Double Image

“DOUBLE IMAGE”

by

Geoff Forrester

As I drove south west down the M5 the wipers impatiently pushed the pouring rain from side to side, clearing my vision but doing nothing to relieve the pain and confusion in my head.

It was almost three weeks since I had returned from a disastrous holiday in Egypt where I had gone with Annette, believing it would be a chance for us to get to know each other better and, hopefully, advance our relationship. How wrong I had been about her. No sooner were we installed in our hotel than she started flirting and making up to almost any man that walked past. She deliberately set about humiliating me and the matter was not helped by another couple who appeared to be ‘good fun’ but turned out to be loud, brash and acutely embarrassing. To cap the whole thing, I picked up some strange fever bug that laid me low and forced me to retire to bed for about four days, sweating and shouting with delirium, refusing any food and finding it difficult even to drink. The doctor had been baffled but his advice seemed to be sound enough.

“Keep him in bed, keep him well covered, wipe his body and head frequently with a damp towel to cool his skin and try to make him drink – water ideally, not cold but just at room temperature. If you can get hold of aspirin or Paracetamol, they might help to lower his temperature. Otherwise, you will just have to wait for the fever to burn itself out. I’m afraid I cannot tell you the cause or the name of it. Good luck.”

With that, I understand, he left Annette to care for me. Fat chance! Certainly she carried out his instructions for the first part of that first day then pretty well abandoned me to spend time with her various conquests, leaving a jug of water and packet of tablets beside the bed.

Eventually the symptoms had died down and I was able to stagger around the hotel for the last three or four days before we all flew home. I think I slept most of the time and, once at Heathrow, we decided there and then to go our separate ways.

I returned to work in my capacity as a junior partner in a modest firm of surveyors and estate agents but neither my heart nor my head were in it. I felt so weak and perpetually disorientated and so, after about four days with no improvement, I and my partners came to the conclusion I should take a break and get myself back to top form. So here I was, speeding down the motorway for a few weeks’ break in a cottage in Cornwall. One of my partners knew someone who rented a small place inland and though he didn’t usually let it out during the winter months he had agreed to me taking it as a special favour to my colleague.

Christmas and New Year had completely passed me by; the weather in the Midlands had turned a bit ugly as January got under way and so I was quite pleased to be heading south and west, hoping to find milder conditions and, hopefully a bit of winter sunshine.

“I must have been reading the wrong books”, I thought, as I peered through the driving rain, skirting around Exeter and following the signs for the A30 towards Okehampton and Launceston. At least the road was still dual carriageway and I made good time as there was very little traffic about.

I tried to visualise the place I was going to be calling home for the next few weeks but the name of the house – “The Cottage” – didn’t give me many clues! All I really knew was that it was a two-bedroom place, detached and set in about half-an-acre somewhere in

the middle of the triangle of country between Truro, Falmouth and Redruth. I also knew it was in an area called United Downs.

My mind conjured up images of open, rugged moorland with massive outcrops of granite interspersed with purple heathers and golden gorse all illuminated by a low winter sun in a clear blue sky. I blinked hard as I realised I had drifted to the left and the wheels were bumping along a part of the grass verge.

“Enough of this Kathy and Heathcliffe stuff”, I said aloud to myself, “Wait until you get there – be patient.”

Setting aside my daydream about the surroundings, I did look forward to bracing walks on the cliffs and along wide sandy beaches, calling in at a local pub for a pasty and a pint and settling down in the evening with a roaring fire and a good book or some music. I had made sure that I had taken a good supply of both with me.

Eventually I came to the exit that would lead me to my new home. I slid off the dual carriageway, turned to the left then over a minor crossroads and continued along a quiet, twisting road that passed by a wooded area that was clearly part of some country estate. Suddenly I emerged on to the brow of a hill and saw, to my left, the beginnings of a wilder, moorland area that held promise of my earlier daydream. I had already seen a few of the stark, ruined tin-mine engine houses – great square buildings of stone and granite with a mighty chimney stack alongside, looking like a huge clenched fist with one finger pointing defiantly towards the heavens. They had once housed the massive steam powered beam engines but now stood as tombstones to an age long past; prosperity for the few and miserable survival for the many. Here and there were more of these structures, mostly in a poor state and only a shadow of their former glory. I turned again, into the moors and any romantic notions evaporated. Here was savagery and stark ugliness, the land ripped apart by greed and now swamped by mine waste. Between the heaps of earth and stone, sparse

gorse bushes clung on for life and clumps of heather crept along, hugging the ground lest they too be noticed and torn up. The stone, thrown up in the frantic search for riches, provided a rich palette of earthy colour – yellow ochre, burnt sienna and warm gold. Oddly, although I could see this was a harsh and brutal place, it held an attraction for me; a fascination and appeal that could only be explained by the absolute difference between where I usually lived and this wild and untamed landscape.

Buildings, most appearing to be derelict, were dotted about, some with lights on suggesting they were occupied. Rutted earth tracks led off the road into the wilderness, no doubt each one leading to its own special place. I pulled up and got out of the car to find my bearings. As I turned towards the direction from which I had made my approach, I could see the top of a church peering out from its shroud of trees – evidently this was where I would find the village of St. Day and, hopefully, some provisions and final directions to the cottage.

I turned the car and headed towards the church, soon finding myself in a village of narrow streets and severe-looking houses, most built on the back of the tin booms of yesteryear. I passed a pub and a small Post Office and, eventually, came across a general store. I parked outside and went in.

The lady in the shop was probably in her mid-fifties, a bit on the plump side with her peroxide blonde hair pulled back into a bun. She had a kindly, smiling face and her bright blue eyes suggested an enjoyment of life and good health.

“’ello duck”, she said in a warm Midlands accent. “What can I do for you?”

I had expected the soft burr of a Cornish accent so I was thrown just for a moment.

“Oh – Hello”, I said, “I’m renting ‘The Cottage’ for a few weeks and have just arrived. I’ll need some supplies I guess – can I take a look round?”

She smiled.

“’Course you can – any idea what you’ll need? I’ve got most things here. Come far? How long will you be staying with us?”

She checked herself.

“Sorry”, she said. “Too many questions – I’m a nosey old bitch.”

“Not at all”, I answered hurriedly. ”I’ve come down here for a break as I’ve been ill recently and so I wanted a complete change – fresh air, cliff walks, peace and quiet, all that, you know. By the way, my name’s Tony; Tony Middleton.”

“And I’m Betty; Betty Harding”, she said. “Pleased to meet you.” and she flashed me one of her glowing smiles.

I looked around her shop and found it was a treasure trove! Eggs, bacon, tinned stuff, bread, milk and all the other things to enable me to make a start on some supper that night and breakfast next morning.

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me how to find this cottage”, I said. “I’ve had very good instructions on how to find my way right down the motorways and the A30 to here but the last – and perhaps most important bit of information seems to be missing.” I laughed a little nervously; it sounded a bit lame.

“I can put you right”, Betty said at once. “I used to look after the place for the previous owner – cleaning and a bit of general tidying up before anyone arrived to take it for a week or two. Will you need a pen to write anything down?”

“No, thanks”, I replied. ”First, though, let me pay you for all this stuff then you tell me how I get to the house.”

“O.K. duck”, she said, totting it all up in her head. “That’ll be fourteen fifty-five all together – let’s call it fourteen fifty to keep it tidy, eh?”

I reached into my pocket.

“O.K. thanks”, I said and paid her the exact money.

“Right, to find your place”, she said, decisively. “I see you came up past the pub so turn your car round and go back that way again. About fifty yards after the pub, turn left and go down there to the crossroads. Go straight on over and follow the road again for about four or five hundred yards then you’ll see a big white rock on your left and, right beside it a track. Turn into this track and go on for about another couple of hundred yards or so and you’ll come to The Cottage on your right. If it’s still the same inside as when I used to look after it, you’ll find the light switch just inside the front door, to your right. I hope you’ll be warm enough – this damp gets into everything.”

“Thanks so much Mrs Harding”, I began.

“Betty!” she insisted.

“O.K. Betty – thanks again. No doubt I’ll be back on a pretty regular basis so I’ll see you again soon – in better weather, I hope.” I laughed as I picked up the box of groceries and she moved quickly forward to hold the door open for me.

“Tarrah duck” she said warmly, “Take care of yourself.”

“Cheers”, I said and was quickly outside, loading my goodies into the boot.

I followed Betty’s instructions and she was spot-on!

My first impression of The Cottage was of a square, squat building with a large chimney stack built into the side of it – almost a miniature version of an engine house. The light was fading fast and the track was muddy and slippery so I was glad to have arrived at last and now looked forward to getting inside, setting myself up and luxuriating in my isolation. I got out of the car and found a piece of slate by the front door. Sure enough – the key was underneath it.

I opened the door and reached to my right for the light switch.

The bulb must have been about 40 watts as it barely lit the room. I could make out that it was the living room with a staircase beside me on one wall, a window to the front wall and a fireplace on the side wall opposite the stairs. Rather than explore further I thought I would get my clothes, other belongings and provisions inside, lock up the car and check out the rest of the place then.

Once everything was in I became very aware of how cold and damp it felt inside and decided I would see if there was any fuel to get a fire going. I walked through to the adjoining room which proved to be a kitchen/diner. At least the light in here was nearer 60 watts! A sink and a couple of old cupboards were on one wall, an old Rayburn solid fuel cooker on the right wall and a table and four dining chairs on the left. The room had a window front and back and I found another door which led through to a tiny lobby and a bathroom, all under a lean-to roof.

I shivered as I pulled my coat tighter around me and made my way upstairs. The tiny landing just had a door to the left and one to the right. These were the two bedrooms; one with twin beds, the other with a double. I decided upon the double for myself. Each had pretty basic furniture including a wardrobe and had fitted carpet of typical bedroom quality in ‘safe’ beige.

I hurried back to the ground floor, went through to the lobby and found some old newspapers and kindling wood. I opened the back door and discovered a dilapidated coal bunker with three buckets of coal.

“Hallelujah!” I muttered to myself and dragged all these goodies into the living room. Within a few minutes I had a good blaze roaring up the chimney and began to feel much more cheery in myself.

A bit more exploration revealed an electric fire so I took that upstairs and put it on in the bedroom. I then went into the kitchen and laid up a fire in the Rayburn.

“How long before this thing gets hot enough to cook me some food?” I asked myself as I opened a tall cupboard to store away my foodstuffs.

“Not too long”, I laughed out loud as my eye fell on a little electric Belling cooker. A tiny oven/grill and just one hotplate was all I would need – at least for that evening and breakfast next morning. I plugged it in, switched on and it worked!

Next discovery was how to get hot water.

“Bet it’s from this bloody Rayburn”, I muttered darkly.

I opened another cupboard and, lo and behold, there was a hot water cylinder with an immersion heater! Luxury indeed!

I had already agreed that the rent I was paying would include all my electricity so at least I wasn’t bugged by slot meters that invariably ran out when you were in the middle of a bath or just staggering through the front door carrying a pile of logs!

By mid evening it had gone totally dark outside, I had the curtains and blinds all closed, a roaring fire in the living room, a hearty, if none-too-healthy meal under my belt, a mug of rich coffee in my hand and a warm bedroom awaiting my arrival whenever I was ready. Bliss! I sat back in one of the brown easy chairs, put on some of Handel’s choral music and closed my eyes. I had arrived. I was alone. I felt well. I was at peace with the world. Who could ask for anything more?

I woke up to feel cold and stiff. The fire was out, the music had long finished and I looked at my watch. One-thirty! I must have slept for about three hours.

I checked the fire embers were safe, switched off the lights downstairs and stumbled up to my bed. Wash or bath could wait until tomorrow. I was my own boss now and all I wanted to do was to get warm and back to sleep. Which is exactly what I did do.

I woke up still feeling cold. The room felt damp and the bedclothes were clammy around me. I rolled out of bed, shivering as I pulled on a pair of trousers and a sweater and stumbled downstairs to the bathroom for a wash and shave.

As I gradually woke up I remembered where I was and started to feel my spirits lift. I quickly finished in the bathroom, went back upstairs to select my clothes for the day, making sure I had plenty of warm stuff on then back down again to get some toast and coffee, clean out the fire and re-lay it ready for later in the day.

I stepped outside to see it was hardly light, even though my watch told me it was after nine. The clouds were low though it had stopped raining but a strong wind was blowing, making the mist swirl like dismal curtains across the scarred landscape. I decided I would go into the village first to see if I could find more coal and wood and, more than likely, call in on Betty again to extend my supplies.

I got the fuel from an out-of-the-way hardware store and collected more food from Betty Harding. She seemed a bit subdued this time and I supposed she was not a ‘morning’ person.

“I’m off out for the day when I’ve dumped this stuff,” I said cheerfully. I thought I’d go over to the north coast and find some cliff walks.”

She laughed quietly at this.

“Yer’ll find cliff walks alright Mr. Middleton; best make sure you don’t get yerself blowed off on a day like this. I reckon you’d like Chapel Porth, up near St. Agnes; that’s all cliffs, rocks and a big sea, if that’s what yer after.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that”, I grinned. “And I’ll keep my feet on the ground – don’t want to get blown away on my first day; I’ve paid two months’ rent!”

She laughed loud and long at this then wiped her eyes.

“Oh my God, Mr. M, yer a card alright. Two months’ rent!!”

She laughed again and the shop door opened to admit a young woman with two children. I had already paid for my things so I just bid her ‘cheerio’ and left her to laugh on and talk to her new customer.

I dropped my food and fuel at the house, decided not to make up any coffee and was soon on my way towards the north coast.

Nothing had prepared me for the sight I found at Chapel Porth. Cliffs rose from a mighty open beach where enormous breakers crashed and roared, smashing themselves into great cascades of white spray where they hit the cliffs or seething up the golden sand as the incoming tide devoured the beach. It would not be long before the beach disappeared under the heaving Atlantic swell so I clambered up the rocks to the right and found small paths leading upwards towards the cliff edge. I walked and climbed until I reached one of the highest points and stood with the wind whistling in my hair and pummelling my face so that my eyes streamed. I felt absolutely great. It was as though some super force was cleansing my body and soul and I tried to think of some music that could accompany such a sight and such a feeling. Any music I knew fell far short of being able to express the sheer elation I felt and I turned to explore further. Looking along the cliff itself, I saw the breakers smash into the rock sending a thick mist of spray powering up the cliff face and almost obscuring an old mine engine house perched almost on the edge. I started to walk towards the building but was drawn back to the high point where I had first looked down on to the sea. If there was a God then this surely must be his finest cathedral. The clouds had lifted and small patches of blue sky peeped through, the wind tore at my clothes and the sea roared, all green and spray-laden.

The climb and being buffeted by the gale had tired me so I started my descent to the rocks and what was left of the beach. As I reached the car, I looked back once more to

drink in the spectacular sight then, reluctantly, drove up the narrow road from the little car park to the tarmac road at the head of the valley.

I found a pub near St. Agnes and enjoyed a pasty and a glass of beer then, feeling much refreshed, decided I would make for home to get the fire lit and enjoy an afternoon looking around the immediate surroundings to the cottage. My lips were still tangy with salt, despite the food and beer and I smiled to myself as I neared the Blasted Heath as I had dubbed my surroundings. The clouds had come down again and the air was filled with a fine misty drizzle which took away my earlier feelings of elation and replaced them with a darker mood.

“Pull yourself together!” I told myself sternly.

I parked the car and, instead of going indoors, walked on down the track past the house and into the moonscape around me.

The low cloud and rain seemed to soften the colours and, here and there, I saw shades of pink within the rock which, I imagined would have almost glowed had there been sunlight. In fact, I thought to myself, sunlight would do a lot for this area – brighter green grass, richer tones in the heather and gorse. Through all these imaginings though, I had to face the current reality. All around me was desolation as I walked. Waterlogged, little-used tracks, miserable dumps of household rubbish including door-less fridges, electric cookers, old mattresses and black plastic sacks the contents of which I could only guess at. And yet, in spite of all this mess, I was still fascinated by the overall landscape.

The rain soaked through my clothes and I started to shiver with the cold. I turned for home, relishing the thought of a hot bath, a good meal and a lively fire all accompanied by a good book or some music. Although my new home had its shortcomings I felt immense relief and pleasure when I turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.

I lit both the fire and the Rayburn, ran a deep hot bath and luxuriated for twenty minutes or so. Dressed in clean, dry clothes I settled down to my music and my book.

It was some time later that I prepared my meal, enjoyed a cup of coffee, read a bit more then stoked up the Rayburn and collapsed into bed, tired, warm and happy. I slept like a log.

The next few days were spent along similar lines, exploring different parts of the coastal area and although the weather stayed much the same, it began to form an integral part of the character of this part of the country. The wind had dropped, it had become milder and I heard one local refer to it as ‘soft weather’. At first, I didn’t get it then as the days passed by I came to realise – it was a perfect description of this gentle, quiet, damp and misty condition. My preference was for the more wild and rugged parts. The high moors and cliffs of the far west peninsula between St. Ives and Land’s End and the coast back eastwards towards Penzance. I discovered the almost Caribbean-looking cove of Porthcurno with the cliffside Minack Theatre carved out of the rock with the blue sea as backdrop. I was in awe of the white pyramids of the china clay area – great heaps of spoil that stood beside the pits themselves; these now full of water and coloured a startling jade green. On my trips out, I walked more every day and soon began to feel strength returning to my limbs and clearness in my brain. I felt pretty certain that I was through the weird fever that had laid me so low and now looked forward to doing something physical. Maybe I could do something to tidy up the garden at the back of the cottage? No planting or digging as there would be no one following on from me to keep it up – just tidy it up and make it presentable.

On my return one day the weather had improved a bit. Slightly warmer, no wind and, at long last, no mist or rain! I decided I would tackle the garden!

I went outside, suitably dressed, and rooted around in a fallen-in outbuilding until I found an old spade and fork, a hefty iron spike and a club hammer. I had no barrow nor, indeed, anywhere to take my weeds so decided I would stack all the waste against one of the stone hedges forming the side of the garden. At the end of the plot I found a low stone wall in a rough circular shape, all overgrown with brambles and nettles. I was just about to step over the wall when I spotted a dark area in the middle – it was a hole. In fact it was the mouth of a disused mine shaft, most likely a ventilation shaft. I had no idea how deep it was – it could have been three feet or a hundred and three feet - so I found a sizeable rock and slung it over the wall and into the gaping mouth of the shaft. I heard the hollow thuds as it bounced from one side to the other become more muffled and, after what seemed an eternity, the slight sound of a distant splash as it hit the water at the bottom. It was very deep! These dangerous legacies had claimed several animals and some children had suffered terrifying ordeals after falling in but managed to keep a fingertip grip until help arrived. Most of them were fenced but a few, like this one, were still open to unfortunate discovery.

I had kept myself to myself so far, speaking only to Betty at the shop and nodding a greeting to passers-by. I enjoyed my solitude and anonymity. Away from friends, family and work, I could be a little selfish and please myself as to how I spent my time. Although alone, I was never lonely.

A few days into my stay at the cottage, I had bought a mirror for the bedroom. I did not feel I was being vain – the only other mirror was a tiny thing in the bathroom for shaving – but did like to check how I looked before setting off out anywhere. I felt I needed to keep an eye on my overall appearance as I had suffered such a loss of weight and it was already doing my morale a power of good as I began to look healthier day by day.

I had bought the mirror in a second-hand shop in Redruth and had carried it into the house to clean it up and decide where and how best to hang it. The bed I was using faced the outside wall which carried the flue and I felt that would be the best position. The wooden frame was pretty well shot at so I decided I would remove it then get some contact adhesive to fix a narrow batten on the back and fix a hanging cord to that.

Next morning the weather showed a distinct improvement. Blue skies and sunshine and my whole mood lifted considerably. I went into St. Day to see if I could find what I needed at the hardware shop. Sure enough, I found a tube of Evostik and was just paying for it when I heard the shop door open and was aware that a man had just come inside. As a matter of general interest I half-turned to nod a greeting and saw an old man, very thin and tall with dry yellowed skin, a hooked beak of a nose and the strangest pale blue eyes – so pale he almost appeared sightless. He was virtually bald and his jaw was covered in coarse, white stubble. As our eyes met, he started with recognition and his face clouded with emotion. Fear? Anger? Disbelief? I could not tell but his immediate reaction startled me. I opened my mouth to speak but before I could make a sound he pointed at me.

“Pearse!” he croaked hoarsely. “Christ, man, what are you….” and he swallowed noisily.

“You bloody swine, Pearse, not again!”

He swung round, knocking over a pile of empty cardboard boxes and hurried out of the shop.

This left me feeling distinctly unnerved and mystified.

Why had he called me Pearse and with such obvious venom?

I turned back to the shopkeeper who looked at me with renewed interest and not a little suspicion.

“I don’t know what that was all about”, I shrugged. “He must have got the wrong man, my name isn’t Pearse. I’ve never seen him before in my life but he put the wind up me for a moment there.”

“Very odd”, agreed the shopkeeper. “That’s Joe Polglaze. He’s a strange bugger at the best of times but, my God, he looked scared of you! You’ve never seen him before, you say?”

“No, never”, I replied. “Ah well, no doubt he’ll realise after an hour or two that he was mistaken. What did he call me? Pearse, wasn’t it? You know anyone of that name round here?”

“Well, there’s a couple of old Miss Pearses over Chacewater way and I reckon old Joe would know them – but they don’t look anything like you. As you say, he must be mistaken.”

I paid for my glue and put the tube in my pocket.

“Thanks again”, I said, “I’ll get off then. See you again I expect,” and I left.

I drove back to the cottage and decided I would do some outside work before fixing the mirror; it was such a gorgeous day though, already, clouds were building up again. By the time I had got my tools sorted out and stuck into moving stones and rebuilding part of the boundary wall it had started to drizzle. I didn’t really notice how wet I was getting; I was so absorbed in my efforts. As I moved the stones, I dug out the weeds and piled them up in a corner. My joints felt a bit stiff and though, by this time, I was quite soaked, I was enjoying what I was doing and felt fine – looking forward to my hot soak in the bath.

The back of my neck prickled as I suddenly had the feeling I was not alone. I straightened up slowly and turned towards the house. In the shadows, right by the wall was a man; not tall but stocky, wearing a heavy wool overcoat and with wild looking long grey hair. I couldn’t see his face so moved towards him to speak. At my second step, he spoke and his voice made me freeze in my tracks.

“Never thought you’d be back ‘ere, you murderin’ bastard”, he boomed in a deep, gravely voice that snarled the words.

“You’re dead, Pearse”, he continued before I could react.

“Devil’s curse on you, you black swine” and as he spoke he stepped forward and raised his right hand above his head. I recoiled from the sight of his face, contorted with hatred and, looking up, noticed he had crossed the fingers of the upraised hand.

His face was gnarled and weather-beaten like a gypsy and his deep-set eyes were almost black, glowing like coals as the hate within him spilled out.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Just stop, right there! You’re the second person today to call me Pearse but you’ve got the wrong man. My name is Middleton, not Pearse. Damn it man, I’ve only been in this area about ten days and never here at all before this visit.”

“Ha!” not a laugh, more of a bark. “You can call yourself what the hell you like but don’t you worry, Pearse, we’ve got you spotted now and this time there’ll be no mistakes. You’ll never come back a second time; there’s blood on your ’ands and you’ll be going back to Hell where you belong!”

Now, I felt anger start to rise in my chest. Who was this lunatic shouting at me about blood on my hands? I hefted the spade in my hands and stepped forward.

“Clear off!” I shouted at him. “You’ve no business here and as for this Pearse you keep on about, I tell you for the last time, it is not me. My name is Middleton, not Pearse so shove off and take your crazy ideas with you!”

He glared at me for a second then turned to go. Suddenly, he turned back and pointed at me with a filthy, stubby forefinger.

“Where’s Tamsin you murderin’ bastard?” and he choked on his last words, they were delivered with such venom.

“Believe me, you’re a dead man!”

He turned and strode away into the gathering gloom.

I shivered uneasily and frowned to myself.

What was this all about? Who is or was Pearse? Who or what is Tamsin?

I put away my tools and realised I was soaked through and shivering – partly due to the cold and wet and partly reaction to this strange, verbal attack.

I stamped indoors, stirred the fire into life and slumped into a chair. Obviously, they had both made the same mistake. I would probably never see either of them again once they realised that. Yes! it was all some farcical mix-up.

I bathed, dressed in record time then went downstairs for some supper and to set about getting my mirror sorted out. Having already taken off the frame, I now decided to peel off the old brown paper still partly stuck to the back. I tore it away carefully, gently scraping the corners where it still seemed to cling on. Once cleaned off, I turned it round to inspect the glass and in one corner, I noticed a slight blemish. I turned the mirror round again to check and, sure enough, the silvering was very slightly damaged in one small area. The mark seemed to be a couple of thin scratches and when I held the mirror up to the light I could just make out the light showing through. I didn’t feel it was of any importance; it didn’t make the mirror any less usable but I took a closer look at the mark all the same. It seemed to be in the form of two letters which I could only decipher as “J 3”. I shrugged and lowered the mirror to the carpet.

Almost instinctively, I turned to the window as I felt I was being watched. A face was peering in and as I caught his eye, he ducked away. I almost leapt out of the door to see a thinnish man walking quickly away from the house. As I ran after him, he quickened his pace but I was up to him before he could get going. I caught his arm and turned him to face me.

“Just a minute”, I said, pulling him to a halt. “What are you up to?”

He was thin and sinewy with lank, greasy black hair and a foxy face with sly, watery eyes. He looked sullen and said nothing.

“Come on”, I said. “What are you up to? Why are you spying on me?”

He grunted something unintelligible. I waited, still holding his arm.

“What’s your name?” I asked, hoping the easy questions might produce a response.

He swallowed nervously and cleared his throat.

“Bray”, he said hoarsely and I realised he was scared.

“Well, Bray”, I said, easing my grip. “Are you being just nosey or did you want something?”

He shook his head and wiped his sleeve across his dripping nose. He looked at me like a startled rabbit.

“You Pearse?” he asked in a frightened whisper.

I felt my earlier anger well up again and was about to yell at him but thought better of it. Perhaps this man might be able to throw some light on things; and at least he had asked if I was Pearse, not accused me of it! I smiled at him calmly.

“No, my friend”, I said quietly. “I am not Pearse. My name is Tony Middleton. Why did you think I was Pearse? Two other people have mistaken me for him today.”

He nodded and gave me a ghastly grin. He seemed more relaxed so I let go of his arm.

“Grandfather”, he muttered and stared into my face. I frowned and looked back at him. Then it dawned on me.

“Your grandfather – he came here today did he?”

He nodded and stepped back a little.

“You Pearse.” This time a statement. “You Pearse” and his voice rose. He cackled an idiot laugh and ran off along the track. I started after him then stopped.

“All mad”, I thought. “Go home and forget it”.

I went back into the house and carried on with the job of hanging the mirror. I still felt uneasy so stoked up the fire again, closed the curtains and sprawled back to listen to some music. I stayed where I was until just after midnight and was then ready to sleep. My throat was dry and sore and my chest felt a bit tight so I was glad to get under the covers and let sleep carry me away from these crazy people.

I dreamt I was chasing Bray, the grandfather and the wild old man from the shop off my garden with a shotgun, laughing and prodding them with the barrel. They all took flight and receded into total unimportance.

I woke up to the sound of knocking. Outside it was not even light and I heard this insistent knock, knock, knock on my door. I swung out of bed and swore softly under my breath. Pulling on jeans and a sweater I wondered who on earth it could be then almost slid down the stairs and pulled open the front door.

It was young Bray. He looked furtive and frightened. I stood back and held the door open.

“Come in”, I said quietly, more for my own sake than his, it was bloody cold and he was in stout boots and a thick overcoat.

He stepped inside without a word and I pointed him to a chair.

I sat opposite him and looked him over. He was in a hell of a state, dishevelled and dirty.

“Well?” I asked. “What can I do for you at this time in the morning?”

“’tis Grandfather”, he said.

I looked at him expectantly, awaiting a bit of enlightenment but that was all he said. He looked at me with his sly yet seemingly vacant expression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is he ill or something?”

“No – ’e kill you”, he said jerkily. I realised for sure then that Bray was a bit on the deficient side. He just used the barest of words to get a message across; no verbal embroidery. I stared at him as his words sank in.

“What do you mean?” I asked, perhaps a little foolishly, his meaning had been all too clear.

“Going to kill me? Why would he do that? How do you know? Did he tell you that?”

Poor fellow just couldn’t cope with all these questions at once and reverted to his grunts.

“Let’s try again”, I said calmly. “Your grandfather told you he was going to kill me, is that right?”

Bray nodded.

“But why is he going to kill me?”

“You Pearse”, he answered sullenly.

I shook my head.

No Bray, I am Middleton; my name is Middleton, not Pearse”, and I spoke the words out slowly, as though talking to a child.

He licked his lips and looked furtively around him. His face contorted as he seemed to be trying to work out some desperate problem in his mind and he frowned and grimaced as his limited intelligence grappled with my answers to his questions. I thought I would try another approach.

“Who is Pearse?” I asked, as kindly as I could.

He looked across at me and seemed to relax a bit though he was still perched on the edge of his chair as though the slightest upset would send him bolting from the room.

“My father”, he said, quietly and simply and at first, I thought he was joking; but Bray did not have that sort of mind. To him jokes would be unnecessary, using words that would be wasted.

“Your father?” I asked incredulously as my mind raced over the accusations levelled at me in the name of this man Pearse.

“But if Pearse is your father, how on earth could I be Pearse?” I asked.

“I’m not far off the same age as you so that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”

At last I felt the mystery was solved – they were all nuts! All I had to do was get Bray to leave quietly and the whole thing would blow over and die a death and I could get myself some breakfast. Then I realised Bray was speaking; not his customary monosyllabic grunts but a real effort to get his words together and out of his mouth.

“Pearse my father an’ he kill my mother just after I were born. Grandfather knowed this and ‘e kill Pearse an’ raise me as ’is own child. ’e tell me a lot ‘bout you an’ ‘ow you wouldn’ marry me Ma an’ ’ow ‘e killed you an’ threw you down a shaft. But ‘e ain’t never found me mother. Grandfather goin’ kill you alright, you’re Pearse, ’e reckons, ’e told me last night – ’e’s going kill you for sure.”

I sat rigid in my chair as he spoke then slumped down as he finished. What a load of nonsense. Even if all the family stuff was true, how could anyone believe I was this man’s father? I laughed out loud but it sounded a bit hollow and nervous.

“Good God, what a yarn”, I exploded. “You don’t really believe all that do you? How in Hell can I be your father? Dammit man, I’m only a few years older than you are.”

Bray scratched his head and looked very uneasy.

“You back ‘gain an’ this time Grandfather goin’ lay the ghost so ‘e says. Make sure you finished good an’ proper this time.”

I shivered. Surely I must be dreaming? Could I really be sitting here calmly discussing my own impending murder at the hands of this man’s grandfather? No! I had to put this all to rest at once.

“Listen to me, Bray”, I said firmly but calmly, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

“You tell your grandfather that you’ve been here to see me and that he is wrong. I am Tony Middleton, I’ve never even met anyone called Pearse, and I’ve never been to Cornwall until a few weeks ago. Will you tell him that from me and let’s have an end to all this nonsense?”

He nodded, a little uncertainly and stood to leave.

Another thought occurred to me; something the old man had said in the garden.

“Tell me Bray, who is Tamsin?” I asked quietly.

He spun round to face me, glaring with a wild look in his eyes as he pointed at me.

“You Pearse”, he screamed. “Tamsin my mother, you Pearse alright!” and before I could move he had bounded to the door and was gone.

I slumped back, completely baffled. Maybe I resembled this Pearse in some way but, even if that were the case, nobody in their right mind would believe I was him, back from the dead. It was all just too crazy yet I couldn’t dismiss the thing from my mind. Bray had seemed genuinely sure that the old man was out to kill me. What could I do about it? If I went to the police I felt sure I would be laughed out of the place with a “Yes Sir, No Sir” routine. They would just dismiss it as crazy talk by a crazy old man. I must do the same.

I washed and shaved, tried to enjoy my breakfast then went out for a long walk, leaving the car where it was. I determined to walk on to Carn Marth as it was already developing into a beautiful day of bright, clear skies and crisp winter air. I cut a stick from the hedgerow and strode along the narrow pathways, swinging at the brambles as I went. The clear sky and the wide open views all helped to clear my mind and start getting things into perspective. Just below was a pretty little area of woodland and away in the distance I could just make out the horizon where the sky and sea met. What a day to be alive!

My long, faint shadow accompanied me down to the tarmac road just above the village of Lanner and I turned for home. It had not been a long walk but it had got the blood singing through my veins and, as I headed home, I decided I would do some more work outside.

Throughout that week I worked outside most of the daylight hours although the weather was beginning to deteriorate and it became much colder. The forecasts told of snow spreading down the country from Scotland and northern England and though I had to pack up one day due to a heavy hail storm, I saw no snow. I did not feel as well as I had on the day of my Carn Marth walk; I ached and shivered and kept swallowing pills to stave off what I thought could be a cold or ’flu. I was so pleased with my efforts outside though realised it was becoming something of an obsession and I was getting more and more tired. Not sleeping as well as I should, I was disturbed by nightmares which always starred Bray and his wretched grandfather and left me feeling exhausted in the morning.

By day I hardly gave them a thought and for several days had seen neither sight nor sound of them. Even so, there was the germ of an idea niggling away in my mind though try as I may, I just could not get into focus to identify and develop it.

I had kept myself so busy that when I went inside on the Saturday evening and had bathed and changed, I found I had overlooked my food stocks and had almost nothing in for my supper and the next day. By this time, all the shops were closed so I decided I would make do that evening then go out on Sunday morning and see if I could find anywhere open for just a few basics until Betty re-opened on Monday. I finished up my supper, made a coffee and sat by a roaring fire, looking forward to an escape from my self-imposed labour camp routine the following morning.

I must have dozed off in the chair because I woke with a start to find the fire out and myself stiff and cold. I shivered off to bed with more pills, determined to shake out this feverish devil that had got hold of my body.

Sunday arrived cold and blustery from the north. Huge piles of heavy black clouds greeted me as I opened the curtains and an icy wind howled round the house, discovering every crack round the windows and doors. For once, it seemed the weather forecasters had got it right; cold and windy with snow from Scotland right down the west side of the country to the Cornish peninsula.

All I had in was coffee so I made a good mugful, dragged on a thick sweater and reefer jacket, scraped the ice off the windscreen and set off just as the first fine flurries started floating down from the skies.

At first, I drove a little aimlessly as I didn’t know where to find a shop that would be open. I travelled towards Truro and wandered round narrow twisting lanes, fording a couple of streams and passing through a couple of pretty hamlets.

Eventually, and in the most unlikely position, I found a small general store – and it was open! It was a dusty old shed really and some of the stock looked as if it had been landed by the Romans but it appeared to offer the basics. A charming elderly lady came forward to greet me as I walked in and she soon found me a couple of tins of corned beef, tinned fruit, milk, clotted cream and a rather hard loaf of bread. Amazingly, she also produced a pair of T-hinges when I mentioned I was repairing a coal bunker. She kept apologising for the dusty shelves and blamed the passing traffic. I couldn’t have cared less – at least I would be fed! I felt very light headed and unreal and the perspiration drenched my back as we stood there, talking. I realised I was beginning to feel the way I did when I had started with my Egyptian fever bug and decided to get back to my cottage as quickly as I could.

By the time I was on the road again, the snow was much thicker; big white flakes that streamed out of the sky and started to settle on the verges and trees. The few vehicles I came up behind were throwing up dirty spray and my concentration was wandering. Thankfully, I came to the quieter roads around St. Day and was soon bumping along the

track to the cottage. Now, the snow was thick and fast. I pulled up and jumped out of the car with my provisions, hurried into the house and kicked the door shut behind me. As I put my things on the kitchen table I froze into immobility as a too-familiar voice boomed out

“Pearse!”

How the hell had he got in? Then I remembered that as I left earlier I had forgotten to lock the door, so he had just walked in.

I moved to the living room door and opened it. Standing in the doorway, I looked across the room at the old man.

He looked even more wild and unkempt and he was already pointing at me, the fingers of the pointing hand crossed, as before. Did he cross them for luck or had I read somewhere that you should do this when confronted by a ghost or a vampire?

I didn’t speak; I was trying to get the right words together to order him out of my home and my life but, before I could collect my wits, he had started.

“Pearse, I’m goin’ to kill you, make no mistake. You killed my girl and by God, I’m goin’ to get you, you lecherous, filthy, murderin’ bastard. I’m goin’ to make su…”

“Shut up!” I yelled at him. “Shut up you stupid old sod, can’t you understand? This Pearse died years ago and if he was your boy’s father, how the hell can I be him? I’m the same bloody age, can’t you see that?”

He glared at me and the hatred burned in his eyes until they looked like fires. His mouth hardened into a tight line and he lowered his head slightly, like a bull about to charge.

“Very clever, Mr. Bloody Pearse; you can’t fool me. I’ll put you down this time so you’ll never get up again. You’ll never get back to ’aunt me no more – murderer!”

He spat the words with such venom I could see he was utterly convinced I was Pearse. I had had enough.

“Get out!” I demanded. “Go on; get out – o.u.t. – out! You’re mad, crazy, insane and I’ve had enough. Now get out or I’ll..”

“What?” he barked. “Kill again? You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“OUT!” I screamed at him and flung back the front door.

“Right!” he said darkly, “but don’t say you’ve not been warned. I know who you are an’ I’m not lettin’ you get away a second time.”

He moved to pass me and I stepped back from those burning, terrible eyes.

“Go on – out – and don’t come back or perhaps you will be right; maybe I will have a go at you. You’re mad!”

I slammed the door after him as he stamped off out into the snow then I slumped back against the wall.

Damn him! Damn him! All the strange confusions came flooding back into my mind and I was engulfed in an unreal feeling.

“Bloody man and his cursed family – why can’t they leave me alone?” I growled to myself.

Back in the kitchen, I opened a can of meat and buttered a couple of slices of the dry loaf. I made some coffee and took my snack into the living room. It was bitterly cold in there so I wandered about as I ate, looking for sticks, coal and matches. Eventually, I lit the fire and slumped into a chair feeling vague and disorientated.

Damn the Brays and the way they had drawn me into their ridiculous lives. I decided that if I heard any more from them about threats to my life, I would go and see the police and try to get them to put a stop to it.

I sat staring into the fire and mulled over the story so far. The old man evidently had a daughter called Tamsin who had been involved with a man called Pearse who looked a bit like me. They had produced a child – young Bray – and Pearse had got angry and upset about something so Tamsin hid the child. Pearse then killed her and hid the body and old

Bray killed Pearse and slung him down a mine shaft. I knew from my own experience in the garden when I threw a rock down the shaft there that there could be no way Pearse could have survived, even if he had been alive when he was thrown in. So, why weren’t the police involved? Where was the girl? How did old Bray explain the disappearance of Tamsin and Pearse? Why was I worrying my head over all of this? It was nothing to do with me except for the threats from old man Bray.

I started to think about the girl. I had never come across the name Tamsin before and assumed it was a Cornish name. I liked it and thought it quite attractive. I wondered if the girl was as pretty as her name then thought of her father and decided if she looked anything like him I wouldn’t fancy her at all. I smiled to myself and tried to build up a picture of a wild young woman with looks like the old man but all I came up with was a young, wild woman with striking looks, long black hair and wide, deep set eyes that glowed with lusty power yet mocked at the same time. She had the grace of a wild pony and looked very desirable in these desolate wastes – beautiful and untamed. I bet Pearse had been impressed by her and had decided his mission in life was to tame her.

I felt a pain deep in my guts and my head swam as I tried to focus on my imaginings of this woman. I broke out into a sweat and my skin felt clammy.

Tamsin Bray – the name sounded good. Tamsin Bray – where are you now? I leaned back and closed my eyes. Tamsin Bray, wild woman of the moors, teaser of men, refusing to be tamed by anyone. I could see her, sitting at her mirror, combing her long black hair and smiling secretly to herself as she….

I stood up abruptly. At her mirror!

I ran up the stairs and snatched the mirror from the wall in my bedroom. I took it to the window and held it up with the backing facing me. In the corner were the scratches I had seen when I first brought it home. I peered closely at them through the perspiration running

down my forehead and into my eyes. I had thought they had said “J 3” but as I stared now, all I could see were the initials “T B” – Tamsin Bray? Had she cut them into the silvering? Could she have owned this very mirror? My mind was racing and feelings of unreality swept over me as nausea took a grip on my stomach. I put the mirror back on the wall and hurried down to the bathroom.

Oh boy! Was I sick! The pains and contractions in my stomach and guts twisted and turned as I threw up time and time again until there seemed nothing left inside me. I cleared up the bathroom and went through to the kitchen for a long drink of water. Even this seemed to attack me as I rushed back into the bathroom and shot it all down the loo. God, I felt bloody awful! I crept back into the kitchen and put away any food and drink as the sight of it just made me feel worse again.

I cursed the fever that seemed to be returning with a vengeance then had another thought. The canned meat!

“Oh no!” I thought, “Please don’t say I’ve got food poisoning on top of the Cairo Craps.” But it seemed that I had, the pains were getting really unpleasant by now.

I moved into the living room and threw a couple of logs on to the dying fire. They caught almost immediately and crackled and blazed, sending sparks flying up the chimney. I pulled my coat around me as I crouched in a chair as near the fire as I dared go. Shivering and shaking, I drifted off into a troubled sleep of sorts.

When I woke up it was dark and I could see large snowflakes falling against the window. My mouth was dry as I moved in the chair and tried to stand. My legs were cramped and I almost fell over. I staggered into the kitchen again and took another drink of water. This time, it stayed down though I felt terrible – hot and cold, shivering and shaking, spinning head and sweating like mad. I felt hungry yet fancied nothing I made more coffee

and added a shot of Scotch to the steaming mug hoping it would attack my temperature. Looking at my watch, I noticed it was just coming up to seven in the evening.

“No point drooling around down here”, I thought, “Best go to bed and sweat all this out.”

I checked the fire was safe then dragged myself up the stairs, pulled off my wet clothes and put on fresh pyjamas, rolled under the bedclothes and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

A new pain in my stomach woke me to find all the bedclothes on the floor and my body bathed in perspiration. I needed another drink so shuffled downstairs for yet more water. I closed up all the curtains and checked the door was locked then had to run, as best I could, to the bathroom where I was as sick as a dog yet again. Nonetheless, I felt sure that all this water was doing me good so filled a big stoneware mug from the tap and carried it up to the bedroom. I took blankets off one of the beds in the other room and tucked them in all around me to make sure they stayed in place. I switched on the electric fire and changed again into some fresh pyjamas then heaved myself under the covers, determined to sweat out this demon that had taken hold of me.

As I lay there, I felt the sweat running down my legs and chest and I was gripped by complete unreality. My mind was wandering all over the place and all I could hear was the banging of my heart in my chest. The sound seemed to get louder and louder and, as I pulled myself out of delirium, I realised it wasn’t my heart – it was someone banging on the door. I tried to ignore it but it just kept on and on and on.

I got out of bed and fumbled my way downstairs and opened the door. I almost fell over in sheer fright.

I hardly recognised the old man. His heavy coat and woollen hat were covered in caked snow and his wild eyes seemed to burn even brighter in his dark face which was drawn and strained. H is arm was raised with fingers crossed and he brought it down so that

I thought he was going to stab me. He pointed at me and stepped forward; the snow melting in the warmth of the cottage and dripping in a circle of wet around his feet. My shock hadn’t passed and I was shaking violently both from fright and my fever. He passed his tongue over his broken, yellow teeth.

“Any time now Pearse”, he snarled. “You killed my girl and you’re goin’ to pay with your own life.”

“I’m Middleton”, I croaked, ineffectually.

“Middleton, Pearse, what’s the difference. I knows who you are an’ you’re a murderer – that’s all there is to it. Devil’s curse on you for getting’ back ’ere but this time you’ll leave for good.”

He laughed – no humour in it, just a dry cackle that sent even more shivers through my racked body. He raised his hand again and I really believed he had a knife this time; but no, he levelled his arm with his fingers pointing at me, his filthy cracked nails just three inches from my eye.

“You’re a dead man”, he growled. “Start prayin’ for deliverance you bastard; you’re dead!”

He turned and was gone into the dark and swirling snow. I closed the door and turned back to the stairs. In the bedroom, I looked in the mirror and was shocked by what I saw.

“My God”, I thought, “I think I’m a gonner with or without old man Bray!”

I rolled back into bed and as I shivered and shook, the room started to rock and I drifted into a nightmare state.

I saw the old man, young Bray and the old man I knew to be Polglaze all standing in front of me as though in a witness box. Pointing at me they chanted,

“Pearse! Pearse! Pearse!”

I tossed and turned, calling out and shouting unintelligible nonsense as they chanted their accusations at me and I vaguely thought that if old Bray did come to kill me he wouldn’t have much of a fight on his hands. Their faces and voices tumbled through my brain in a delirious kaleidoscope of ridiculous fantasy.

Suddenly, I felt calm and warm. I opened my eyes to the quiet reality of the bedroom to see a soft pinkish glow hovering in an elusive cloud around the mirror. The glow appeared most intense in the corner where I thought I had seen initials scratched and the ethereal phenomenon pulsated gently, like the rise and fall of a sleeping person’s chest. I was fascinated and lay there watching the cloud as it moved and shifted shape until I felt certain I could see a face. No! It was not possible, yet, as I watched in silent awe, a face emerged from the cloud around the mirror. It was the face of a young woman – and a very attractive one at that. I blinked, afraid that any lack of concentration would cause it to go. But it stayed and clarified with every moment. Long, soft dark hair framed her smooth olive skin; deep-set dark eyes like pools radiated warmth and love and sensuality; a firm nose that gave the face a strength and a full mouth that turned up at the corners into a mocking smile. What a gorgeous creature. I felt my pulse quicken as she looked directly at me, sadness in her beautiful eyes. A desire to protect this woman filled my heart and my body ached for the touch of her. I blinked rapidly as my sore eyes filled with stinging tears and the vision before me shimmered. I was so afraid she would disappear. I could almost reach out and touch her hair. My voice was barely a whisper as I tried to speak.

“Tamsin? Tamsin?” I had to know.

“Philip?” she whispered in a deep, vibrant voice. My mind raced; why had she called me Philip? I frowned and was distracted for a moment.

“I didn’ expec’ to find you ’ere”, she carried on in a soft Cornish burr. “’ow’ve you come back then?”

“I had to”, I replied, gently. “I loved you so much.”

“I know that my lover”, she said, “but what about father? Do ’e know you’re ’ere?”

I frowned again. Why was I talking to this girl as though I knew her? There seemed to be some other being within me who had taken over and who knew this woman. I heard my own voice again, as though I was a bystander.

“Don’t worry about him – it’s you I want. I always have and I want you back again. You just made it so difficult for me sometimes.”

“I made it difficult for you?” she mocked. “Father were jealous o’ you ‘cos I loved you an’ then we ’ad our baby and us not married. That upset ‘un. But then, it upset you too, didn’ it?”

“Oh I don’t know, I think it was alright,” I replied. “It was you I wanted, I wasn’t too fussed about the baby nor did I care if we weren’t married. It was just you I wanted.”

“That’s it”, she said, a bit sharper this time. “You was jealous of the child ’cos I ’ad to give ‘im so much time – an’ you didn’ like that did ’e?”

I began to feel a bit hurt by this and started to resent the way she was taunting me.

“You felt ashamed an’ guilty ‘cos you’re a bastard an’ our child was too,” she continued. “You wanted get rid of ’im so you could ’ave me all to yourself again but I ’id ’im from ‘e, didn’ I? Couldn’ find ’im could ’e?”

Her voice had really changed now as she challenged and taunted me. I felt anger rising inside me and my voice rose.

“Yes, you bitch, I did want him out of the way. You didn’t want anything to do with me once that little bastard arrived, did you? No wonder I wanted him got rid of!”

“You murderin’ pig”, she screamed, “so you killed me instead when you couldn’ find the boy. I got you mad an’ you killed me. You couldn’ find ’im ’cos I ’id ‘im. You’re bloody mad, Philip Pearse an’ I’m glad I’m away from you now. You’re mad, mad, mad!”

She spat and snarled these words at me and the image in the mirror was no longer one of a beautiful girl I once loved. She was a screaming banshee and I knew I had to shut her up.

“Yes, you bloody cow”, I yelled, “I killed you alright and I’d have killed our little bastard if I’d ever got hold of him. I got mad alright ’cos all you ever did was fuss about with him as though I wasn’t there. Oh yes, I killed you alright, I beat your bloody head in with a stone….”

She was yelling at me again and my mind was reeling in confusion and temper. All the time I could hear her taunting, cackling laugh as she spat the words at me and goaded me about the child.

I reached out blindly and my fingers closed round the heavy mug by the bed. With one swing of my arm I flung it across the room at the mirror.

The looking glass smashed into pieces and the crash of the impact was echoed by the crash of the bedroom door being kicked open.

There stood old man Bray looking like a cave man from pre-historic times, his hair all wild and matted, lips drawn back into an animal snarl and a rope in his hands. My mind desperately tried to get everything into focus and to separate reality from nightmare. This was all too real as I cowered on the bed.

“No! No!” I cried.

“Oh yes!” he rasped emphatically. “I’ve been listening to you and this time there’ll be no mistakes. You enjoyed killin’ ‘er an’ I’m goin’ enjoy finishin’ you off, you evil bastard.”

He kicked the door shut and moved closer. I was rooted to the spot and could see the flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth and the sinewy ridges in his hands as he

grasped the rope. I suddenly kicked away the covers and tried to dive off the bed but he was too fast for me. Despite his age, he was on me at once and I felt the rough rope on my throat as he pulled it tightly. I fought to get him off me but I was weak from the fever and was no match for this powerful man. His insane belief was driving him on as my head started to swim and feel as if it was being blown up like a football. The room began to spin, faster and faster as I coughed and spluttered, feeling my life being choked out of me.

As I sank to the floor I had a vision of a younger man standing behind old Bray and knew then I was doomed – there were two of them to make sure I was well and truly finished off. My tongue felt fat in my throat and my eyes burned as they bulged from their sockets, my lungs felt as if they were being slashed by red-hot knives and my arms and legs were like lead. Then my head seemed to explode into a galaxy of flashing lights and screaming demons of searing, blinding pain.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The threshold of death was illuminated by bright, flashing coloured lights as I sped along a warm tunnel towards a piercing bright pinpoint of white light. My throat was dry and the pain in my chest seemed to intensify as the pinpoint came nearer and nearer then my eyes burned with pain as I burst into the glaring exposure of the after-life. The light seemed to pulsate and sharp tentacles shot out from the edges like a grotesque, psychedelic octopus. The tentacles curled and shimmered, moving sinuously as I blinked. The pulsations kept time with the frantic beating of my hammering heart beat as relief mingled with disbelief and I realised I was not dead. The noises in my head and the pain in my eyes seemed to recede as I blinked again and the octopus went into jerky spasms. I could just make out a voice mumbling in the distance but couldn’t make out the message. As I moved slightly, my brain seemed to crash against the inside of my skull and the voice became

agitated, seeming to say the same thing, over and over again. I winced as I moved my head again and the voice started to make sense.

“You O.K? You O.K?” it seemed to keep asking.

A hand shook my shoulder and the cerebral hurricane hit me again. I moaned with the pain.

“You O.K? You O.K?” came the voice again. “Say somethin’, open yer eyes.”

Easier said than done, I thought but braced myself all the same and squinted out through one eye. Suddenly, the light did not seem too harsh and I ventured the other eye. My blurred vision showed I was still in my bedroom, slumped on the floor and the voice was coming from young Bray, kneeling beside me. My memory suddenly caught up with the present moment and I tried to move away from him.

He steadied my arm, keeping me still where I was.

I looked around and saw the old man stretched out on the floor a few feet away, blood from a nasty gash in his head matted in his tangled hair. I looked up at young Bray and made to move. I wanted to get up on to the bed. He realised what I needed to do and helped me up. The hammers and hot needles returned to my brain as I slumped back on the pillow.

“I ’it ’n” he said simply. “’e tried kill yer so I ’it ’n.”

I nodded slowly and rubbed my hand over my throat, feeling the angry raised wheals from the rope. I still felt wild and feverish and was having great difficulty separating what was real from nightmare.

“She was here”, I croaked. “Tamsin was here” and I pointed to the wall where the mirror had hung, my eyes rolling in my head.

Bray looked at me, then at the wall, then back at me, clearly puzzled.

“She was here I tell you”, I insisted. “She said she loved me but then started to torment me about you and said she had hidden you from me. She kept saying I was mad and I got really

angry about it. She said I killed her and she made me so mad. I had to kill her, I had to……”

My voice tailed off and I looked at Bray appealing for his understanding. He looked at me dully and licked his lips. His breathing quickened and he bent slightly towards me.

“You killed ’er?” he sounded uncertain. “You killed ’er? Tamsin? Me mother?”

He stared at me, unseeing and a light seemed to pass over his face as a final and terrible truth dawned on his feeble mind. His lips curled back from his filthy teeth and he started to slobber. I stared back at him as the slimy spittle ran down over his chin then he suddenly leapt to his feet.

“Pearse!” he shouted hysterically and, bending down, scooped up a long spike of glass from the mirror in his gloved hand. It was about nine inches long, finishing in a stiletto-like point. As he turned it in his hand the light caught it, sending out flashes of rainbow colours. He was whimpering and drooling and, suddenly, I was more afraid of him than I had ever been of the old man. This man was going to succeed where his grandfather had failed.

“Don’t kill me”, I pleaded. “It wasn’t me who killed you mother, it was Pearse, years ago. All I had was a dream. I think I’ve heard so much about this terrible story that my mind made up pictures. That’s all it was, a dream.”

Reality had returned to me all too fast. My life was in acute danger now and self-preservation was high on my list of priorities. Bray was still babbling away and I tried to prepare myself for when he struck. I eased myself clear of the rumpled bedding and firmly grasped a pillow in the hope I could absorb much of the glass dagger. I did not dare take my eyes off him and he was looking at me, slyly from under his lowered lids. His lunge was far faster and well-directed than I could possibly have expected. He aimed high and central in my chest and though I managed to twist sideways, I felt the glass rip into my upper arm and the stinging pain of my flesh being torn as the warm blood flowed from the

wound. Bray slightly overshot in his haste and I managed to catch him just behind the head, sending him sprawling off the bed, his head cannoning into the wall. He was dazed for a moment and slumped, shaking his head. I seized my opportunity and dived off the bed and through the door. Down the stairs I went and out through the already open door, into the black, snowy, freezing night.

I ran and ran, the cold and wet cutting through my pyjamas and my feet getting slashed on the stones of the track. The snow was blinding and I just prayed I was going in the right direction. My heart was pounding in my chest as I heard footsteps thumping along behind me. I gasped for air as the dripping blood left a crimson trail in the snow. I clutched my arm and yelled with pain as my fingers found a sliver of glass still embedded in the flesh.

The air cut into my body and my poor feet were frozen and bleeding as I staggered on over the stony track. I paused for a moment and realised that the footsteps I heard behind me was the sound of my own heart going wild.

The pain from my feet and the lacerations in my arm, though worsening, did help to focus my mind on the here and now, overcoming all delirium as I ran for my life. The fear I felt was so acute that I plunged on, running, I hoped, towards the tarmac road.

A light! A light! A tiny pinpoint of yellow light showed up through the black night. It seemed a thousand miles away but it meant there was someone out there. I could not take my eyes off it and suddenly tripped and fell hard, flat on my face. The light had vanished by the time I scrambled to my feet and I sobbed to myself as I stumbled on towards where I believed I had seen it. Suddenly I was blinded by twin spotlights that seemed to leap towards me like white fire. I waved my arms and yelled, oblivious now to the pain and blood and the lights swayed to and fro as I rocked from side to side, finally collapsing across the bonnet of the stationary car.

I had vague feelings of voices, hands holding and helping me as I was lifted inside the vehicle. I did not care now who these people were, even if it was Bray and his men. I was beyond caring as I drifted off into oblivion and the car lurched on to the main road and sped on its way to the hospital in Truro.

Over the next couple of days I was well cared for, being given drugs to kill the pain and fight any infection and clean dressings for my wounds. I was barely aware of my surroundings, just a feeling of well-being and safety.

What was far more real to me were the pictures that kept assaulting my mind and the feelings that took hold of my soul. I could feel, again, the cold sharp dagger of glass as it flashed its deadly rainbow of light before it stabbed my arm. I felt, once more, the burning in my chest as I ran and ran from that awful scene in the cottage. My legs felt like jelly and, as I slipped to the ground, gentle hands lifted me and put me back to bed.

It was summer and I was floating in a gentle breeze, looking down at the scene below me. It was my cottage and I screwed my eyes up to focus against the brightness of the light to see who was there. I was startled when I realised I was looking at myself, dragging a sack towards the door. It was evidently quite heavy as it rolled from left to right and down one side was a dark wet stain. I fumbled to open the door, letting go of the neck of the sack which opened slightly to reveal a gory head, lolling lifeless. A feeling of disgust and horror swept over me as I watched my other self open the door and drag the sack inside. My eyes misted over and the pictures faded away. The reality of the ward, with its crisp clean linen and bright stainless steel equipment, came into focus a bit before I drifted again. Once more, I seemed to be hovering over the cottage. This time, old man Bray and Polglaze emerged, dragging me with them into the garden. I was shouting and pleading as they pulled my hands behind my back and tied them roughly with a piece of rope. I called out to them again and Bray hit me across the face a couple of times as Polglaze

approached, carrying another length of rope. They passed it round my neck and pulled each end so I felt, again, that choking feeling as my life started to leave my body. My eyes bulged and my tongue protruded, all swollen and dark. I tried to scream but no sound came. My body rolled lifeless on the ground as Bray relaxed his grip and the two men looked around them, furtively. They picked me up and carried me across the garden to the low wall around the old shaft.

As they heaved me over the stones and into the gaping mouth of that hell-hole, I seemed to float lower so as to be beside my other self as we plunged into the black, interminable abyss.

This time, I had fallen right out of the bed and on to the floor. I was quickly found and lifted back into the bed once more and gradually, over the next few hours, the nightmares gave way to reality and I started to take notice of where I was. My first visitor was Betty Harding who had heard some story about an attack at the cottage and had alerted the police. Apparently, the old man and his grandson had been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder and were now safely in custody. Betty also told me she had secured the cottage, after having cleaned up the mess and throwing out any foodstuffs still in there. My next visit was from the police. I told them all I could about the attack, passing fairly lightly over the nightmare part of it all but making the point that both my assailants believed I was someone called Pearse. Clearly, it was a case of mistaken identity, not that that would help their case much.

The case made the local press, radio and television and a couple of National papers also ran a short account of the story. By this time, I was cleared for release from hospital and Betty insisted that I stay with her for a few days, to recuperate. I happily accepted her invitation and phoned my parents from her house, telling her I was fine and giving them the

address so they could drop me a line. It was their letter that offered some element of explanation yet made me feel uneasy at the same time.

My mum and dad lived up in Cheshire, near Nantwich which is where I lived and worked. They had produced me rather late in life and I was an only-child. By now they were quite elderly, made to appear more so by being crippled with arthritis. Although I lived quite close to them they were fiercely independent and I was always tied up with work so we didn’t see each other that frequently. Relations between us were by no means strained, we respected each other’s way of life and knew we were always on call, should the need arise. It had been some weeks since I had visited them – well before I had been on my ill-fated Egyptian holiday, in fact – so I expected the letter from them to be full of news to catch up with and wishes and hopes for my speedy recovery. The letter had been carefully and painfully typed by my father.

“Dear Tony,

We are, naturally, deeply upset to hear of your horrific ordeal and hope you have improved somewhat, even since our brief telephone conversation. It sounds as though your Mrs Harding is a good soul and that you are in good and caring hands. Please pass on our respects and best wishes to her.

Once you are well recovered, your mother and I hope you will come and spend a little time with us before you return to your business. You must be itching to get away from the associations of that dreadful area, despite the care and kindness now being shown to you. We read about the case in the Mail and understand you have suffered a terrible time and feel we can throw some light on why you were wrongly mistaken for this chap Pearse, though neither of us has ever heard of the Brays.

You will recall that your mother had an older sister – your Aunt Kathleen – who died in an accident many years ago. What is not common knowledge is that when she was very young she had an affair with a bit of a rough diamond called Phillips and they had a child, illegitimate, of course. This Phillips was a strong, silent type, a bit on the wild side and inclined to turn ugly if he didn’t get his own way.

The child, a boy, was given the name Piers by Kathleen but she hardly ever saw him as he and Phillips grew very close as time went by. Eventually, Kathleen was completely excluded from all affection by either of them. Neither Kathleen nor Phillips ever married and, suddenly, Phillips upped and left the area with no indication of where he was going with the lad.

Years later, the boy, by then about twenty, called to see Kathleen, insulting her and abusing her and calling her all sorts of terrible names for having an illegitimate child. He accused her of ruining his life by not marrying his father, who had died by this time, and though Kathleen tried to reason with him he just stormed away saying he was moving to the West Country. His parting shot, however, was that he had changed his name. Apparently, he had always hated the name Piers that Kathleen had had him christened, saying it was snobby and poncey so he had turned his name around and now called himself Philip Pearse.

It must have been a couple of years after this stormy meeting that Kathleen visited us – it was her only visit for years and, as it turned out, her last as she died in a motor accident about six weeks later. She did, however, leave us some photos of young Piers and we have just been going through them – almost forgotten we ever had them. Compared to our pictures of you when you were a similar age, though many years later, of course, there is a remarkable resemblance. After all, you and Pearse were first cousins!

We both hope this helps you to come to terms with things. Please say you’ll come and stay with us when you feel up to it – you’ll be able to look at those photos if you like.

We’re both well – even managed a short spell out in the garden, despite the cold, just a bit of tidying up. Take care, Tony, love from us both.”

It was signed “Mum and Dad” in my father’s shaky but flowing hand and I sat back to take it all in. So Pearse was a blood relative! A first cousin, no less! It all seemed very strange to me but as I tried to work it all out, I realised that there were many years between us. My aunt Kathleen must have been about nineteen when she had the baby. She was seven years older than her sister, my mother, and I was born when my mother was thirty eight. That put Pearse at well over twenty years older than me so he must have been in Cornwall messing up Tamsin Bray’s life only a few years after I was born. That seemed to work out about right as young Bray seemed to be about five years my junior – although, to be fair, he looked older as he was so rough and gaunt. It all just proved to me how ludicrous the whole thing had been.

I went into Betty’s living room and slumped into a chair opposite her. She had just closed up the shop and made a pot of tea.

“Cuppa?” she queried.

“Oh yes, please”, I replied with enthusiasm.

She poured the tea and we sat for a moment, savouring the brew.

I had asked her to hang on to the keys of the cottage as I still felt I needed to go back there, just one more time, to ‘lay the ghost’, as it were. She wasn’t so keen on the idea but I reminded her I was still in my rental period and really did feel the need to finalise things, once and for all. There had been plenty of local gossip about the case but it subsided a bit with every day as new topics came along to be discussed.

Betty’s flat, above her shop, was very snug. Attractively decorated, clean and wholesome it gave me a sanctuary away from all the horrors of the days before. Sometimes I felt a need to talk to her about how things had come about but she always veered the conversation away, as if she was afraid that talking about it would trigger something off in me again. She looked after me as though I was her own son and within about three days I felt fit for anything.

In the meantime, I had written to my parents and thanked them for the insight into the events at the cottage. I explained there were several things I needed to do in Cornwall, before returning home to Cheshire but reassured them that I would certainly spend some time with them before I returned to work. I also reassured them that I was being looked after like a prince!

On the Saturday morning I told Betty that I intended to return to the cottage, just for a look round and to reassure myself. She arranged for a friend to care for the shop as she wanted to go with me – to make sure I was alright. I laughed at this and told her I would be fine but was still pleased she would be with me.

The bell rang just before nine and Betty went to answer the door. She came back looking a bit troubled and said her friend, Sally, was poorly and would not be able to open the shop after all.

“I’m sorry to hear she’s not well”, I said, “but please don’t worry about me. I’ll go down there on my own and be back before you know it. It’s only just down the road, after all.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Of course!” I said brightly, “After all, the blokes who were after me are locked up now, what is there to worry about?”

“O.K. then, as long as you’re sure you’ll be alright.”

I smiled at her and squeezed her arm.

“Listen, Betty”, I said quietly, “it was all in my mind you know. I’m absolutely fine now and, as I just said, the Brays are under lock and key. Please, don’t worry – I’ll be back very soon.”

I stepped out into the road, checked I had the keys to both the house and my car which was still left down there, then set off for the mile walk feeling on top of the world.

It seemed moments later that I was standing outside the front door of the cottage. I had to confess to feeling a little nervous as I put the key in the lock, noticing that the damage to the door, where it had been kicked open, had been repaired.

Inside, it seemed a bit cold and dank but it was all beautifully clean – Betty had done a fantastic job. I looked in both the downstairs rooms then started up the staircase. First, I opened the door to the second bedroom – all clean and tidy. The main room door opened easily and I peeped round it to see a similar scene. Bedding all folded on the bed, everything scrubbed and clean with no trace or possible indication of what had transpired there just days earlier.

I relaxed then and sat on the bed, looking all around me. The wall opposite, where the mirror had hung, was white and clean, not even the hook left. I moved over to the wall and put my hand flat on the plastered surface, smiling to myself as I thought of the terrible nightmare that appeared to come out of the stones.

I closed my eyes and saw, again, the face of that lovely girl with the deep dark eyes and the laughing mouth.

I moved away and looked out of the window. The winter sun illuminated the landscape so that the rocks and rubble seemed to glow with an orange fire and the

pink stones I had seen before danced as they appeared to radiate a heat all of their own. Turning back into the room, it seemed quite dark after the brilliance of the light outside and I paused for a moment to accustom my eyes to the lower light. I moved back to the wall

opposite the bed and caressed it with my hands and laid my face against it, feeling warmth from the plaster surface. A strange emotion seemed to grip me as a lump rose in my throat and tears stung my eyes. I swallowed hard to regain my composure but the feelings swept over me even more and I was openly weeping as I stood there, foolishly stroking the wall. Deep sorrow engulfed me as I sobbed and said her name, over and over again.

“Tamsin, Tamsin, Tamsin”.

The impatient blast of a car horn up on the main road brought me back to my senses. I looked dumbly at my torn fingernails and the gouges in the soft surface of the wall. The bedroom door banged behind me as I ran down the stairs and out on to the track, my heart beating like a steam hammer, my breath rasping in my throat. I stood for a moment, then calmly walked back inside and washed my hands in the kitchen. Outside once more, I got into my car and drove carefully back to Betty’s shop feeling disturbed and uneasy yet with an overriding sense of pleasure.

Betty greeted me cheerfully and I answered her brightly, saying I had done a bit of work in the garden, just for the sheer hell of it. I went into my room and changed my clothes, then went down into the shop to tell her I would go out to the pub for lunch and see her later, when she closed up.

When I returned, just after six, I thanked her for the wonderful work she had done at the cottage but made no mention of the feelings that had swept me along whilst I was there. I had put the keys in my coat pocket and knew I would have to go back again, if only to experience the warmth of the emotions that had engulfed me earlier that day.

The feelings that had engulfed me at the cottage were very personal and somewhat bewildering so I had no need or desire to share them with anyone else. During the following couple of days I practised a little deception, telling Betty that as I felt so much improved I was going to take myself off to some of the cliffs, beaches and villages I had

explored when I had first arrived. She felt that was a good idea and insisted on packing me up food and coffee to make sure I kept my strength up. I tried to argue but it was useless and I have to say she did me proud.

In fact, I went no further than the cottage, first buying some firelighters and kindling so I could, at least, have a fire. I had my radio with me so spent time listening to music and plays by a roaring fire, getting close to the sense of content ‘aloneness’ that I had felt when I first arrived. My first morning was spent in such a way and I enjoyed my packed lunch – enough to feed about three men – in the kitchen. Only mid-afternoon did I go up to the bedroom again and, once more, I experienced the warmth wash over me. This time, though, I did not get so carried away by emotion and I could consider the events there quite objectively.

When I returned, I told Betty all about my day out, answering her carefully and drawing on my experiences and memories from earlier trips to the coast. Next day, I spent time working in the garden. It was dry and crisp; a sunny day that quickly drove out the frost. Only once did I feel a sense of apprehension, almost expecting to either see or hear old man Bray rasping at me the name of Pearse.

But, of course, it did not happen and I relaxed into my efforts, losing all track of time as I moved stones, cleared more weeds and generally tidied up. From time to time I straightened my back and spent a moment looking around me. The very starkness of the place carried a strange fascination, almost a beauty, of its own and I was certain I would return again at some future time.

Around the mouths of the old shafts, the earth had been cleared and fencing erected with warning notices but I knew for a fact that there were many such death-traps still to be identified and marked.

Once again, I enjoyed Betty’s lunch, feeling a little guilty pretending to be miles away on the coast when in fact I was barely a mile from her shop. But, I needed solitude if I was ever going to unravel the confusions tumbling around in my brain. There was a niggle at the back of my mind that I was unable to clarify so I decided to give it time; eventually, it would make itself known and I would be able to do something about it.

The afternoon progressed until I felt I had done enough so went inside for a cup of coffee. As I had been outdoors all day, I hadn’t lit the fire so I clicked on the electric fire for a bit of cheer. As I sipped the hot drink I got to wondering about the feelings I had experienced towards Tamsin Bray, even though she was dead and I had never known her. I had experienced the most amazing dreams and nightmares and seen her so clearly – but had it really been her or just the product of my fertile imagination coupled with the delirium of my fever? Yet, even as I tried to rationalise it all, I knew I had seen her, and seen Pearse and watched the gory scene of Pearse’s murder and the disposal of his body.

“Hang on a minute”, I said aloud to myself. “This was all in your mind – you didn’t actually see it!”

I realised it had all been hallucination so returned to Betty’s somewhat low in spirits. She sensed my mood so our conversation was superficial and she asked no probing questions. I was tired from my work, excused myself earlier than usual and fell dead asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I swear I heard her call me. I would recognise that soft, sultry voice anywhere. I sat bolt upright in bed and looked at my watch – nearly three-thirty. What had really woken me? Was it an idea? Was it really her voice? I couldn’t answer my own questions but knew for absolute certain that I had to go to the cottage – there and then! I slid silently out of bed, pulled on my clothes and tip-toed down the stairs and out on to the street. Setting off at a brisk walk, I was soon approaching the cottage. The stars were bright in the sky and there

had been no need for a torch as the road stretched out before me like a strip of pewter in the silver light. I reached the front door and let myself in. I didn’t put on any lights as I didn’t want anyone to know I was there so I closed all the curtains then went upstairs and did the same. Only then did I flick on the stairs light and the one in the bedroom. I placed my hands on the wall and, once more, felt warmth that was nothing to do with having had a fire in the room below. That had been two days ago and in the chill of winter it would have cooled within hours.

A sense of love, longing and loneliness gripped me and I started to feel weak at the knees. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time as a sense of relief swept over me. I felt confident I would see her again even though part of me questioned the reasons for such feelings. I was filled with love, longing and happiness mingled with despair, loss and emptiness. I started to scratch the wall again and this time there were no car horns to bring me back to my senses.

I scratched and tore at the wall until my fingers were bleeding. Almost blinded by tears of frustration, I ran downstairs and into the garden at the back. I saw nothing of the rooms as I rushed along, grabbing the steel spike and heavy hammer I had been using to prise stones out of the ground and returning to the bedroom. I slammed into the wall with the tools, chipping off plaster and, slowly, revealing the stones beneath and the lines of mortar between them. I worked at a feverish pace and soon was able to move the first stone. Completely unaware of the noise I was making, I hammered and levered until I had it free at last. With a hole in the stonework it became much easier to get a purchase on the surrounding parts of the wall and lever out the next stone. I was surprised how easily they came out once I had made this start. By the time I had made an opening about half the size of a doorway, I stopped as though reason was returning to me. I looked around appalled at

the mess I had made; stone and plaster all over the floor and a layer of fine soot already settling on the furniture.

As I stood there surveying the scene, I questioned myself as to what I thought I would find and, looking through the aperture into the exposed flue behind it, the answer had to be nothing. And yet! A persistent nag in my brain told me to continue. I was afraid the wall might collapse if I pulled out more of the supporting stones as there was no lintel or anything to hold it up. I sat on the bed for a moment, looking at what I had done and trying to make sense of the force driving me on. I remembered how this woman’s face had appeared from the mirror, a face that I felt I knew and the face of someone I loved; or had loved. I had to try and find why she had appeared that night so I grabbed the tools and renewed my assault on the wall.

Soon, the hole was as big as a doorway and I looked into the flue, using my torch to look higher and lower than where I was standing. Nothing! I took the spike firmly in my fist and struck the back wall of the flue and cried out in sheer frustration. The jarring blow almost made me lose my grip as a pile of soot became dislodged and cascaded into the hearth of the room blow. I watched it settle then looked up, back at the wall and noticed a small hole in the stonework. It was about an inch and a half in diameter and I leaned forward to poke my finger into it to see if it would give me any clues. It didn’t. With the spike, I prodded around more carefully and suddenly found another, similar hole, about three inches to the left of the first one. I scooped out more soot and scraped some of the black scale from the back of the flue. Feeling flat and let down, I moved back and sat on the bed again, my head in my hands. What a fool I was going to look when I had to confess in the morning and get a builder in to put right all the damage I had brought about.

My throat was parched and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth so I went slowly downstairs to get a drink of water. I looked outside and saw the sky was brightening

slightly. There was a frost and the whole world seemed petrified into immobility. The grey of the sky began to take on a steely blue as the sun stretched out a tentative finger, like a child reaching out to feel something new.

Just as I was downing the last of my water in the kitchen, I heard a scuffling sound then a crash in the living room. I charged in to see a cloud of dark grey dust billowing round a heap of stones that had fallen down the chimney.

“My God!” I thought. “The bloody chimney is falling in.”

Above me, in the bedroom, it sounded as though someone was walking about, pushing stones aside as they moved. My heart pounded so loud it seemed to shake my entire body and my throat constricted even more, just as though the old man’s rope was around it once more.

I stumbled up the staircase and flung open the bedroom door almost expecting to see either the old man or young Bray. My heart almost stopped and a cry froze on my lips as an icy cold gripped my body. With wild, staring eyes I looked at the wall and any feelings of love and warmth fled. The wall had settled as I feared it might, shaking loose much of the soot and scale covering the back of the flue. Built into the stones was a wizened half-mummified creature that stared at me with two black, gaping eye sockets.

“No! No!” I croaked and ran forward, overwhelmed by fear and disgust, sorrow and disbelief. The head of the creature nodded towards me as it seemed to become dislodged from its tomb and I heard a distant rumbling sound, not unlike thunder.

I sank to my knees at the opening I had smashed into the wall and covered my eyes with my filthy, torn hands, crying as the truth, literally stared me in the face.

The rumbling grew louder and I raised my head to look up. I drew back my lips in a leering yell as the shrivelled corpse swung forward as though to leap at me. The stones

above the opening moved in a sudden downward drop and crashed to the floor on and around me as I fell, almost unconscious, into the hideous embrace of Tamsin Bray.

THE END