'It was a bitterly cold night. The panic rush to hospital may have made it worse for her. Two hours we waited: an hour waiting for the hospital doctor to look at her, another hour waiting for them to decide what to do. They gave Lucy a tracheostomy, but by then she had pneumonia. Whether it was the shock of the operation in her weakened state, or the illness itself that killed her, we never found out. We blamed ourselves, the doctor who refused at first to come, the hospital but most of all, we blamed God.' He gave a short, bitter laugh. 'Of course, Lynn and I believed in God then.'

'You don't any more?' She seemed surprised and Bishop turned his head towards her.

'Can you believe any Supreme Being would allow all this misery?' He nodded towards the tall buildings as though the city were the container for mankind's torments. 'Lynn was a Catholic, but I think her rejection of God was even stronger than mine. Maybe that's the way it works: the more you believe in something, the more you go against it when that belief is shattered. In that first year, I had to watch Lynn day and night. I thought she'd kill herself. My caring for her may have been the thing that pulled me through I don't know. Then she seemed to accept it. She became calm, but it was a brooding kind of calmness, almost as if she'd given up, lost interest. In a way, it was unnerving, but at least it gave me something to work on. I could plan our lives again without the hysterics. I planned, she listened. It was something. A few weeks later she perked up, seemed to come alive again. I discovered she had been going to a spiritualist.'

Bishop looked around and indicated a bench on the opposite side of the path behind them. 'Shall we sit for a while? Is it too cold?'

Jessica shook her head. 'No, it's not too cold.'

They sat, and she pressed closer to him. He seemed distracted, almost unaware of her presence.

'Did you believe in spiritualism then?' she prompted.

'What? Oh, no, not really. I'd never thought about it before. But it was like a new religion to Lynn; it replaced her God.'

'How did she find this spiritualist?'

'A friend, probably well-meaning, told her of him. The friend had lost her husband years before and had supposedly made contact with him again through this man. Lynn swore to me he had found Lucy for her. She told me she had spoken to her. I was angry at first, but I could see the change it had made in Lynn. Suddenly she had a reason for living again. It went on for a long time and I admit my arguments against her seeing the spiritualist were only half-hearted. She was paying him for each session, of course, but not enough for me to suspect he was making a lot of money out of her.' Bishop smiled cynically. 'But isn't that how they operate? Build up a large clientele, accept small, individual "gifts"? It soon mounts up.'

'They're not all like that, Chris. There are very few that practise spiritualism just for money.' Jessica stemmed her irritation, not wanting to become involved in another argument with him.

'I'm sure they have all sorts of reasons, Jessica.' The implication was that any other reason was just as bad as that of financial gain, but she refused to rise to the bait.

'Anyway,' Bishop continued, 'Lynn finally persuaded me to go along to one of her meetings. Maybe I wanted to see or hear Lucy again. I missed her so much I was ready to grasp at anything. And for the first five minutes, the man almost had me fooled.

'He was middle-aged, spoke with a soft, Irish accent. His whole manner was soft, in fact; soft but persuasive. Like Edith Metlock, he looked like any other ordinary member of the public. He made no exaggerated claims to me, didn't even try to convince me he was genuine. It was all up to me, he said. The choice whether to believe or not was mine. It was his very casualness that almost convinced me of his sincerity.

'With few preliminaries, the seance began. It was in a darkened room, holding hands around a table the sort of thing I expected. He asked us to join him in a short prayer to start the proceedings and, surprisingly, Lynn readily did so. There were others at the seance, Lynn's friend who had introduced her to the medium among them, and one by one, their dead friends or relatives were contacted. Frankly, I was a little scared. The atmosphere of the room seemed to be I don't know heavy, charged? I had to keep telling myself it was only created by the living people in the room itself.

'When Lucy's voice came through I was shocked rigid. Lynn was grasping my hand tightly, and without looking at her I knew she was crying. I also knew those tears were because she was happy. The voice was small, distant; it seemed to come from the air itself. A child's, but it could have been any child's. It was the things she said that made me believe. She was glad I'd finally come. She had missed me, but she was happy now. She'd felt no pain when she died, only a sadness, then a great joy. She had many new friends in the world she was now in and her only concern was that we, her mother and father, were unhappy. I felt my own tears coming, but suddenly, things didn't quite ring true. Lucy was only five when she died and here she was speaking in the manner of someone much older. If you really wanted to believe, you could convince yourself that that was how things were on the other side: you gained a wisdom beyond your mortal years. I wasn't quite that ready to accept, though. I was perplexed when she spoke of things that only we three, myself, Lucy and her mother, knew of. But then they made their first mistake. The voice was reminding me of how once, when Lynn was out shopping, Lucy and I were having a rough-and-tumble in the sitting-room. In the scramble, a favourite ornament of Lynn's got broken. It was a figurine an 18th Century courtesan, I think but only reproduction, not valuable. Lynn loved it though, so we knew we were in trouble. Only the head had come off and I spent the next half-hour gluing it back on. It fooled Lynn until she tried to dust it. The head just toppled off again. Unfortunately, Lucy and I were both in the room at the time and we couldn't help going into hysterics at the look on Lynn's face. Anyway, I owned up to it, and that was the last of the matter. Until the giggling voice in the room reminded me of it.

'Okay, seances are full of these trivial incidents related by departed loved ones. It's what makes them seem so genuine, isn't it? Little moments that no one else could possibly know of. That was fine, except they'd got it wrong. It was Lucy who had broken the statuette, not me. I had accepted the blame because Lucy thought she might have been spanked. She wouldn't have, of course, it was an accident. But that's how kids are.

'So now I was even more suspicious. The medium had heard the story second-hand from someone. Who? Lynn? Maybe she had told the story in one of her visits. Or her friend, the woman who had brought her along in the first place. If it was her, there was probably no bad intent. As I said, the Irishman was a soft, persuasive talker. He could have learned many things about us.

'I played along with them for a while, pretending to be convinced, waiting for another mistake. And they made it, all right. A stupid, almost farcical mistake. I suppose they had been lulled into a false sense of security by my act, imagining that here was another punter to be bled. A smoky substance came from somewhere behind the medium. It was near the back of the room, over his left shoulder, where Lynn and I had a clear view of it. An image began to appear in the smoke, hazy, not clearly defined. It was a face, fluctuating between sharpness and a blur. After a few seconds we recognized it as Lucy. The features were hers, the expression was hers; but there was something not quite right. I realized what it was and it was so silly I could have laughed out loud had I not been so angry. Her hair was parted on the wrong side, you see. They were projecting a photograph of Lucy on to a small screen from behind. The screen's edges were well camouflaged, and the smoke helped conceal it even more.

'I lost control when I realized how it was being done and rushed towards the smoke which was coming from a small tube in the wall. I pounded my fist against the screen. It was inside a small alcove that was covered by a panel when the lights were on and made of some kind of black Perspex. I managed to crack it with my fist.'

Bishop leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the gravel path. 'Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had let it ride. Maybe Lynn wouldn't have had her breakdown.' His bitter smile returned as he remembered the immediate consequences of his action. 'As you can imagine, the seance ended in uproar. The medium was screaming at me, his brogue a little sharp by then. Lynn's friend was in hysterics, while Lynn herself was white-faced and quiet. The others were in various stages of shock and anger. I'm still not sure who their anger was directed at me or the Irishman.

'I didn't even bother to look for the hidden microphone the child's voice had come from; I'd seen enough. The medium was coming at me looking as if his red face was about to burst open. A good hard shove took care of him, then I grabbed Lynn and got out of there. She didn't say a word for three days after. Then she cracked.

'Her last hope had been shattered, you see. It was as though Lucy had died twice.'

'Oh, God, it must have been terrible for her, Chris. For you both.' Jessica, too, was leaning forward.

'Lynn just seemed to sink further and further into herself over the next few months. I just couldn't reach her. She seemed to be blaming me. I finally got her to a psychiatrist and he explained that, to Lynn, I had almost become Lucy's murderer. In her confused mind, I had taken Lucy away from her again. I didn't believe him, I couldn't. Lynn and I had always been so close. When she suffered, I suffered; when I was happy, she was happy. To us, Lucy had somehow represented that closeness, had been a product of it. It was as if with her gone, our ties had been snapped. Lynn tried to kill herself twice before I was forced to have her committed. Once, she tried to kill me.'

Jessica shivered, not from the cold, and impulsively placed a hand on his arm. He sat back against the bench as if to shrug her hand off and she quickly withdrew it.

'She took sleeping pills the first time, tried to slash her wrists the second. I managed to get her to hospital before it was too late on both occasions; but I knew there would come a time when we wouldn't make it. After the second attempt, she really hated me. She wanted to be with Lucy and I was preventing her. I woke up one night and she was standing over me with a knife. Why she hadn't struck while I was still asleep, I don't know. Perhaps deep inside the old Lynn didn't want to kill me. When I woke, it must have acted as a trigger. I just managed to move out of the way in time. The knife went into the pillow and I had to hit her hard to make her let it go. After that, I had no choice: I had to have her taken into care. There was no way I could watch her all the time.'

He was silent for a few moments and from the way he avoided looking directly at her, Jessica wondered if he now regretted telling her all this. She wondered if he had ever told anyone else before.

'That happened six, seven years ago,' he finally said.

'And Lynn is still . . .?' she hesitated, unwilling to use a title, afraid it might give offence.

'In the mental institution? She's in a private one not the best, but one I can afford. The people who run it like to call it a rest home for the mentally disorientated. Kind of takes the sting out of it. Yes, she's still there, and as far as I can see, there's been little progress. The reverse, in fact. I visit her as much as I can, but now she doesn't even recognize me. She's built a protective barrier around herself, I'm told. I'm her biggest threat, so she's cutting me out.'

'It seems such an inadequate thing to say, Chris, but I'm sorry. These past years must have seemed like hell to you. Now I can understand why you hate spiritualists so much.'

Bishop surprised her by taking her hand. 'I don't hate them, Jessica. The real phoneys I detest, but I've learned that many are completely sincere, if misguided.' He shrugged and let go of her hand. 'That first one, the Irishman, was a complete amateur compared to some I've investigated. They've got it down to a fine art. Did you know there's a shop in America where you can buy spiritualistic miracles. A couple of dollars for the Mystery of the Gyrating Tables, a few more for the Joe Spook Spirit Rapper. It even has an Ectoplasm Kit. Spiritualism has become big business with the wave of interest in the occult. People are looking beyond the materialistic side of life and there are plenty of shysters around to cater for their needs. Don't get me wrong I'm not on any crusade against them. At first I was ready to expose any group or individual I believed was operating fraudulently and I was pretty lucky most times. Their tricks were so obvious when you went along as a complete unbeliever. But other times I was stumped, impressed even. I began to develop a deeper interest in the whole topic of mysticism, keeping my acceptance at a realistic level. I found there was so much that could be explained by down-to-earth investigation. By practical, scientific reasoning, if you like. Of course, there's an awful lot that can't be explained, but we're slowly finding the answers, gradually moving towards the truth.'

'That's what my father's Institute is all about.'

'I know, Jessica. That's why I wanted to speak to you. I've been pretty rough on you, Jacob and Edith Metlock. It seemed to me that events were being exaggerated, moulded into a shape that complied with your way of thinking. It was a kind of hysteria. I've seen it so many times in my investigations.'

He put a finger to her lips to still her protests. 'I believe what you said about this man Pryszlak. Perhaps he was on to something. Perhaps he had discovered that evil was a physical force in itself and was searching for a way of harnessing that force. But it all ended with his death and the deaths of his crazy henchmen. Don't you see that?'

Jessica gave a deep sigh. 'I just don't know any more. It could be that my father's conviction is swaying my own judgement. He knew the man so well. Their mental capabilities were so alike, so extraordinary. If anything, my father's blindness has enhanced his extrasensory faculties, although it's become a very private thing for him, not one he shares with others.'

'Not even with you?'

She shook her head. 'He will one day, when the time is right.' She smiled, almost whimsically. 'He likens himself to an explorer who cannot lead others until he has found the right path himself. His concern is that Pryszlak was way ahead of him on that path.'

'I've met many like Pryszlak in my investigations. Obviously not as extreme, but all with that same fanaticism that you tell me the man had. It's like a disease, Jessica, it spreads. I've almost caught small doses of it myself when I've been baffled by certain cases.'

'But you've always been content to label them as "unexplained phenomena" and put them aside.' There was no sarcasm in her voice, just a hopelessness.

'For the moment, yes. It's like UFOs: it's just a matter of time before we find the explanation for them.'

She nodded her understanding. 'All right, Chris. Perhaps it's good to have a cynic like you nosing around in this field; we may all be too dedicated to our own causes. I think your experience in that house has shaken you more than you're letting on, though. Your recommendation that it be destroyed immediately could be your way of chasing away your own ghosts.'

He had no answer for her; the truth wasn't clear even to himself. Instead, he tried to make light of it. 'It might destroy a reasonable living if I became a believer.'

She smiled and said, 'Thanks for telling me all this, Chris. I know it wasn't easy.'

Bishop grinned. 'It wasn't, but it helped. It's been good to talk to someone after all this time.' He rose from the bench and looked down at her. 'Tell your father I'm sorry, will you? I didn't enjoy bringing everything to such a sudden halt. I thought it was for the best, though. Really.'

'We owe you your fee.'

'For half a day's work? Forget it.'

He turned to go, but she stopped him by saying, 'Will I see you again?'

His confusion showed before he replied, 'I hope so.'

Jessica watched as he made his way towards the park exit that would take him in the direction of Baker Street. She reached into her shoulder-bag and took out a cigarette. She lit it and inhaled deeply. He was a strange man; intense. But now that she understood his cynicism, all her resentment towards him had evaporated. She wished she could help him in some way. She wished she could help rid her father of his obsession with Pryszlak. She wished it really was all over but, like Jacob, she somehow knew it wasn't.

A screech from one of the ducks startled her and she saw two of them were fighting greedily over a lake-sodden piece of bread thrown by an elderly woman. Jessica rose from the bench, drawing her coat tight around her to keep out the dampness of the air. She stopped to stub out the scarcely-smoked cigarette on the gravel path, then tossed the broken remains into a nearby bin. Hands tucked deep into her coat pockets, she walked slowly from the park.

The demolition company moved in, their machines battering the walls of Beechwood, the men swinging their sledgehammers with relish. The neighbours gawped, surprised at the sudden attack on the property and some, those who knew the history of the house, were pleased at the destruction. Within two days the building was reduced to rubble, an unsightly scar between the houses of Willow Road, an emptiness that was only filled when nightfall came. A rough wooden barrier was erected to prevent the curious, especially children, from entering the site, for the debris was dangerous, the ground floor not having collapsed completely into the basement area. There were small openings through which someone could fall.

The shadows beneath the rubble welcomed the night, merging with it, becoming more substantial, and the darkness in the cellar seemed to creep from the openings like a living, breathing thing.

Part Two.

Have regard for thy covenant.

for the dark places of the land ar full of the habitations of violence.

Psalms 74:20.

(R.S.V.).

11.

Detective Chief Inspector Peck groaned inwardly as the Granada slid to a smooth halt.

'Looks like Armageddon,' he remarked to his driver, who chuckled in response. Peck climbed from the car and surveyed the scene. The smell of smoke still clung to the air and large puddles filled the hollows of Willow Road, forming small shiny ponds. Water tenders were dampening the ashes of the three fire-ravaged houses, their bright red bodywork a bulky intrusion on the drab greyness of the street. An ambulance stood by, its back doors open wide as though expecting a fresh delivery at any moment. A blue-clad figure disengaged itself from an agitated throng and strode briskly towards Peck.

'Chief Inspector Peck? I was informed you were on your way.'

Peck acknowledged the uniformed man's curt salute with a casual nod of his head. 'You'd be Inspector Ross from the local shop.'

'Yes, sir. We've got a right bloody mess here.' He indicated the general background scene with a flick of his head.

'Well, I think the first thing you'd better do is clear the street of anyone not directly involved in last night's business.'

'Just about to do that. Trouble is, half of them were involved.'

Peck's eyebrows rose in an arch, but he said nothing.

Ross called his sergeant over. 'Get them all inside their houses, Tom. We'll take door-to-door statements from everyone. And get the Press back to the end of the road; we'll issue a statement later. I thought you posted men at each end to stop anyone getting through?'

'We did. It didn't work.'

'Okay, get on to HQ and have some barriers sent down. Tell them we need more men, too. Right, all civilians off the street. Now.'

The sergeant wheeled away and began barking orders at his men and bystanders alike. Ross turned back to Peck, who said, 'Okay, Inspector, let's get in the car and talk quietly for a few moments.'

Once inside, Peck lit a cigarette and opened a side window just enough for the smoke to escape. 'So tell me,' he said, looking distractedly at the activity outside.

The inspector placed his cap on one knee. 'The first sign of trouble was a radio message from one of our constables patrolling this road. Constable Posgate, it was, on surveillance duty with Constable Hicks.'

'Surveillance?'

'Well, not exactly. But it was more than the normal patrol. You've heard about the funny goings-on here recently?'

Peck grunted and Ross took it as affirmation.

'The residents demanded some protection. We gave them the patrol to let them know we were keeping an eye on things, but frankly, we didn't really expect anything else to happen.'

'Seems you were wrong. Go on.'

The inspector shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Our man reported what he thought was a scuffle or a mugging going on at the end of the road.'

'What time was this?'

'About half-eleven. They went down to sort things out and got pretty well sorted out themselves.'

'How many involved?'

'Three. Youths. Two white, one black.'

'And they gave your coppers a seeing-to?'

'They were vicious bastards, sir.'

Peck hid his smile by cupping the cigarette against his mouth.

'And it wasn't a mugging,' Ross said seriously.

'No?'

'No. It was a rape.'

'In the street?'

'Yes, sir, in the street. No attempt to drag the victim off into cover. But that's not the worst of it.'

'Surprise me.'

'The victim was a man.'

Peck looked incredulously at the inspector. 'I'm surprised,' he said.