Echo

But Terry was not to be dissuaded. 'And then there's me. I weren't never going to phone you about Billy, but then I had to because of Walt. And if Mr. Harrison hadn't recognized Tom, I wouldn't have been worried about him dropping me in it, and if you hadn't met old Lawrence and persuaded him to come and hold our hands, then he wouldn't've stuck his nose in about good parenting-' he paused for breath-'and I wouldn't be here now. Plus, Barry wouldn't've got pissed and taken himself off to gawp at Amanda and none of us would know that Nigel was still shafting her. That's fate, that is,' he finished triumphantly. 'Ain't that right, Barry?'

Barry ducked his head to take off his glasses. He was so tired after the emotional buffeting of the last twenty- four hours that he was finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation. 'I suppose it depends on whether you think, as my father did, that everything happens accidentally,' he said slowly. 'He believed there was no purpose to life beyond the furtherance of the species, and that you could either suffer your pointless existence or enjoy it. But to enjoy it you had to plan ahead in order to minimize the threat of unpleasant accidents.' He smiled ruefully. 'Then he died of a heart attack.'

'Do you agree with him?' asked Deacon curiously.

'Oh, no, I agree with Terry. I think fate plays a part in our destinies.' He replaced his spectacles and sheltered nervously behind them like an inexperienced knight preparing for battle. 'I can't help feeling that it doesn't really matter why Verity hanged herself, or not as far as Amanda Powell is concerned anyway.' He put a fat finger on Deacon's chart where it said: 'Where was Billy in April 1990?' 'This is Billy Blake's fate, not Peter Fenton's. Peter Fenton died in nineteen eighty-eight.'

Far away, the bells fell silent as Christmas Day began.

Such strange dreams inhabited Deacon's mind that night. He put them down to the fact that he opted for the sofa in order to have Barry and Terry securely shut in bedrooms with himself as a physical barrier between them. But he sometimes thought afterwards that it was too easy to say it was a bad night, coupled with subconscious fears of homosexual rape scams and memories of his father, that led him to dream about James Streeter covered in blood.

He started out of sleep in a thrashing frenzy at four o'clock in the morning with his mind full of the knowledge that he was James and that he had woken seconds before the final crushing blow that was going to kill him. His face was awash with sweat-blood?-and his heartbeat hammered in the silence of the night. And when the heart began to beat, what dread hand and what dread feet ... Was this a dream? My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt ... Who am I? Devourer of thy parent, now thy unutterable torment renews...

It soon became clear that the old adage 'too many cooks spoil the broth' was a true one. Barry began patiently enough but, faced with Deacon's and Terry's natural incompetence in the kitchen, he progressed rapidly through irritation to outright tyranny. 'My mother would have your head for this,' he remarked acidly, pushing Deacon away from a bowl of saturated stuffing and transferring it to the sink.

'How am I supposed to get it right if I don't have a measuring jug?' asked Deacon sulkily.

'You use your intelligence and add the water a little more slowly,' said Barry, pressing the soggy mess into a sieve and squeezing out the excess liquid. 'It may come as a surprise to you, Mike, but you're not supposed to pour the stuffing into the turkey, you're supposed to stuff it in. That's why it's called stuffing. If you poured it in it would be called pouring.'

'All right, all right, I get the message. I'm not a complete idiot.'

'I told you he couldn't cook,' said Terry self-righteously.

Barry turned his indignation on the boy and lifted a tiny sprout from the meager pile on the draining board. 'What's this?' he demanded.

'A sprout.'

'Correction. It was a sprout. Now it's a pea. When I said take off the outer leaves, I meant one layer, not two centimeters' worth. We're supposed to be eating these, not swallowing them with a glass of water.'

'You need a drink,' said Deacon's shaven-headed incubus prosaically. 'You aren't half ratty when you're sober.'

'A drink?' Barry squeaked, stamping his little feet. 'It's nine o'clock in the morning and we haven't even got the turkey in yet.' He pointed a dramatic finger at the kitchen door. 'Out of here, both of you,' he ordered, 'or you can forget lunch.'

Deacon shook his head. 'We can't do that. I've invited Lawrence Greenhill over. He'll be very disappointed if there's nothing to eat.' He watched fury rise like a red tide in Barry's face and flapped his hands placatingly as he backed towards the kitchen door. 'Don't panic. He's a great guy. You'll like him. I'm sure he won't mind waiting if the meal isn't ready on the dot of one o'clock. Look, here's an idea,' he said, as if he was the one who had thought of it. 'Why don't Terry and I make ourselves scarce so that you can get on with things? We'll be back at midday to lay the table.'

'That's good,' said Terry, raising two thumbs in salute, 'Cheers, Barry. Just make sure you do loads of roast potatoes. They're my favorite, they are.'

Deacon caught him by the collar and hoicked him through the door before their chef vanished in a puff of spontaneously combusted smoke.

'Where are we going?' asked Terry as they climbed into the car. 'We've got three hours to kill.'

'Let's muddy some waters first.' Deacon reached for his mobile and dialed Directory Assistance. 'Yes, the number of N. de Vriess, please, Halcombe House, near Andover. Thank you.' He took a pen from his inner pocket and wrote the number on his shirt cuff before switching off the telephone.

'What are you going to do?'

'Phone him and ask him what he was doing at Amanda Powell's house on Saturday night.'

'Supposing his wife answers?'

'The conversation will be even more interesting.'

'You're cruel, you are. It's Christmas Day.'

Deacon chuckled. 'I shouldn't think anyone will answer. It'll be his secretary's number. Guys like de Vriess don't make their private numbers public.' He squinted at his cuff as he punched the digits. 'In any case I'll hang up if