15

I

The sacred well was dark after the sunlight and silent save for the dripping of the water. Leaning towards the surface of the spring, Carta made offerings to the goddess.

Vivienne?

She whispered the name into the green depths.

Vivienne. Where are you?

There was no response. Outside a breeze touched the trees in the fold of the hillside above the beck and rustled the leaves. She heard the sound above the drip of the water and frowned. The hillside was speaking to her.

Vivienne?

Far away, in another time, Viv struggled to reply, but no sound came.

Triganos, Bran and Venutios had ridden onto the moors that morning with their companions and a troop of warriors, leaving the township all but unguarded. They had not invited her to join them.

Watching them leave, she had been overwhelmed without warning by a wave of misery and loneliness. She fitted nowhere here. At the discussions beneath the sacred oak, only Artgenos and his fellow Druids respected her opinions. The men, following the lead of Triganos and Venutios, resented the fact that she was there at all and argued with her or teased her constantly. Only elderwomen had wisdom and experience. By virtue of her youth she had neither. And if she went to the women’s hearths she was treated with suspicion and reserve, fitting in neither with the younger maidens, nor with the married women who had husbands and children about whom to gossip. More and more she found herself riding alone or walking with Conaire through the forests or in the chariot with Fergal at the reins.

Riach was there in her dreams. Aching with love and loss she would hold out her arms to him, begging him to come to her and smiling, he would move towards her; then as she ran into his embrace he would be gone, withdrawing into the mists, leaving her to weep into her pillow alone.

‘Riach!’ She cried his name into the wind. ‘Riach! Wait!’

She never saw her baby in these dreams at all.

Vivienne! Help me. Is my baby reborn? Is he with his father? Tell me where he is!

But the goddess was silent. Leaning again towards the spring, Carta saw the splash of her tears like raindrops on the water, then they were gone.

It was then in the depths of the pool beneath the rocks near the bank that she saw the face, the pale hard eyes, the long fair hair trailing amongst the ferns.

Medb of the White Hands had found her.

II

‘Shit!’ The scene had gone. The drip of the water in the well chamber had receded.

Medb.

Medb was there. She was spying on Carta. And Carta was afraid!

Viv’s head was spinning, her body stiff and exhausted. However much she wanted to return to the scene she couldn’t; however much Carta invaded her head she was too tired to go on. Staggering stiffly into the kitchen, she began opening the cupboards and the fridge. She couldn’t even remember when had she last been shopping. Going back into the living room she grabbed her purse and keys.

Sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table with her takeaway half an hour later, she scanned her notes whilst she ate. Whatever she had said to Cathy, she was still thinking about the play. And Medb. Perhaps Pat was right and there was a small place for Medb in the story as a focus point of tension. It would make it more exciting. Heaping rice and chicken Madras onto her fork she leaned forward, shuffling through her notebook. The food was making her feel better. More focussed. There was so much to do. She needed to reread her draft of the play and at the same time choose passages to talk about on TV tomorrow; decide at what point she was going to produce the pin. Finishing the curry and rice she reached for a poppadum as her notepad filled page by page.

It was very late when at last she put down her pen and stretched her arms, yawning. Climbing to her feet she picked up her plate and headed for the kitchen. Gathering up the empty foil containers she dumped them in the bin, switched off the lights and went into the bathroom. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and all she wanted now was to sleep. Turning on the taps she hunted on the shelf over the bath and found some exotic bubbly stuff to swirl into the steam. Undressing slowly she turned off the taps at last and was about to step into the water when she decided to bring some music into the bathroom.

The living room was dark, the window still open on the warm night air. Outside the sounds of the street had died away. An occasional car, its tyres rattling over the stone sets in the High Street, broke the silence, then it was quiet again. Reaching for her CD player she was about to turn back towards the bathroom when she caught sight of a movement in the doorway to the hall out of the corner of her eye and she became suddenly acutely aware that she was naked.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ She was clutching the disc player against her breasts. At this time of year the sky had a luminosity which reflected down even into the wynds and closes of the old town. It gave the room a faint glow as her eyes attuned. She held her breath. The room was completely silent now. But it was a strange silence. Thick. Impenetrable. Self-conscious. All she could hear was her own heartbeat in her ears. She wanted it to stop so she could listen; she wanted it to stop so she couldn’t be heard.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered. More tentatively this time.

The wedge of black where the half-open doorway led into the hall was dense and unmoving. Cautiously she stepped towards the rocking chair. Setting down the player she grabbed the sweater which lay thrown over the chair and pulled it quickly on, then with a swift movement she reached for the light switch. The room in the harsh light of three lamps was empty as she had known, in some deep core of herself below the irrational panic, that it would be. She moved towards the door, then she paused. A fresh damp waft of air came to her from the hall. She reached to turn on that light as well, afraid suddenly that the front door was open onto the cold stone of the winding stair, but it was closed and locked and almost as soon as she had registered the smell it had gone.

She shivered. It had been the smell of the dales and the Yorkshire moors.

‘Carta?’ Her whisper was hesitant. She did not want an answer. ‘Carta? Is that you?’ Carta was angry; impatient. She wanted Viv to go on.

But whatever gateway might have temporarily opened between Carta’s world and Viv’s had closed. The fresh air of the Brigantian hills was once more locked away into the past and she was left with an empty flat and the faint smell of the curry she had eaten only a few short hours before.

III

With a scowl Hugh turned his back on the dripping garden and walked back to his desk. He glanced at the transcript of his review lying beside the keyboard and read it through again while he drank a mug of black coffee. At best Viv’s book was a jolly romp through a historical theme. A slow and careful reading of the full text hadn’t changed his mind. Sitting down, he stared at the computer monitor. Either way the book was a disaster and not something he wanted either his own name or that of his department associated with.

The offending book itself was sitting on the far corner of his desk. Like Pat’s copy it was bristling with Post-its but in this case every one represented an inaccuracy or a guess. Every one flagged an insult to historical truth. Just as well they had sent him this second copy after he had handed his first to Steve or he would never have read it; never have had the chance to accept the Daily Post’s invitation to review the book and to do it properly with a full range of damaging quotes, emphasising particularly the travesty she had made out of the role of Venutios in her story. Venutios, who was one of the greatest leaders of the period, outshining even Caratacus.

Well, she couldn’t claim he hadn’t given her the chance to retract. Or withdraw it. Or pulp it. Whatever one did with unwanted books. He had warned her; he had begged her and she had remained adamant. Whatever happened now, it was her own fault. He picked up the mouse and called up his e-mail. One click and the review was on its way.

He frowned. The day it appeared, he realised abruptly, Viv Lloyd Rees would be a public laughing stock. Did he really want that?

He sat for a moment staring at the screen. Message sent. Not too late to change his mind. He could withdraw it. Poor Viv. Alison would have hated him for this. But if Alison was still there he probably wouldn’t have done it. He was more mellow in those days. More tolerant. Probably, he had to admit, a nicer person. But then he wasn’t doing this to prove his niceness or otherwise. He was doing it to maintain the integrity of his department and everything he believed in, in the field of research. In the long run this was in Viv’s own interest. Some day she would even thank him for it. Flipping open the book’s cover, he sat staring at her photo inside the jacket. For a moment he wondered if he should ring her; warn her what he had done. He put his hand out to the phone then he withdrew it again. Tonight she would be appearing on TV to talk about the wretched book and presumably produce the stolen pin in full view of the whole world. It would be even more important after that for him to distance himself from her.

Standing up, he went back to his survey of the wet garden. He hadn’t told the police. Of course he hadn’t told the police. Not yet. He couldn’t do that to her.

Cartimandua’s pin.

No. Venutios’s pin.

He frowned uncomfortably. Where had that thought come from?

With a sudden bolt of irrational fear he knew that he was about to hear the brazen note of the carnyx even before it was there, echoing across the garden, drowning out the sound of the rain.

IV

‘I’m not stopping long!’ Pat waved a paper bag enticingly as Viv opened the door. ‘Peace offering. Doughnuts! Can I come in?’ She shook the rain out of her hair.

Viv stepped back and led the way into the living room. She had slept heavily, still swathed in the jumper and had woken with a headache which a shower had done little to dissipate. She had also changed her mind about Medb.

‘I’ve been crass,’ Pat said as she followed her in. ‘I admit it. I got so excited by the story I went into rough-shod mode. A fault of mine and I know it. Mea Culpa!’ She put her briefcase down on the sofa and flung herself down beside it. ‘Can we start again?’

Viv studied her face for a moment in silence before seating herself on the rocker. ‘No Medb?’

Pat opened her mouth then closed it. She put her head on one side. ‘Less Medb?’

‘No Medb. There’s no space for Medb. No actual place for Medb!’ Cartimandua had vetoed the woman’s part in the play.

Pat exhaled sharply. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘So, where do we go from here?’ She left her briefcase unopened.

Viv shrugged. ‘I’ve got the TV programme this evening. I can’t really think straight until that is over.’

‘Live?’

Viv grimaced. ‘Live.’

‘But you’re good at this sort of thing, right? I’ve heard you’re a natural.’

‘I don’t know. I’m nervous.’

Pat shook her head. ‘That’s a good sign. You’ll be terrific.’ She stood up. ‘Tomorrow, OK? We’ll slot some scenes together with the narrative and see how it reads.’

She left Viv both doughnuts.

In the TV studios late that night Viv found herself seated opposite the presenter, Selwyn Briggs. She had placed the Perspex box between her glass of water and the small bowl of flowers which stood on the low table between them.

A grey-haired man, with a craggy face and eccentric taste in luminous shirts, Selwyn eyed it. ‘When do you want to produce it?’

‘About halfway through my segment?’ She shrugged. Behind the spotlights the cameras were lining up. Cables snaked across the floor into the distance. Someone was checking the small mike pinned to her blouse. ‘I’ll lead into it naturally if that’s OK with you, when I talk about Cartimandua’s life style.’

‘That’s fine.’ He grinned at her. ‘Don’t forget you’ve only got about ten minutes in all. Don’t go into too much detail. Keep it general.’

On the studio wall the clock ticked round towards the hour. Listening to the signature tune Viv found her mouth had gone dry. Selwyn was smiling at her now, engaged, his professional persona in place, his introduction as always word perfect.

‘This evening our programme comes to you from Edinburgh and in it we have three practical historians who are here to talk about their work. First up we have Dr Vivienne Lloyd Rees who is a Celticist at Edinburgh University. Good evening, Viv.’ His smile broadened. ‘Your new book, Cartimandua, Queen of the North will be on our shelves any day now. Can you tell us briefly what it’s about?’

The camera crept nearer, focussed on her face. Viv smiled back at him and her nerves disappeared. She made a couple of passable jokes. She flirted with the lens. She was a natural; relaxed; charismatic. The camera adored her. The first few minutes seemed to fly. At last she reached for the box. ‘I have something here, Selwyn, which I think will interest the viewers.’ She removed the lid and picked up the pin, holding it on her palm. ‘This brooch – technically it’s called a fibula – a safety pin, if you like, came from a place called Stanwick in Yorkshire, the site of one of the largest Brigantian settlements, the place which many people think was their capital. In Celtic times I believe it was called Dinas Dwr, which means the castle on the water. The river there is tiny now, no more than a brook, a tributary of the Tees but in earlier times it was larger. As you can see, this is a beautiful object, made of gold and the most exquisite enamelling.’ She moved her hand in front of the camera so the brooch caught the light. Even here, in the heat of the studios it was cold. ‘By rights, it should be in the museum, of course,’ she paused, eyebrow raised, ‘and it will go back there straight after the programme, but its owner, Professor Hugh Graham, allowed me to borrow it especially for tonight.’ She glanced up at the camera nearest to her and grinned. ‘There’s no way of knowing if it really belonged to Cartimandua, but that’s what it has come to be called. The Cartimandua Pin.’

Selwyn leaned forward. ‘A very talented craftsman made this.’ He held out his hand and reluctantly she placed the brooch on his palm.

‘Indeed. These were sophisticated, artistic people.’

Selwyn nodded sagely, staring down at it for a few seconds before hastily handing it back. She saw him surreptitiously rub his palm on his knee as he smiled at her again. So, he felt it too. ‘You obviously have amazing pull, Viv. People aren’t usually allowed to ‘‘borrow’’ things from museums. Professor Graham must look on you with great favour. Not to say trust.’ He gave her a wolfish grin.

Viv met his eye, startled. ‘He’s certainly taken a great interest in my book,’ she said cautiously. He knew.

‘And has been very supportive, no doubt?’ He left the question hanging.

‘He has backed me in his own inimitable way,’ Viv commented dryly. ‘Professor Graham and I have different ways of pursuing our research. Ways which I think complement each other very well.’ She gave a wry smile. Did he know about the row, or were his comments merely shrewd? She put the pin down on the table. ‘In fact he’s probably sent an armoured car to collect this and make sure it gets back safely,’ she commented. She managed a humorous shrug.

Selwyn laughed. ‘I’m sure he trusts you, Viv,’ he said. ‘So, where next?’ He changed the subject adroitly. ‘Another book, perhaps?’

‘Indeed.’ She looked straight into the camera. ‘I’ve been doing further, tremendously exciting research and I have already started on a sequel. I am also working on a radio drama documentary about Cartimandua.’

‘So, we should watch this space?’

Viv smiled. ‘I hope you will.’

There was a pause. The floor manager made a thumbs up sign and taking off his headphones, slung them round his neck. It was time for the break. Selwyn sat back with a grin. ‘Great. Thanks, Viv.’ There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘You believe in living dangerously!’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hugh was on the phone to me about that pin.’

She waited while the mike was unfastened from her blouse and then stood up. ‘Thanks for not relaying the full force of his fury to the nation.’

‘I wouldn’t call it fury.’ Selwyn reached across to shake her hand. ‘A touch of professional jealousy maybe? Go carefully, sweetie!’

The next guest – a TV presenter from Glasgow whose new series on rescue archaeology would start in a couple of weeks – was waiting for her chair. Viv picked up the brooch, put it back into the box and made her way off the sound stage, past the cameras towards the green room where she had left her jacket as the show restarted behind her. What had he meant by ‘go carefully’? With a shiver she zipped the brooch into the inner pocket of her bag and put the strap over her shoulder.

It was almost midnight. The studios were for the most part in darkness. The reception desk was unmanned, the corridors deserted. Only the one studio was in use tonight. At the outer door she paused to let herself out, half expecting her prediction to be right, but there was no one around. No armoured car. No police. No heavies – she gave wry grin at the thought. No one at all.

The car park was nearly empty, the tarmac between the rows of small neatly planted cherry trees reflecting the rain under the tall security lights. Pulling her car key out of her pocket she headed for the Mazda which she had left on the far side of the car park, which when she had arrived a couple of hours before, had been nearly full. She stopped abruptly, listening to the rain hissing down on a bank of laurels nearby as she narrowed her eyes in the glare of the lights. There was a figure standing near her car. She glanced round nervously. It was Carta. She was sure of it. She could feel the terror tightening her throat as she looked back towards the studio. The door had clicked shut behind her. She was completely alone.

Vivienne!

She could hear the voice above the sound of the rain.

Vivienne. Come back!

It was the voice of her narrator. The voice of the ghost. The hair was standing up on the back of her neck. With a moan of fear she broke into a run and headed back to the building behind her, splashing through puddles, water soaking her shoes. Banging on the locked door frantically she glanced behind her. The car park was deserted once more. She could see no sign of the figure. ‘Please. Let me in!’ She searched desperately for a bell or a buzzer. There seemed to be nothing. Once again she banged on the glass panels with her fist. There was no response. With a cry of anguish she turned, her back to the door. There was no one in sight. Her car stood alone in the rain beneath the bank of lights.

Her mouth dry with fear, she took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. She had to go. Running as fast as she could she headed for the far side of the car park and the safety of the little car.

For a moment she couldn’t slot the key into the lock. She could feel the panic mounting. Her hands shaking, her fingers wet with rain she stabbed at the lock, and then at last felt it slide in and turn. Pulling open the door she dived in and slammed the locks shut. Only then did she take a deep breath and look round, wiping the rain from her eyes. The car park was still deserted. The shadows were empty.

V

She had been very watchable. He had to give her that. Standing up, Hugh went over to the sideboard to replenish his whisky. She was relaxed. Attractive. Charismatic, that was probably the word. Enthusiastic about the wretched book and, God help us, already writing another. He raised the glass and took a swig. That old sod Selwyn had been a damn sight too tactful about the brooch. He had had the chance to pillory her and all he had done was make a joke of it. Hugh walked over to the window. He hadn’t drawn the curtains and outside the world was black and wet. He could hear the rain on the glass above the sound of the adverts. The wind had whipped some brown and dying rose petals into the air and plastered them against the panes. The larches at the bottom of the garden were thrashing up and down, their branches sounding like waves on the beach. With a shiver he pulled the curtains across and turned back to the TV where Selwyn was already smiling benignly at his next guest.

It was after midnight when Hugh finally turned off the set. He returned his glass to the sideboard, contemplated another top-up and realised that he was already slightly unsteady on his feet. Too much whisky would negate the desired effect of a quick and deep sleep. If one wasn’t careful there was that uncomfortable transition state before unconsciousness when one lay awake, the room beginning to spin unpleasantly when the regret set in. He never used to drink so heavily. He didn’t like being drunk. Firmly putting down the glass he walked out of the room and turned the lights off in time to see the sweep of car headlights through the hall window as someone drew up on the gravel outside the front door. He heard a car door slam. Seconds later his doorbell rang.

Viv was standing on the doorstep, her hair plastered flat by the rain, the shoulders of her jacket soaked. Under it she wore the cream trousers and rust-coloured blouse she had worn on TV and the sexy pointed shoes.

He stood back and let her in without a word. It was the first time she had been in the house since Alison had died.

‘Here you are.’ She groped in her bag as they stood there, facing each other in the hall. ‘I’ve brought it back as promised. Perfect. Undamaged. The loan much appreciated!’ She managed a small smile. ‘Did you watch?’

‘I did.’ He found himself grudgingly returning the smile. Her presence in the dark lonely house was like a breath of sunshine. An unsuitable simile perhaps in view of her rain-soaked state, but apt, nevertheless. ‘You were good. I have to admit it.’

‘But hopelessly inaccurate and shaming to the department?’ She was still smiling. Just. Behind the smile her face was white and strained.

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t spot anything too controversial.’

She had produced the box and was holding it out towards him. Ignoring it, he turned towards the kitchen. ‘Come in and have a drink. It’s a foul night. You needn’t have come straight here, you know.’ Turning on the switch he flooded the room with cold light. The window beyond the sink looked out at the black rain-soaked gardens and the drive. He made no attempt to close the blind before he filled the kettle.

Viv followed him in and put the box carefully in the centre of the bare table. She was still feeling scared and shaky after her ordeal in the car park. ‘You’re not going to the police, then.’

He gave a grim laugh. ‘As long as it’s not a replica.’ Plugging in the kettle he pushed the switch.

She grimaced ‘I never thought of that.’

‘Then we’ll leave it at that.’ He glanced up. ‘Did you take it out of its box? But of course you did. I saw you. And anyway, how could you resist?’ He sighed as he answered his own question. ‘I’ll take it back to the museum as soon as possible. They want it for a special display.’

She shrugged. ‘It seems a shame to lock it away behind glass forever. It’s such a personal thing. Someone must have loved and admired it very much.’ She glanced at it doubtfully, then at his face. ‘Holding it in your hand,’ she paused, cautiously, ‘you can almost feel the last person to wear it is watching you.’

He shivered.

Venutios.

The name hung in the air between them. Venutios. Not Cartimandua.

‘You don’t really believe it’s cursed, do you?’ she asked softly.

He shrugged. ‘As you say, when you hold it –’ He broke off and she saw his eyes shift abruptly from her face towards the window. He was frowning and there was something like fear in his eyes. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘It’s windy out there.’ All she could hear was the kettle.

‘The carnyx.’ He half-whispered the word.

Viv stared at him, shocked. There was no doubt about it. He too was scared.

‘Can’t you hear it?’ He clapped his hands over his ears.

Viv followed his gaze. All she could see in the window were the reflections of the stark room. Tidy. Neat. No dishes. No food. Clean empty worktops, table, cooker, sink. Just the kettle, belching out steam and the two people facing each other across the table, both looking towards the window. She felt a moment of her old affection and of intense pity for his loneliness, then it was gone, replaced by a feeling of unease. His fear was infectious.

‘It was his brooch, not hers,’ he said at last. ‘Strange, as the crane is a bird more usually associated with women.’

‘Hugh –’

‘He is so angry. Can you hear him? He wants it back. It’s the key to everything. To love and hate and revenge! Beyond the roar of the wind and the lash of the rain he is shouting out his frustration and fury!’

She stepped back from the table. ‘Hugh, have you been drinking?’

She knew he had. She’d smelled it on his breath when she arrived. But not a huge amount. Nothing serious, surely.

He ignored the question. Instead he went across to the table and picking up the box he opened it and took out the brooch, holding it on the palm of his hand. ‘It’s beautiful. Exquisite. A bird of the underworld.’ He smiled grimly.

‘And a bird that brings luck in time of war, a servant of the war gods, and nearly two thousand years old,’ she reminded him, afraid of what he might be going to do with it.

‘He’s out there. In the garden,’ Hugh said, very quietly. ‘Waiting for me.’

‘Who?’ Her mouth had gone dry.

‘Venutios. I told you.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She was really frightened now. This was her territory. Even Pat’s. But not Hugh Graham’s. Never Hugh. He must be a lot drunker than she had suspected. ‘Shall I make us a coffee?’ With a quick glance at him she went over to the cupboards and started to pull them open, searching for cups, coffee and milk. There was almost nothing in the fridge, she discovered, just half a loaf of bread and some marmalade and about a quarter of a bottle of milk. She sniffed it cautiously, with a wave of sadness, thinking how bleak it all was now, without Alison and her passion for cooking which had always left the kitchen warm, chaotic and overflowing with food. It was a relief to switch off the frantically boiling kettle and watch the steam disperse as she made the coffee, but the sudden silence brought the sound of the wind and rain closer.

‘Can you hear it?’ Hugh had walked over to the window. He still had the brooch in his hand. His face was white.

‘I can hear the storm.’ She grimaced. ‘Here you are.’ She held out the mug. ‘Have it while it’s hot.’

He was staring out through the rain-streaked glass, his hands cupped round the brooch in front of him as though he was cupping the body of a real bird which at any moment might escape and fly out into the night.

‘There it is again. Listen!’ She could hear the fear in his voice. ‘He wants it. He wants the brooch!’

‘Hugh, don’t be silly.’ Cautiously she went and stood beside him. ‘Have your coffee, then why don’t you lock it up somewhere safe.’

His face was grey now, and she realised that he was shaking.

‘Hugh? What is it?’ She put her hand on his arm. Then she heard it too. Far away, beyond the sound of the rain, a deep ethereal note echoing in the distance. ‘What is it?’ she whispered. But she had heard it before at Ingleborough and in her own small flat amongst the rooftops of Edinburgh. The haughty baying call of the carnyx.

‘He’s out there.’ Hugh was still staring at the window.

Viv put down the mug and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Come away. It’s the wind. It has to be.’

He turned towards her and she saw the despair and fear in his face.

‘There’s no one there.’ She tried to draw him away from the window and for a moment he resisted, then suddenly he gave in and turning, he put his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the smell of rain and shampoo and the sweet musky scent of her skin. ‘Oh God, Viv. What’s happening to me?’

She didn’t move. His arms were strong. Secure. Briefly she felt herself relax against him, her own lonely longing intense, remembering just how much she had loved him; longed for him – her friend’s husband. How agonising it had been to pretend she just liked him as a friend and colleague. How much his antagonism since Alison had died had hurt her. Gently she pushed him away. ‘Hugh? Come on. Come away from the window. There are too many eyes out there. Let me draw the blind.’

He stood quite still, staring unseeing into the distance, as she went over to it. He was listening intently. ‘There it is again. Can you hear it?’ It was a whisper.

She nodded grimly.

‘He wants the brooch.’ He grabbed it off the table. ‘Take it. Don’t let him have it.’ He pushed it into her hand. ‘Take it now. Take it away. And go. Quickly. It’s me he’s after! He won’t hurt you!’ Without warning he was pushing her towards the door.

‘Why does he want it?’ she protested.

He shrugged. ‘It’s part of his story. Who knows. Just go away and take it with you!’

‘Hugh!’ His panic was infectious. She ran into the front hall ahead of him. She grabbed her bag and shoving the brooch, just as it was, into her jacket pocket, dug for her car keys.

‘Hugh, I don’t want to go out there! I can’t leave you!’ She was frantic. ‘Come with me. Come back to Edinburgh. You can’t stay here alone.’

‘I have to. Don’t you understand? He’s made me angry so that he can feed off my anger. I’m frightened of what he’ll do. Of what he might make me do! Go, quickly!’

Somehow the door was open and she found herself outside, running across the gravel. Throwing herself into the car in a complete panic for the second time that night she stabbed frantically at the ignition, turning the key at last, revving the engine. Behind her Hugh had slammed the front door. As she turned the car, gravel spitting beneath the wheels, the house was once more in total darkness.

She drove out of the gate and onto the road, and she had gone at least a mile before she pulled onto the verge. Her heart slamming under her ribs, her breath coming in quick small jerks she banged the door locks shut, then she rummaged in her bag for her mobile. Punching out Hugh’s number she let it ring for a while before cutting the call and dropping the phone down on the seat beside her. She glanced in the mirror. The road was deserted, the rain drumming on the soft top of the car, lashing the windscreen, streaming down the windows. She couldn’t leave him like that. He was drunk and he was frightened. She should have insisted he come with her. God, what should she do? She stared ahead along the road in the bright beam of the headlights. She would have to find somewhere to turn the car. Shakily she engaged gear and set off, more slowly this time, scanning the hedges for a gateway where she could turn. It was several minutes before she found somewhere and reversed into someone’s driveway. Pausing, she tried the phone again. Again there was no answer.

Turning the car into Hugh’s gate she drew up, the headlights trained on the front door. The house was still in darkness. She crept closer easing up the clutch in first gear until she was as close to the door as possible. Tucking the brooch into the glove pocket of the car she leaned on the hooter. There was no response. Staring round for a minute as she tried to pluck up the courage to get out, she studied the rain-swept flower beds, the shadowy trees, the darkness of the lawns. They were all deserted. Taking a deep breath she opened the door, she flung herself out and ran to the front door. ‘Hugh!’ she rang the bell and hammered on the oak panelling. ‘Hugh! It’s me, Viv. Come with me. You can’t stay here on your own.’ She crouched down and opened the letter box, peering inside. The hall was in total darkness. ‘Hugh! Can you hear me?’

There was no reply.

With a sob she turned back to the car and locked herself inside again. She was drenched and cold and very frightened. She tried the mobile again. Still no reply.

Of course he wasn’t answering. He had probably gone up to bed to sleep off the whisky. He had heard neither the phone nor her knocking. She sat back in the seat forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, trying to master her panic. Should she ring the police? But what would she say? A drunken man thought an Iron Age war lord was after him? Probably not. All she could do was go home and ring him again in the morning. Slowly she reversed the car and turned back towards the gate.