Grace and Portia went to bed soon after them, both slightly stoned. They knew that with Timmy still missing this wasn’t a time to be giggling, but they couldn’t help themselves. Rob could hear them stifling their laughter as they crept along the corridor to their bedroom. He forgave them. Even at its most tragic, he thought, life never stops being ludicrous. He couldn’t stop thinking about some sinister presence that smelled of that most dated of aftershaves, Old Spice.
‘Did you believe that witch?’ Vicky murmured, with her back turned to him.
‘You mean, do I believe that there are some kind of living people in that priest’s hole? People we can’t see?’
‘I believed her. I’m sure that I can feel them. And smell them.’
‘I don’t know. She could be right, but even if she is, I wonder if these “presences” have any connection to Timmy disappearing? I’m beginning to think more and more that somebody’s picked him up and driven off with him. I mean, they can’t find him on the moor and the dogs can’t pick up a scent. He’s not here in the house and he couldn’t have flown away, could he? He’s not a pisky.’
Vicky was silent for a long time, and then she said emphatically, ‘I’m sure he’s not dead.’
Rob didn’t answer. He had a catch in his throat and he didn’t want to sound as if he were losing hope.
Vicky turned over and laid her hand on his. ‘You don’t think that he’s dead, do you? We’d know, wouldn’t we, if he was dead? I think we’d feel it.’
Rob nodded, and then shook his head, but he still couldn’t draw in enough air to speak.
They heard the front door slam. Martin and Katharine were back from Tavistock. Martin called out, ‘Hello? Hello? Anyone at home?’ and then Rob heard him stumble against the chair in the hallway. He was obviously drunk.
For a minute or two, Martin and Katharine banged around downstairs. Martin went into the kitchen and Katharine snapped, ‘What are you doing in there? For God’s sake, Martin, you don’t need any more to drink!’
Rob couldn’t hear Martin’s reply, but then Katharine demanded, ‘Come to bed! God, you made such a fool of yourself! They’ll never let us back into Taylors again, ever! Come to bed!’
Katharine’s voice rose as shrill as an opera singer’s falsetto, and she sounded almost as drunk as Martin.
Martin came out of the kitchen and said something to Katharine. Rob couldn’t make out what it was, but it sounded like a string of expletives.
Eventually, after almost ten minutes of arguing and pacing around, Katharine clawed her way unsteadily upstairs and tottered along the corridor to the master bedroom, bumping into the panelling all the way along. She closed the door very quietly behind her, but Rob heard a crash from inside the bedroom that sounded as if she had knocked over a bedside lamp.
He waited, listening hard, but he didn’t hear Martin follow her up to bed. Vicky was asleep now, and breathing evenly, although every now and then her lips moved as if she were talking to somebody in a dream. He was finding it hard to keep his own eyes open, and he lay back on the pillows and switched off the lamp.
‘Dear God,’ he said quietly. ‘Please keep Timmy safe, wherever he is. And please let us find him tomorrow. I know I didn’t believe in you before, God, but I promise you that I believe in you now.’
*
He was woken up by whispering outside their bedroom door. Sharp, persistent whispering, as if the whisperer were anxious or afraid. He groped his hand across to his bedside table and picked up his watch. The luminous dial told him that it was 2:37.
The whispering went on and on, and after a few minutes the first whisperer was joined by another, and then another. Rob lifted his head up from the pillow and strained his ears, but he was unable to make out what they were all saying.
He didn’t want to switch on his lamp in case he woke Vicky, but the darkness inside the bedroom was total. There was no light shining under the door so the corridor must be in total darkness, too. Even if anybody was out there, would he be able to see them? If they were anything like the presence that had pushed Vicky over, or the one he had felt brushing up against him in the priest’s hole, they would be invisible.
He took several deep breaths. Then he eased himself out of bed and shuffled as quietly as he could towards the door, his hands held out in front of him like a blind man.
The whispering persisted, and it sounded increasingly urgent. He reached the door and pressed his ear against it. It was still difficult to make out what the whisperers were saying, but he thought he caught one of them hissing, ‘It’s no use! You know it’s no use! Not before then! And what’s going to happen, once we get out? Have you thought about that?’
Another whisperer replied, and even though Rob couldn’t hear what he said, it sounded angry and dismissive.
Right, he thought. I’m going to open the door and confront them, even if I can’t see them. I want to know who they are and what they want – ‘presences’ or not. And most of all I want to know if they’re hiding Timmy, or at least if they have any idea where he is.
He put his hand on the cold brass door handle, but before he could open it he
