"So just go back in there, and smile at him, and...I dunno...just be normal normal, Mum."

So I did. I smiled at Rip, and he smiled at me, a bit awkwardly, and he explained that he'd had to move out of Pete's place, and he'd tried to ring me to tell me that Ben was coming home earlier than expected, but I'd not rung him back. When an accusing note slid into his voice, Stella threw him a warning look.

"Dad!"

She would make a great teacher, this girl.

When I think of the turning point, the point from which it all started to get better again, I think of that Monday in March, that scene in the curtained cubicle at the hospital, Ben sitting up and trying to remember what had happened, Stella perched on the edge of the bed tickling Ben's toes through the bedclothes and making him laugh. It reminded me of the glue exhibition, with me and Rip sitting awkwardly on each side of the bed like lumpy unpromising adherends, and Ben and Stella in the middle holding us together like two blobs of glue.

We sat together like that in the neurologist's office next day, Rip, Ben and I, with Ben in the middle. The neurologist took us through a series of questions, and asked us about the circ.u.mstances of Ben's fit. When I described the whirling screen saver and the flashing flames of the Armageddon website, he told us about a cl.u.s.ter of 685 cases of epilepsy in 1997 in j.a.pan that had apparently been triggered by a single Pokemon episode on television.

"It's possible for photosensitivity to trigger an epileptic seizure," he said, peering at us through his small rimless gla.s.ses. "What we can't tell at this stage is whether it will happen again." He turned to Ben. He had a surprisingly mischievous smile for a neurologist. "Try and be more selective about which sites you visit, young man. It's wild out there in cybers.p.a.ce."

"Right." Ben nodded. He was embarra.s.sed by all the attention.

But there must be more to it than that, I thought. I remembered our liminal conversation, the haunted look in his eyes.

"I can understand the computer flashing could set something off," I said. "But what about...?" I cast my mind back. "Sometimes you said you were feeling strange when you got back from school, before you'd even turned the computer on. Don't you remember, Ben?"

He blinked and frowned.

"Yeah. It was when I was on the bus. We pa.s.sed these trees. I could see the sun through the branches." He described a long road where low winter sunlight flickered through branches of an avenue of trees as he sat on the upper deck of the bus. "That's when I started having, like, feelings feelings."

"But when you've stayed with me in Islington you've been perfectly all right." There was an edge of accusation in Rip's voice, as though I'd caused the problem.

"I got a different bus."

The neurologist nodded. "If you find yourself in that situation another time, young man, just try closing one eye."

So that's all there was to it-the generations of prophets with their obscure and terrifying predictions, the reign of Antichrist, the tribulations, the Abomination of Desolation, Armageddon, the fearsome battle of all the armies of the world, the rebuilding of the Temple at Jerusalem, the end of time with trumpet clarions and fiery chariots, the return of the Messiah, the rapture of the elect-it was all down to a frequency of flashing lights, a temporary short circuit in the wiring of the brain. All you had to do was close one eye.

I felt both relief and disappointment. For there was a part of me that yearned to believe-to marvel at the prophecies, to surrender to the irrational, to be swept away by the rapture.

"So all that religious stuff is just nonsense?" Rip's voice was irritatingly smug. I wanted to kick him, to shut him up, but I saw Ben wasn't listening. He was studying a chart of the brain pinned on the wall at the side of the neurologist's desk.

"It's now believed that some prophets and mystics were in fact epileptics," the neurologist said. "There's thought to be a physiological explanation behind much religious experience."

Rip misread the look on my face, and leaned across to squeeze my hand.

"Why didn't you tell me Ben was having these problems? You should have told me, Georgie."

"I..." In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. "You're right-1 should have."

I squeezed his hand back.

As we left the hospital, Rip asked me rather sheepishly whether it would be okay if he moved back in temporarily, and I replied rather grumpily that it made no difference to me but I was sure Ben would appreciate it. Yes, I was pleased, on the whole; things were going in the right direction. But I was surprised to find that my feelings were ambivalent. I'd got a life of my own now, and I wasn't ready to give it up.

When Rip was around, he had a way of taking over. While he'd been away, I'd been remembering all the things I missed about him, but being with him again reminded me of all the things that irritated me. It occurred to me that maybe he felt the same way about me. So there was still a lot that needed to be resolved between us. He brought his stuff over from Islington in his Saab later that afternoon, and set himself up on a camp bed in the little mezzanine study. We tiptoed around each other, being excessively polite and considerate.

Him: Would you like a cup of tea, darling? Me: That would be lovely, darling.

That kind of tosh.

I had to clear out the spare room to make s.p.a.ce for Stella, who'd be coming home soon for Easter. Buried at the bottom of one of the drawers I found an envelope of photos. Rip and me on our wedding day: Rip was wearing a top hat and tails. His hair curled down on his collar and he had curly sideburns. I was wearing a cartwheel hat and a fitted dress with big shoulders and s.l.u.t-style high heels. My pregnant bulge was clearly visible. We looked ridiculous-and ridiculously happy. Then a picture of Rip and me and baby Stella in a buggy walking round Roundhay Lake. Then Rip and me and five-year-old Stella and baby Ben on the beach at Les Sables d'Olonne. Rip and me and Ben and Stella and Mum, taken one Christmas at Kippax. Rip and I were wearing Santa hats; Mum was wearing reindeer antlers; Ben was wearing his new Lion King Lion King slippers and a gawky smile-what a funny little kid he'd been; Stella-she must have been thirteen-was pouting red lipstick at the camera, wearing a figure-hugging red top with a tinsel wreath draped around her shoulders. Dad wasn't in the picture-he must have been behind the camera. The Christmas tree wearing millennium-themed baubles was clearly visible in the background. I pored over the photos, then slid the envelope under my mattress. It seemed like a good omen. slippers and a gawky smile-what a funny little kid he'd been; Stella-she must have been thirteen-was pouting red lipstick at the camera, wearing a figure-hugging red top with a tinsel wreath draped around her shoulders. Dad wasn't in the picture-he must have been behind the camera. The Christmas tree wearing millennium-themed baubles was clearly visible in the background. I pored over the photos, then slid the envelope under my mattress. It seemed like a good omen.

At the end of term Stella came home, and from being empty, the house suddenly became full. It was Stella who told me, over a quiet cup of tea, that Ottoline had thrown Rip out. He'd spent last night in a hotel. That's why Ben had come home unexpectedly on Monday.

"Ben says he overheard them having a row. Apparently she told him he had a poor att.i.tude to commitment," she murmured in a grave voice, lowering her head, so if I hadn't been looking I wouldn't have seen the flicker of a grin on the corners of her mouth.

Stella made the most of her holiday, sleeping in late and taking long showers, sometimes twice a day, clogging up the plughole with her long hair and filling the house with the smell of apple shampoo. Ben filled the house with techno music and thumped around cheerfully, ho longer glued to the computer. Rip went off to work every morning, just as he had before, and in the evenings he sat at his desk and filled the house with brainwaves. We took turns to cook-we had two teams, Rip and Stella, who cooked mainly Thai curries, and Ben and I who cooked mainly Italian. Then Ben announced one day that he'd become a vegetarian, and we spent ages adapting and devising recipes for him. I once caught him sitting at the table and poring over a book with that same intense concentration that he had once read the Bible, but it turned out to be a cookery book: One had two teams, Rip and Stella, who cooked mainly Thai curries, and Ben and I who cooked mainly Italian. Then Ben announced one day that he'd become a vegetarian, and we spent ages adapting and devising recipes for him. I once caught him sitting at the table and poring over a book with that same intense concentration that he had once read the Bible, but it turned out to be a cookery book: One hundred recipes to save the planet hundred recipes to save the planet. The k.n.o.bbly skull had disappeared under a growth of new brown curls, which he wore tied back with a red bandana.

The neurologist had suggested Ben change the screen saver, and warned him off websites with animation. He advised him to get a flat-screen monitor, which apparently runs at a different frequency, and not to sit too close to the television. We watched anxiously, to see whether he could handle his condition without medication or whether he would need to take anti-epileptic drugs.

Rip and I fell into a pattern of sharing the same s.p.a.ce while keeping out of each other's way. We didn't actually divide the house but we learned each other's habits and avoided unnecessary contact. It wasn't positively amicable, but it wasn't hostile, either. Sometimes, on Stella's insistence, we all watched TV together.

"Just try to be normal normal, okay?" she coached us.

Rip and I sat on armchairs on opposite sides of the fireplace, with resolutely normal expressions on our faces, while Ben and Stella sprawled on the sofa, their arms and legs casually intertwined. From time to time one of them would try to shove the other off.

At Easter, we didn't go to Kippax or to Holtham. We stayed at home, and Rip and I made a tentative stab at collaboration, hiding a trail of miniature Easter eggs around the house for Ben and Stella. They whooped around, pretending to be surprised. The radio was on in the background, and at one point I heard a church congregation with miserable whiny voices singing that hymn. There is a green hill far away There is a green hill far away...He hung and suffered there hung and suffered there. I switched it off quickly. Why let that morbid long-ago stuff spoil a nice family holiday?

44.

Water creases On the Tuesday after Easter I nipped into the local Turkish supermarket and bought a large Easter egg, reduced to half price. It was a hideous looking thing covered in mauve foil with s.p.a.ce Invaders figures wielding ray guns all over the packaging. Someone somewhere must have thought this was an appropriate Easter gift for a little boy-in fact maybe it was was surreally appropriate to the new reality of the Holy Land-but at least it had been left on the shelf by discerning parents, for it was the only egg they had. I carefully peeled off the REDUCED sticker, wrapped it in tissue, and set off for Canaan House. surreally appropriate to the new reality of the Holy Land-but at least it had been left on the shelf by discerning parents, for it was the only egg they had. I carefully peeled off the REDUCED sticker, wrapped it in tissue, and set off for Canaan House.

It was a fresh, cold day, with splashes of sunlight spilling through raggy clouds. Small bright buds were bursting on the ash tree saplings trees in the garden at Canaan House-it seemed as though they'd appeared overnight-and the white plastic garden furniture gleamed invitingly.

n.o.body answered the doorbell when I rang. I crouched down and peered in through the letter box. There were no signs of human life, though a couple of felines were dozing in the pram which was parked under the stairs. I thought I caught a glimpse of movement at the end of the corridor, and then I noticed something very alarming-water seemed to be dripping down from a crack in the ceiling and collecting in a pool on the hall floor. A moment later, Chaim Shapiro appeared in his shirtsleeves. I rang the doorbell again to get his attention, but he just looked up at the leaking ceiling, shouted something into the back of the house, then vanished up the stairs. The drip of water had intensified into a trickle. Suddenly Nabeel and Mr Ali materialised, legs first, running down the stairs and shouting at each other. I rang the bell again, and Mr Ali came and opened the door. I thought he'd opened it for me, but he raced right past me, out through the door and round to the back of the house. I followed him, and watched as he started frantically pulling away at the gra.s.s and weeds near the kitchen door to reveal a small metal hatch cover, which he removed. Still shouting at Nabeel, who was behind us, he rolled up his sleeve and reached into the hole in the ground.

"What's happening?" I asked Nabeel.

Nabeel flashed his beautiful eyes, pointed a finger upwards, and shouted back to Mr Ali. Then he raced back to the front of the house. I followed behind. The two tabbies in the pram in the hall were awake by now. They roused themselves, stretched mardily, and slunk out into the garden, their ears flat with irritation at being disturbed. Then Mrs Shapiro turned up, tottering on her high heels, waving a cigarette in her hand.

"Ah! Georgine! Thenk Gott you come!" She flung her arms around me.

"What's going on?"

"Votter creases! I was telephoning to you!"

"Water creases?"

"They are trying to mek votter pipe diversion into the penthouse suite."

"Chaim! Chaim!" she yelled up the stairs. "What you doing? Heffh't we got enough votter p.i.s.sing down already?"

The trickle of water had become a steady stream; I noticed that the water was pleasantly warm. The hall was filling up with steam like a bathroom. Above us, the plaster ceiling was beginning to bow, while Mrs Shapiro was mopping determinedly but hopelessly at the puddle with a silk blouse she'd pulled out of the pram, kneeling down on all fours and holding her cigarette between her lips. Now Mr Ali appeared in the doorway. He shook his head with a philosophical air and sighed as he gazed at the stream of water, which was fast becoming a torrent.

"It comes out of the tank. Not men's water," he explained to Mrs Shapiro. Then he shouted something at Nabeel, who bowed his head and slouched off upstairs. Mr Ali shrugged apologetically. "Completely useless."

I was still puzzling over the gender status of the hot water when Ishmail and Chaim Shapiro came running down the stairs, almost colliding with Nabeel on the way up. Chaim pointed at the water coming through the ceiling, and shouted, rather unnecessarily, "Water water everywhere!"

"Men's now off, but water still coming out," Mr Ali shouted back.

Ishmail shouted at Nabeel. Mrs Shapiro shouted at Chaim, who shouted back at her. I shouted at him to shut up. Soon everybody was shouting at everybody else. Somewhere in the house, Wonder Boy started to howl. Mrs Shapiro had given up trying to mop the floor with the silk blouse, and started flicking it at her stepson.

"Is all your fault. You wanted to make votter separation. Jewish votter, Arab votter. So! Now we have p.i.s.sing votter."

"Not my fault, Ella. Useless Arabs cut the wrong pipe."

Then the doorbell rang.

We all fell silent and looked at the door. Through the frosted gla.s.s I could see a tall dark figure looming. n.o.body moved. The bell rang again. I opened the door. It was Mr Diabello.

"h.e.l.lo..." He stared at the scene in the hall, taking in the flushed faces peering through the clouds of steam, the wet floor and the pouring water. "Georgina, I just wanted to..."

"Come in. We're having a bit of a water crisis..."

"Who is this?" asked Mrs Shapiro, pulling herself up straight and smiling at the handsome stranger. "Are you another Attendent?"

"Let me introduce Mr Wolfe's partner," I said. "Mark Diabello."

"My Nicky's partner? How charming!" She fluttered her eyelids.

He stepped forward, proffering his hand, his chin-dimple winking, his smile-creases crinkling, his green-gold-black eyes flickering non-stop.

"Delighted, Mrs Shapiro. If I could just trouble you for a second-the house deeds..."

At that moment, there was a horrible wrenching sound above our heads. Everyone looked up. One of the ornate Doric-style plaster corbels supporting the Romanesque arch where the water had come through had started to crack away. Even as we watched, the crack widened. The corbel slipped sideways and slid. Mr Diabello seemed to stagger as he took a step back. His knees sagged. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then he fell to the ground with a thud. He had been stunned by a stunning period feature.

Poor Mr Diabello. By the time the ambulance arrived he was sitting up on the wet floor, propped against the wall beneath the grey mark where the picture of Lydda had hung-it was the cat-poo spot, though any lingering cat poo would have long since been washed away-pressing a clean white handkerchief to a gash in his head.

Yet after his accident, a strange exhausted peace fell on the house. The water finally stopped running when the hot water tank that held the immersion heater had emptied out. Ishmail got a broom and started sweeping the water out of the hall through the front door-there must have been several gallons. The cats danced around the eddies of water, excited by all the action but not wanting to get their paws wet. Mrs Shapiro danced around, too, making encouraging noises. Nabeel went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. As the door swung open, I overheard a snippet of conversation.

Mr Ali: Where you get your tool kit, Chaim? Chaim Shapiro: B&Q. You want to see it?

I sat with Mr Diabello until the ambulance arrived.

"I thought you might be here. I came to see you, Georgina," he murmured. "I didn't realise your hubby was back."

"Yes. I should have told you. I'm sorry. You and me-it's over between us, Mark." I squeezed his hand as they led him away to the ambulance. "But it was fun."

"Mrs Shapiro," I said, keeping my voice casual, "Do you happen to know where the deeds for this house are kept?"

Mr Ali and Chaim Shapiro had gone off to B&Q together in manly silence and we were having a companionable cup of coffee by the fire in the study, with Prokofiev's piano sonatas tinkling on the record player and the soggy Lion King Lion King slippers steaming away on the fender. slippers steaming away on the fender.

"What for I need deeds?" She looked at me through narrowed eyes.

"Apparently the house isn't registered with the Land Registry."

"On this house I been paying rets sixty years no problem."

"Mr Diabello said it would better to register in case you want to sell up at any time."

"I am not selling nothing."

"Of course there's no reason why why you should sell." There was no point in arguing with her. "But it would be better for you if the house was registered in your name, Mrs Shapiro. Then no one could take it away from you." you should sell." There was no point in arguing with her. "But it would be better for you if the house was registered in your name, Mrs Shapiro. Then no one could take it away from you."

She reached in her bag for a cigarette and stuck it between her lips.

"You think Chaim wants to take it away from me?"

"Everybody wants it. Chaim. Mrs Goodney. Even Mr Wolfe and Mr Diabello. It's a desirable property."

"And what about you, Georgine?"

She said it casually, fumbling in her bag for the matches, not looking at me. I wondered whether it was an accusation.

"It's a really lovely house," I said, "but I already have a house of my own."

"When I am dead, Georgine, darlink, you can heff it."

I laughed. "It's kind of you, but it's too big for me. Too many problems."

"You can heff it, so long as you will liff in it and pay the rets."

She gripped my hand and pulled me towards her. Suddenly she was intensely serious.

"This house-it belongs to no one. Artem found it empty. Abandoned. Inhebitents ran away."

"But why...?"