally look up at the sky, removing his dark glasses to study the black rolling clouds for long moments before turning his attention back to the two figures sitting in front of the open pit. Something would make each one shiver, but not outwardly; it was more like a sudden shudder of internal organs. It passed from man to man, mind to mind, an infection whose carrier was their own thoughts. Even the scientists and operatives inside the squat steel hut, surrounded by their own technology, felt particularly uneasy that night. Marinker's mouth was dry, the palms of his hands wet. Sicklemore kept clearing his throat and tapping one foot. Brinkley could not stop blinking.

Outside, behind a screen, Peck jangled the loose change in his trouser pocket, while Jessica, who stood by the detective's side, bit on her lower lip until her teeth left deep indents. The minutes passed and all casual chatter ceased; if anyone did speak, it was in a whisper just loud enough to be heard over the steady hum of the generators. The air seemed to be growing colder. And, of course, through their protective glasses, the night looked even darker than usual.

Bishop found it difficult to think clearly. He tried to remember, as he had done before, the first day he had come to Beechwood, the terrible sight that had confronted him. But it was all vague, all misty and remote, as though it had only been a dream which could not be brought into focus. He looked over at Edith sitting two feet away, but her features were barely visible through the darkened visors they both wore. Her hands were clasped across her lap and he could see them clinging tightly to each other.

'I can't think, Edith. It's all a blur to me for some reason.'

She said nothing for a few moments, then her visor turned in his direction. 'Don't try to think of it, Chris. Leave your mind blank. If the Dark really is what we believe it to be it will seek you out. It doesn't need your guidance.'

'Can you . . . can you sense anything?'

'I see Jacob's face, but I can't feel his presence. I feel nothing, Chris, only emptiness.'

'Did he really believe . . .?'

The medium turned away. 'I don't know any more. Jacob's perception was stronger than any man's I've ever known; even stronger than Boris Pryszlak's.'

'You knew Pryszlak?'

The black visor made her inscrutable. 'I was once his mistress.'

For a few moments, Bishop was too stunned to speak. 'His mistress? I don't understand . . .'

'It was a long, long time ago. Twenty years, perhaps more. So long, it sometimes feels as if it never really happened, as if the woman who slept with him was someone I knew vaguely, but whose name or face I can no longer remember. Boris Pryszlak was an astonishing man, you see; his very wickedness made him attractive. Do you understand that, Chris, how a malignant thing can be attractive?'

Bishop did not answer.

'I found him fascinating. At first, I didn't see the deepness of his corruption, the depravity that was not just part of him, but was him, his very being. It was he who recognized my powers as a sensitive, who encouraged me to develop those powers; he thought he would be able to use me. It was Jacob who finally drew me away from Pryszlak's influence.' She smiled almost wistfully beneath the mask. 'Jacob and I were never lovers he has always been faithful to the memory of his wife. You of all people will realize that in our world, nobody dies; they merely pass on to something more enduring.'

'But why didn't Jacob tell me this at the beginning?'

'Because I asked him not to. Don't you see it wasn't important? It had nothing to do with what was happening. Boris Pryszlak's immorality was like an infectious disease it tainted anyone close to him. For a while I wallowed in the filth he thrived on and it was only Jacob who tried to help me. Perhaps he saw I was being used, that I was a victim of evil rather than a perpetrator. Jacob once told me he had tried to lure away other followers of Pryszlak, but had come to see those people were as sick and twisted as the man they idolized, and it was my own desire to leave to be saved, if you like that made me different from them. Even so, Pryszlak hated Jacob for having taken away just one of his followers.'

'Yet he came to Jacob for help.'

'He needed him at that time. He wanted to combine his own extraordinary mental powers with Jacob's; that combination would have been formidable. But Jacob had no desire to become involved in the ultimate aims of such a man. Besides, he knew that involvement would mean eventual subjection. Jacob bitterly regretted not having tried to destroy Pryszlak's plans all those years ago before they had become fully formed; but then, he was a truly good man and failed to recognize the extent of Pryszlak's malignancy. Even I failed to see that and I had shared his bed for almost a year.'

Bishop drew in a deep breath. He was disturbed by Edith's revelation, but not shocked; too much had happened for his emotions to be jarred by any fresh disclosure. 'Is that why Jacob called you in at the beginning of all this because you had some connection with Pryszlak?'

'Yes. He felt it would be easier for me to reach Pryszlak. I knew something of his mind, something of his intentions. I had never visited Beechwood before, but I felt his presence as soon as I entered the house. It was almost like walking into Pryszlak's mind, each room a different, dark cell. He used to experiment with his own telepathic powers when we were . . . together . . . using me as his receiver. He never failed to penetrate my mind with his evil thoughts. For him it was a new kind of eroticism, a fantasy of imagined deviant sexual acts yet, because of the strength of his mental powers, experienced as though physically performed.'

Bishop saw her white-clad figure shudder.

'Those thoughts are still with me, burned deep into my brain. Only Jacob could help me subdue them and now he's gone. That's why I'm so afraid, Chris.'

'I don't understand.'

'Jacob poured his strength into me. Here, when we first gathered at Beechwood and you saw the vision, I was the one who made contact, but Jacob was helping me resist Pryszlak, preventing him from dominating my mind completely. Even when you found me at my home in a trance state, Jacob, who was lying injured in hospital, was using his mental powers to keep Pryszlak from taking possession. He was my protector, the barrier between myself and the full force of Pryszlak's parasitical soul.'

'But the Dark can be resisted, Edith. The reaction is only against those who have some imbalance in the brain.'

'We all have that imbalance. We all feel hate, aggression, jealousy! As the Dark grows stronger as Pryszlak gathers his spiritual army it will seek out the evil inside all of us and use it to destroy! Those it can't overcome and they will be few will be killed by its still-living physical legions. There will be no escape for any of us!'

'Only if the Dark is what you say it is. The scientists claim otherwise; they'll destroy it with their machines.'

'And with all you've seen, all you've been through, can you believe the Dark is just a chemical reaction?'

Bishop's voice was firm. 'I don't know any more. I almost came to believe in what you and Jacob told me, but now . . .' He looked away from her, his gaze falling on the huge light machines before them. 'Now I hope you were both wrong.'

Edith's body seemed to slump further into itself. 'Perhaps we were, Chris,' she said slowly. 'Perhaps I hope so, too.'

'Bishop?' The call came from the tiny radio receiver fixed into Bishop's ear. The voice had a metallic sound to it, but he assumed it was Marinker from the control hut speaking. 'Our helicopters are in the air. Anything happened with you two out there?' The question had a cynical edge to it, but Bishop sensed the underlying tension.

'Nothing so far.' His reply was picked up by the small microphone clipped to his chest. Slight static in the receiver made the scientist's next words hard to grasp. 'I'm sorry, what was that?' Bishop asked.

'I said we've just had a report . . .' more static '. . . trouble near here. Nothing for us to worry . . .' static '. . . being dealt with. More victims on the loose, that's all.'

Another voice came through the earpiece and Bishop guessed it was Sicklemore. 'You'll let us know the moment you feel anything, um, strange happening?'

Marinker spoke again. 'The build-up from the ultraviolet lights will be gradual, Bishop, so you needn't worry about any sudden flare. Just give us some warning . . .' more static, then, 'Can you hear us all right, Mrs Metlock? We seem to be getting interference from somewhere.'

There was no reply from the medium and Bishop anxiously turned towards her. Her body was rigid in the chair, her black visor facing straight ahead.

'Mrs Metlock?' the metallic voice came again.

'Be quiet, Marinker,' Bishop said harshly. Then, more softly, 'Edith? Can you sense something?'

She continued to look ahead and her voice sounded faint. 'It's here, Chris. It's . . . oh my God!' Her body shuddered. 'Can't you feel it? It's growing. It's all around us.'

Bishop tore his eyes away and quickly looked around the site. He felt nothing and the tinted glass he stared through made everything seem darker. He quickly unclipped the visor and lifted it back over his head.

The soldiers and technicians positioned around the site glanced uneasily at each other, sensing something was finally about to happen. Jessica felt a weakness spread through her, a weakness born of dread. A perception that was akin to intuition but stronger, more certain, told her that the menace was even greater than before, that they were all more vulnerable, their resistance against the Dark a fragile thing. She clutched at Peck, afraid she would sink to the ground. He turned in surprise, beads of perspiration on his forehead despite the coldness of the night. He supported her weight, then turned his attention back to the two figures sitting near the open pit. Bishop was looking around him as though searching for something, his visor pushed up from his head.

Inside the control hut, Marinker was speaking agitatedly to his radio operator. 'Can't you cut out this bloody static? I can't hear what they're saying out there.'

'I'm trying, sir, but there's not much I can do about it. I'm afraid it's atmospherics it's interfering with our contact with the choppers, too.'

Marinker avoided Sicklemore's eyes, afraid he would give away the alarm he was strangely feeling. He cursed himself inwardly for being stupid and hoped no one noticed his hand trembling as he stabbed at the speaker button once more, 'Bishop, is something wrong out there? Can you hear me?' A constant crackle of static was his only reply.

Bishop tore the earpiece away, the interference becoming unbearable. His eyes narrowed as he searched the site. The general gloom was because only a few lights had been switched on, but was the air becoming heavier with something more than just nightfall? He blinked, but still he could not make out any definable difference in the lighting. He began to wonder if an hallucinatory tension had built up in the minds of everyone present on the site, a muted form of mass-hysteria that was creating a false fear.

'Edith, I can't see anything.'

'It's here, Chris, it's here.'

Something swirled in the corner of Bishop's vision and he snapped his head around to see what it was. Nothing there. Another movement, to his right this time. Nothing there . . .

Edith was pushing herself back against the chair, her hands tightly gripping the seat. Her breathing was heavy, laboured.

Bishop felt the coldness on his exposed face, a prickling sensation of closing pores, tightening skin. The coldness crept through to the rest of his body. More movement, and this time he caught sight of something shadowy. It flitted across his vision like a tenuous veil, gone when focused upon. A sound, the kind the wind makes when it suddenly sweeps around the corner of a house. Gone. Silence. Lights dimming.

Bishop spoke, hoping the microphone would pick up his words. 'It's beginning,' was all he said.

But in the control hut they only heard the irritating noise of static. All eyes watched the two white-uniformed figures through the long, shaded window until Marinker said, 'Check those lights they seem to be fading.'

A technician turned a dial and the lights grew bright again. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the brightness dulled.

A low moaning sound came from Edith and Bishop was about to reach out to her when his movement froze. Something was touching him. Something was running a hand over his body.

He looked down at himself and saw the loose folds of the white suit becoming smooth, flattening out. But the material moved on its own; nothing pressed against it. The whiteness of the suit which had been subdued under the poor lighting now became a dark grey in colour. The coldness that was in his body began to creep into Bishop's mind, a numbing frost seeking corridors to chill, and the familiar welling up of fear encouraged its progress. He tried to speak, tried to warn the others of what was happening, but his throat was too constricted. The darkness was descending, a shadowy blackness that threatened to extinguish all light.

Bishop tried to stand, but felt a crushing weight pushing against him, the same cold hand that had explored his body and which had now grown into a giant, invisible claw holding him captive. He knew it was only his own confused mind lying to him, making him believe what was not possible, but the pressure existed as though it were real. Once more, he tried to reach Edith, and his arms were held down by his sides, too heavy to lift. He saw the medium begin to slide from the chair, her own moaning rising to a piteous wail. Then the figures began to appear.

Inside the control hut, Sicklemore was speaking urgently to Marinker, years of civil-service breeding preventing his voice from rising to a shout. 'For God's sake, man, turn on the machines. Can't you see what's happening out there?'

Marinker seemed uncertain, his eyes switching from the array of controls before him to the barely visible figures outside. 'Bishop hasn't got his visor in position. I can't risk turning on the machines while he's exposed like that.'

'Don't be stupid, man! He'll use the mask as soon as the ultraviolet lights begin to come on. Do it now, that's an order!'

The figures were just dark, ethereal shapes, their forms having no clearly defined image. They drifted closer, converging on the two people by the pit, black shapes that were part of the blackness around them. They drew near, looming over Bishop and Edith, the man locked into his seat by an unseen force, the woman cowering on the ground. Bishop gasped for breath, feeling as though he were sinking into thick, slimy mud, his mouth and nostrils choked by the foul-smelling substance. He forced his arms up, slowly, tendons straining, fists clenched and trembling. He tried to grip the invisible thing that pushed against his chest and found nothing there, no shape, no substance. But the pressure still remained.

The soldiers around the site, those in the road, and those in the streets beyond the road, held their self-loading rifles and Sterling submachine-guns at the ready, knowing the inactivity had come to an end and that the danger had finally presented itself. The policemen felt comforted to be under the protection of their weaponry. In the distance, they could hear shouts, the occasional burst of gunfire; elsewhere trouble had already started.

Jessica tried to dodge round the metal shield, wanting to reach Bishop and Edith, but Peck grabbed her wrist and held her back.

'Leave them,' he said gruffly. 'You can't help them! Look.'

She followed his gaze and saw the sudden white glow emerging from the pit. The ultraviolet lights had been switched on, their brilliant light slowly spreading upwards and out. Other lights around the site began to glimmer, growing stronger second by second. Overhead could be heard the whirring blades of helicopters and the sky itself began to glow with the spreading white light.

'Chris hasn't got his visor down!' Jessica cried, struggling to free herself once more.

'He soon will have, don't worry. Just keep still, will you, and watch!'

Jessica stopped and Peck released his grip. 'Good girl. Now keep behind the screen.'

Bishop was dazzled by the rising brightness. He closed his eyes against it and tried to reach the visor lying flat over his head. He forced his hands towards it, sucking air in wheezing gasps, the black slime clogging his throat. Suddenly the pressure on his chest was gone; his arms felt free. He snapped the visor down and opened his eyes. The glare was still strong, but the silver chloride in the photochromic glass of the visor steadily counteracted the brightness, enabling him to see around him. Edith was half-crouched, one arm on the seat of her chair, looking towards the pit, her other arm shielding her eyes even though her visor was down. Bishop thought he could see the dark shapes falling away from the light, the images disappearing as though swallowed by the brightness.

The intensity of the light grew, becoming bluish in colour, a red tinge tainting the hue as it became more powerful. Soon the whole site was flooded with the blinding glare, shadows dispersed completely because of the positioning of other lights. The glow merged with the lights from above, the Gazelles maintaining their position, careful not to infringe on the air space of their fellow helicopters.

The area was completely bathed in the peculiar blue-violet light, every shadow quenched by it; even the man-made metal screens were lit from the back with less powerful lights so that no darkness could linger behind them.

Bishop felt his mind soaring, his fear leaving him. 'They've done it!' he cried to Edith. 'It's gone, they've destroyed it!' The scientists had been right all along: the Dark was a material thing, a physical property that could be obliterated as any other chemical, gas or solid matter could be. Jacob, poor Jacob, hadn't realized what it was; his mind had been too steeped in the paranormal to understand that the Dark was nothing more than an unexplained phenomenon and not a spiritual entity. Their own minds had fed the exaggeration, making them see things, imagine things, that did not exist. He, Bishop, had received the telepathic thoughts of Edith when he had had the 'visions' at Beechwood; she had known Pryszlak, had associated with his followers, known their cravings, their degeneracy, and he was receptive to her thoughts because he had discovered the dead and mutilated bodies. Everything else was the madness inflicted by the thing known as the Dark, and the earthly evil of those who had been followers of Pryszlak when he had been alive. The knowledge was overwhelming, for it was not just the answer to the terrible, catastrophic events that had recently passed but a reaffirmation of his beliefs over many years.

Bishop staggered towards Edith, his arms reaching out to help her. And it was as he was leaning forward over her, a hand beneath her shoulder to pull her upright, that the shadow fell across the glaring blueness of her clothing like a dark blemish on fresh-fallen snow.

He stumbled away from her and fell, going down on to his knees and staying there, the mask hiding the horror on his face. Edith was rising, looking down at the shadow spreading across her body, her arms outstretched, her legs wide. She lifted her head and screamed up at the skies.

Then the blue-violet glow began to dissolve under the swift-falling darkness.

The shapes came back with the shadows, like wisps of black smoke, twisting, spiralling above the light machines in their pit as though taunting their power. The lights could clearly be seen receding back into their source as though forced by some invisible, descending wall. The generators on one side of the site began to whine, reaching a pitch, slowing, then rising again. Technicians leapt away from them as sparks began to shower outwards. Every glow, whether it was from floodlight, searchlight or handheld torch began to fade, bulbs popping and glass shattering. The instruments inside the control hut became erratic, needles bouncing across dials like metronomes, switches shutting themselves off as though operated by invisible fingers, noises booming from receivers and transmitters. The hut was plunged into darkness as all the lights failed.

Overhead, a helicopter had pulled sharply away from the confused scene below, its broad, ultraviolet beam of light fizzling out as had the others in the companion helicopters. The pilot felt the Gazelle dip suddenly and struggled to maintain height; but the power was no longer there. It hit the helicopter which was rising from below and had inadvertently crossed the former's flight path. The roar of the explosion was deafening, the swirling ball of flame blinding. The tangled machines plunged to the ground, the red flames trailing behind like the tail of a comet. Because both Gazelles had veered away from the site their death fall took them into the troop-filled road. The screams of the soldiers were drowned in the second explosion as the machines struck the ground. Scalding metal and burning petrol splattered towards the exposed men.

The third pilot was more fortunate, for he was able to direct his machine into a clear space two streets away as it lost power. It crashed to the ground, but neither the pilot nor his companion was badly hurt. As they climbed shakily from the damaged machine, they failed to notice the people who moved in the shadows towards them.

Bishop tore the mask from his face, the site now lit only by faint light from the machines in the pit and the red glow that came from the fire in the road beyond. His cheeks were wet from tears of rage and frustration and new-found fear. Other small fires had started, caused by dropping flames when the helicopters had first made contact, their height spreading the fallout wide. Edith Metlock was silhouetted against the feeble light in the pit, her arms still held wide, the screams still bursting from her. He tried to push himself upright, but the oppressive weight was on him again, bearing him down, crushing his limbs. The black shapes swirled towards him, growing out of the darkness, seeming to become solid as they approached. He felt something hit him and he fell to the ground, shocked rather than hurt. He raised himself on one elbow, but there was nothing near him. Another blow, glancing off his forehead, and the skin where he had been touched burned as though ice had been smeared across it. The man he knew had been Pryszlak was before him, his malicious features clear even though they were totally black. The head came forward and his breath was fetid as he revealed his black teeth in a grin that made Bishop cry out and try to cover his eyes. There were others with Pryszlak, familiar faces that had become distorted with their own corruption. The man who had tried to kill him with the shotgun. The bearded man he had seen in his visions at Beechwood. The tall woman, her eyes ablaze with triumphant hate. And her short companion, cackling derisively. Others he did not recognize. And one who could have been Lynn, but the distortion was too great to tell. They moved closer to him, touching his body, prodding him. Yet he could see through them; he could see Edith, still hear her screams; he could still see the dimming glow from the pit.

Then the glass from the lights was bursting upwards, sparks, then flames leaping from the machines as they exploded, destroyed by something that had come to know no limitations, something that could only become stronger. The glass spun in the air, the shards flashing redly as they turned and reflected the distant fire; huge sheets specially strengthened to protect the delicate but powerful filaments beneath them. He saw a piece flying towards Edith, its glistening surface the size of a door, saw it slice her body in half, and closed his eyes before her legs, standing on their own, slowly toppled over.

The hands that were smothering him clutched at his throat and it seemed that each figure had a grip, their faces swimming before him, the mass that was the mind of all of them sucking at his own mind, no longer probing, searching, instead drawing out what it desired, what it needed to exist, to propagate. Just before the blackness became total he saw that crowds had invaded the site, screeching maniacs who attacked anyone who was not of their kind. Jessica was running towards him, her face hardly visible in the darkness. The shroud descended and there was nothing more to see. He could only close his eyes against the Dark.

And then he opened them, wondering where the blinding white light came from, the light that grew from nothing and washed the area on which the house called Beechwood had once stood with its vivid radiance, scouring out every rut and crevice with its brilliant intensity, making every brick and stone shadowless, casting out the darkness.

The light that burned into his eyes even though he had closed them once more.

. . . The dreams have left me; time has numbed the horror of those terrible days. Even Jessica is no longer afraid of the night. We're together now, not yet as man and wife, but that will come. We need to adjust more fully to our new existence; formal rituals can take their turn.

After two years, we still remember that night at Beechwood as though it were only yesterday. The events have been discussed, analysed, written about, but still no one can explain the phenomenon that took place. The Church tries, of course, and now the scientists are prepared to listen to us, to consider what we tell them, for it was they, the technologists, who were proved wrong, they who came to realize that evil is a spiritual power and not a biological malfunction of the brain. Jacob Kulek would have been pleased is pleased that a true bond has been struck between the scientist and the parapsychologist, a working relationship no longer grudging, the alliance opening new doors to our self-discovery. It's everything he worked for when he was alive, only his death achieving those aims. Jessica frequently communicates with him, and I am slowly learning to. Edith is helping, acting as my guide.

She has spoken to my daughter, Lucy, and has promised she will bring her to me soon. She tells me Lucy is very happy, and Edith, too, is content in her own death.

The Dark never returned after that night, but Jacob has warned us it has not been truly vanquished. He says that as long as there is evil in the minds of men, it will always exist. One day, I suppose it will manifest itself again.

There are many of us who are aware now. All those who were at Beechwood and saw the Light form and grow until its effulgence destroyed every dark shadow have gained this unique extra-sensory perception. Only those who could not cope with the new powers they found they possessed have suffered, for their minds have retreated from it, hidden within themselves so they can no longer function as people. The scientist, Marinker, was one such person. But they are being cared for, and have not suffered the same fate as the victims of the Dark, who were left empty and alone, their bodies becoming weak shells that no amount of medical attention could save from wasting away and eventually dying. Some who were present that night say the Light was like a ball of fire, a new sun rising from the earth itself; others claim it had no form, no visible shape, but was a tenuous gas, expanding in sudden flashes, filling the air with its charges. Several say it grew in the shape of a cross, losing its outline as the brightness became too intense. For myself, I remember seeing only the brightness, no shape, no structure, just a brilliant light that flooded my mind.

We've heard reports that the Light has been seen since, in different parts of the world where oppression is prevalent. Jessica tells me Jacob is strangely uncommunicative about this. She has also asked him what part God has played in all this, but again, Jacob will not answer the question. He has told her that our new perception is at too fragile a stage for us to know, that even in death we are still learning, no truth fully realized.

Jacob had known he was dying from internal injuries that night on the rooftop; but he also knew his own mind had to maintain control as death eclipsed his life. The Dark, with its growing power, had endeavoured to fill him as he died, to swamp his thoughts, to destroy his spiritual will; the swiftness of his death prevented that. These black, incorporeal beings knew that as the body died, so the will, the essence that is within everyone, faded too, only to be restored, reawakened, when the tenuous strands that tied it to its earthly shell were finally broken. A metamorphosis that, in our terms, took three days. But Jacob had not allowed his will to deteriorate with a slow death; he had controlled his spiritual power in his last fleeting moments, aware of and playing a wilful part in his own rebirth. As had Boris Pryszlak. Both had chosen different paths.

Jacob had found himself among an awesome realm of energies, a new dimension that was partly of this world, but ultimately a doorway to something greater, something that could be glimpsed, but not fully perceived. He had been confused, lost, and not alone. Others awaited him.

He had become part of them, joined the flow that never ceased growing, moving, yet which, again in our terms, had no reality; and eventually a part of that flow was allowed to return to its beginnings and combat an opposite energy that threatened its embryo. We are that embryo. The Dark is that opposite energy. The Light is the power we will become.

None of us who saw the Light resents the affliction it dealt us, for the blindness isn't a burden but a release from our lack of vision. Jessica is carrying our child and we both know that he it will be a boy will be blind, like us. The thought makes us happy, for we know he will be able to see as we do.

Also by James Herbert.

The Rats.

The Fog The Survivor.

Fluke The Spear.