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silent. Tom knew he could take this ghost thing too far; she claimed not to believe in them, and yet they terrified her. Perhaps the mention of ghosts only brought Steven to mind.
     
    * * *
     
    The local pub was surprisingly accommodating to visitors. It had a smattering of locals – they gathered at one end of the bar, playing darts or sitting protectively around their pints of local brew – but there was still an honest welcome from the staff, and a friendliness that put Tom immediately at ease. The landlady recommended a pint of local beer for him, and she let him try some before buying, which he did. She gave Jo her first glass of wine on the house, and when Tom said they’d like to eat she showed them to a comfortable, private table in an alcove close to the front door. Its window looked out onto the village street, and past the houses opposite they could make out the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain in the dusk. Tom glanced that way, saw Jo do the same, and then they both concentrated on the inside of the pub.
    Tom had left the map back at the cottage, hidden in the book he had brought to read this weekend. His pocket felt empty without it, as if he had left purpose behind.
    They ordered food, and while waiting they indulged in one of their own private games: spotting peculiar-looking people, giving them a name, then building a background around them. The old farmer at the end of the bar, sporting sideburns the size of small rabbits, became Major Crisis of the Indian Expeditionary Force, here on leave and making the most of British beer brewing. Whenever he spoke he spat at those around him, and Tom had to bury his face in his hands when Jo muttered, “Machine gun effect.”
    There was a huge open fireplace but the fire remained unlit. Tom imagined it would be very cosy here in the winter, with flames roaring in the hearth and hail pummelling at the windows. Perhaps they would have a lock-in after eleven o’clock, allowing the locals to remain here lest the wind blow them away. The landlady would cook them bacon sandwiches throughout the night, and if any beer barrel needed changing one of the regulars would volunteer, sparse payment for their use of the pub as a shelter against the elements.
    And maybe Steven had drunk here once.
    Tom sighed and took a drink. Jo spotted his instant mood change but ignored it. He thanked her silently, smiled, and made a joke about the young family that had just come in. They had a daughter and son, both under five, and the parents looked hassled and strained. The children stared around the pub wide-eyed, marking places for forthcoming expeditions and items to investigate as soon as their parents turned their backs.
    He might’ve had grandchildren that age, if Steven hadn’t been killed.
    Tom tipped his beer, and as he was looking into the bottom of the glass King’s face came back at him, pale and haunted by what he had seen. He had obviously wanted to tell Tom everything, and yet from that first moment in the pub he had seemed reticent about speaking. He had let out a few details, but everything he said inspired a dozen more questions. And then he had left the map.
    Why? What could Nathan King gain from revealing any of this? Unless it really was as he said: Maybe sharing my nightmares will lessen them.
    “Do you remember how he used to like vampires and werewolves?” Jo asked. Neither of them ever had to say who they were talking about.
    “And not just when he was a kid,” Tom said, smiling. “There was always something going on with him. He always liked to think about things differently.”
    “Just like his father,” Jo said, smiling. “I never understood the fascination.” She was moving her wine glass around in small circles, setting the wine swirling, staring into its centre as if seeing the past in there. “Stuff like that always seems so nasty.”
    “I think maybe that the fascination,” Tom said. “Finding nastier things than anything you’ll meet in the