She stopped, tilted her head at him.

'Do you have any friends here?' he asked. 'Any contacts? Money? No? Face it, Nicole. You need my help. You both do.'

'We've got this far without you.'

'I'm sure you have. But that was then, and now you're here. And actually you do need my help, and despite the fact that you're a volatile lunatic with an equally volatile mother, it's still on offer.'

Nicole stared at him, trembling with anger. He could tell that his words had caused her to pause, even if they had outraged her. Charles opened his mouth to continue, but something told him that he had said enough, that he had pushed his luck and his argument as far as it would go.

He sensed that the three of them balanced on an apex.

'He's right, Nicole.'

Charles turned. He had not been expecting support from her mother.

'We don't have any choice,' Alice said. 'Let this go. Take a breath. I don't like the situation any more than you. But I believe him. We can forgive one error of judgement after what he's done. Let him make his plans and see if he can get us home. For the moment we have to accept that he is our best hope.'

Nicole's shoulders slumped. She dropped the books down on the counter, took up the string and began to secure them. Chagrined, she met Charles's eyes. She started to say something, changed her mind, and shook her head. Chewing her lip, she picked up the books and strode out of the room.

Charles watched her go. He felt Alice's gaze upon him.

'This volatile mother can forgive one error of judgement,' she said, eyes flat. 'But two would be dangerous. Don't think I'm not watching your every move.'

'Does the term hosszu eletek mean anything to you?' Charles asked.

Ensconced in the Rabbit room of the Eagle and Child public house, he traced a bead of foam down his pint gla.s.s and looked across at his colleague, Patrick Beckett.

'Charles, I'm astonished!' The professor of comparative philology was a tall man, with quick birdlike mannerisms and teeth too enormous for his mouth. He leaned forwards on his stool and snapped out a hand to retrieve his ale, slurping down a mouthful. 'I never thought this night would come.'

'What night is that?'

'The night you came to ask my advice on something. You honour me greatly, my friend. I must have risen up the ranks of academia to deserve such an accolade. I'd better drink this quickly before you change your mind, hadn't I? I knew there was a reason behind you buying the beer. Do you think this might be the first time you've dipped into your wallet this year?'

'Don't be daft, Patrick.' Feeling foolish in spite of himself, Charles glanced out of their wood-panelled hideaway by the fireplace before adding, 'eletek. I've been looking for a reference everywhere, but I'm d.a.m.ned if I can find anything.'

'Well, I'm glad you've seen the light, that's all I'll say. You'll learn just as much about a society studying its myths as its history.'

'I don't follow you.'

'It's not a historian you need, Charles, it's a folklorist.' Triumphant, Beckett indicated himself. 'Enter Beckett stage right.'

'I was under the impression that linguistics was your bag.'

'Of course. And to understand any language fully, one has to understand the society in which that language developed. What better way to do that than by familiarising oneself with its folklore? Now I'll admit that I've spent far more time reading the old tales than most, but it's fascinating stuff. Much better than any of the guff produced this side of the twentieth century.' He held up a quick hand. 'Ah, aha, I forget our surroundings, of course. That was cra.s.s of me, and entirely untrue. But you understand my general sentiment.' He rapped on the table with his knuckles, for no reason that Charles could fathom. Beckett was full of these odd little quirks, tics and contradictions. It made conversation with him exhausting.

'So what can you tell me about eletek?'

'Probably very little.' Beckett raised a finger in caution, taking a break to sip from his beer. 'Although saying that, more than most, I'm sure. On the other hand, who knows what I know or whether what I know is even true? When I say true, of course, I mean correct, or at least what I mean to say is, authentic. You see? We're already getting into difficulties.'

'In that case,' Charles said, 'putting aside the potential inaccuracies of what you've heard for a moment, could you at least enlighten me with what you have heard before they call last orders?'

Beckett clapped twice, delighted. 'Beautifully phrased. Of course I will. I'd have to go back and check my sources, as this is straight off the top of my head. I can't remember if it's from the German Marchen, the Slavic folktales, or somewhere else entirely. It doesn't matter, I suppose. In fact, I think there may be tales about them in a number of different sources, which is entirely normal. They're not always referred to that way either. In fact, eletek or to be more accurate, hosszu eletek is a Hungarian phrase.'

'They?'

'A people. Hosszu eletek translates from the Hungarian into Long Lives. Or perhaps it's Long-lived.' He paused again, clicked his fingers. 'I'm not entirely sure if it's a direct translation, anyway. It could be a slight corruption.'

'OK, let's not dwell on the etymology.'

'Perish the thought.' Beckett drained his beer. 'Is it your round again?'

Shaking his head, Charles picked up his wallet. A few minutes later, settled with fresh pints of ale, he waited for Beckett to resume.

'I've been thinking about it while you've been at the bar. I told you I knew more than I thought, didn't I? It's all coming back now. I must have come across them several times over the years, and clearly from different sources, because the tales diverge. Amazing, the brain. Anyway, the Long Life part is only half the story. The real meat of the legend is the fact that the hosszu eletek could change their shape.'

'Shape-shifting?'

'It's a common theme in mythology, isn't it? Sometimes punitive, sometimes defensive. Often predatory. You even have your more contemporary psychological shifting. Jekyll and Hyde, as an example.'

'And the eletek?'

'Well that's where the stories diverge. Many of them talk about hosszu eletek just as we would talk about a different society or culture. You wouldn't cla.s.sify the French as essentially evil or predatory, would you? Or all the j.a.panese as crooked? The eletek are simply another aspect of our heritage. Rare, but present all the same. Moving through the world, largely invisible, known only to the n.o.bility in whichever country they reside. Many of them actually are n.o.bility. You would a.s.sume that longevity and disguise would give one a certain advantage in political circles, after all.' Beckett laughed. 'Well, any sort of circles, let's face it.'

'But not all the folklore agrees on that point.'

'No. And that's where it gets interesting. There does seem to be a clear split. You'd obviously expect a few renditions of a tale like this to have a more sinister edge. Stories told to young children to keep them in line, for instance. And there are plenty of those as well. But what I remember finding fascinating is the fact that those stories come much later. In fact, you can't find many of them at all if you go back more than a couple of hundred years or so. It's as if something happened back then to turn opinion against the eletek.'

'You speak of them as if they exist.'

'No, I speak of them as if society believed them to exist. And there's lots of evidence for that. When you piece the folklore together, throw in a few a.s.sumptions and stir it all up with a bit of imagination, a tale emerges of a race that lived in secret in Eastern Europe until about five hundred years ago. It's not surprising that the shape-shifting aspect of their nature comes to the fore. Think about the context. In the ninth century you have arpad the Magyar leader, with his Covenant of Blood, taking and unifying the whole of the Carpathian Basin, of which Hungary was a part. His descendants rule quite happily well, perhaps happily is not the right word at all, but let's not allow it to delay us until the thirteenth century, and then . . . bang!' Beckett thumped the table with his fist, spilling beer. 'Disaster! The Mongols invade. Millions slaughtered. Women and babies. Cats and dogs. Ma.s.sacre after ma.s.sacre. n.o.body safe. The Mongols raid and raid. They burn, plunder, rape. It's not difficult to understand how a myth centred around shifting develops in that environment.'

'Defensive shifting.'

'Exactly. And that is perhaps the birth right there of the eletek. Their root, as it were. And if it's a defence mechanism we're talking of, then you'd expect them to be secretive. Who knows? Maybe after the threat of the Mongols had dwindled by the end of the century, the eletek were able to step forwards. And live quite happily side by side until, for whatever reason, they were driven underground again, or interest in the myth began to wane.' Beckett drummed his fingers on the table, evidently pleased with his oratory. He sipped his beer.

'It's an interesting tale.'

The academic nodded sagely. 'You know, Charles, I have to say I've enjoyed this conversation immensely. You've completely reinvigorated my enthusiasm for the Carpathians. There's something I feel I ought to ask you.'

'Go on.'

Beckett's expression became serious for the first time that evening. 'Would you be at all interested,' he asked, 'in joining our battle re-enactment society?'

Nicole and Alice stayed with him a further week. It took him longer than he had expected to arrange their pa.s.sage back across the Channel. His boat-owner friend had agreed to the crossing readily enough, but the avoidance of French Customs had been a negotiation point that resulted in him parting with several cherished bottles of Chateau Latour.

But even with that complication resolved, Charles admitted to himself that he had played for time. The longer he spent in Nicole's company, the more he realised it was not just curiosity that led to his procrastination but an obvious attraction. They had argued less as the days pa.s.sed although on a few occasions their differences of opinion had forced Alice to intervene and separate them. They ate together, walked together, talked, laughed. Nicole asked to listen to a tape of his radio doc.u.mentary, and then mocked him ruthlessly while she listened. He saw a different side to her during those evenings. When her defences were down, they bantered affectionately. He was often left feeling intoxicated from the experience.

The night before the two women sailed, he managed to persuade Nicole to leave the cottage and accompany him to a French restaurant in the heart of Oxford. Whomever she was running from, he reasoned, the chances of meeting him in a particular restaurant in a particular city on a particular evening were remote.

Sitting in the tiny bistro, Nicole delighted him by ordering escargots, and Charles delighted her by tasting one. He watched her across the table, trying to memorise her face as best he could. Her hair was down tonight, auburn locks falling over her shoulders. Summer sun had browned her face, revealing a dusting of freckles.

Nicole glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. 'You have that look again.'

'Which look?'

'I don't know. That look. I never know what you're thinking when I see it.'

'I'm thinking that this is certainly the last I'm going to see of you for a while. I'm hoping it's not going to be the very last.'

Nicole took a sip of wine, replaced her gla.s.s. She looked down at her food and then into his eyes. 'Oh, Charles. This has been difficult for you, hasn't it?'

'Don't say it like that.'

'Like what?'

'It sounds like you're brushing me off.'

'I'm not. But it has been difficult. Is difficult. This, I mean. Us.'

'It doesn't have to be.'

She shook her head. 'Please. Don't start that.'

'I want to see you again.'

'You will.'

'Will I?' he asked. 'You haven't told me where you're going. You haven't given me an address. Or even a telephone number. You won't tell me your plans.'

'I know.' Nicole dropped her fork and reached out to take his hand, squeezing it before retreating. 'It's daunting, isn't it?'

'What?'

'Trust.'

He nodded slowly. 'You're asking me to trust you.'

'Haven't I always?'

'You'll come back?'

'I can't promise that. But we'll see each other again, I think. Just maybe not here.'

'And without sounding desperate, can I ask when?'

She laughed. 'You do sound desperate. It's completely out of character. And completely touching. The answer is I don't know. But I think I'll be going crazy in Paris if I haven't had another argument with you at some point in the next few months.'

He smiled, and then he thought about what he needed to say, and his face grew serious. 'We keep coming back to trust. I think I've done enough to earn yours by now. But I've made a few mistakes along the way. I should never have read your diaries without asking.'

'Duly noted.'

'And equally I'd be betraying your trust if I didn't confess to you what I read when I dipped into them. Or where that trail led me.'

Across the table, Nicole laid down her knife and laced her fingers together. 'I'm listening.'

He paused, alert for her reaction. Glancing around the restaurant, more for her benefit than the chance of anyone overhearing them, he said, 'Hosszu eletek.'

She flinched in her seat. Ever so slightly. As if she had been stung.

But she didn't throw her wine in his face, didn't storm out of the restaurant, didn't do any of the things he had been half expecting. Her breathing accelerated, but aside from that she simply watched him.

Charles waited until another diner had pa.s.sed their table, and then asked, 'Well?'

Raising her eyebrows, she opened her fingers, indicating that he should continue.

He cleared his throat. Then, he began to relay everything he had learned from Beckett, and everything he had managed to read since. He omitted nothing, talking about the conflicting mythologies, about Beckett's own speculations. And when he had finished she was still sitting there, still watching him, still silent.

'You haven't said a word,' he said, picking up his wine gla.s.s and draining it.

'What do you want me to say?'

'I don't know. React? Tell me I shouldn't have done it? Tell me the significance of all this?'

'Charles . . .' She floundered, looking away from him, and he saw tears in her eyes. 'How do we even have this conversation? How do we? I value your friendship. I respect you. But you could never understand this. That's why it's best that-'

'I understand enough, Nicole. I understand that, for whatever reason, this isn't a mythology to you. I understand that you and your mother are running from someone. Something happened, I don't know what. And for whatever reason, you think someone is hunting you, and you believe them to be hosszu elet. Is that true?'

She choked a sob, and it took all his restraint not to leave his seat and comfort her.

'Nicole, you've been asking me to make a leap of faith all this time. I don't know anything about this, other than what I learned from Beckett. I think I'm in love with you.' He shook his head. 'd.a.m.n, I've said it. But I can't make that leap of faith unless you confide in me.'

Nicole was silent for moment, contemplating his words. 'What was your view on what you heard?'

'Of eletek?'

'Yes.'

'I don't have a view. It's an interesting myth. What else can I say?'

'Could you have a relationship with someone you thought was deluded?'

'No.'

'You see our dilemma.'

He gambled, played one last hand. 'His name is Jakab, isn't it?'

This time she reacted more violently. She rocked back in her seat, spine arched away from him, eyes scanning the restaurant the same furtive expression he had seen the day she crashed her car. A bird trapped in a cage with a predator. It chilled him.