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as hard as he could towards Zeth’s patient, amused face. Aeroplanes and Sideburns were on Jay at once, punching and kicking, but not before he had launched a good solid kick into the pit of Zeth’s stomach, which connected as his first awkward punch had not. Zeth gave a wheezing scream and curled up on the ground. Aeroplanes tried to grab Jay again, but he was slippery with sweat and managed to duck under the other boy’s arm. Skidding on the remains of his broken radio he made for the path, dodged Sideburns, slid down the banking and across the bridle path towards the railway bridge. Someone was shouting after him, but distance and the thick local dialect made the words indistinguishable, though the threat was clear. When he reached the top of the banking, Jay kissed his middle finger at the three distant figures, dug his bike out of the undergrowth where he had hidden it, and in a minute was riding back towards Monckton. His nose was bleeding and his hands were torn from his dive through the bushes, but he was singing inside with triumph. Even his dismay over the loss of the radio was temporarily forgotten. Perhaps it was that wild, almost magical feeling that drew him to Joe’s house that day. He told himself later that it was simply chance, that there was nothing in his mind at all but the desire to ride into the wind, but he thought later that it might have been some kind of crazy predestination which pulled him there, a kind of call. He felt it, too, a wordless voice of exceptional clarity and tone, and for a moment he saw the street sign – POG HILL LANE – light up briefly in the glow of the reddening sun, as if somehow marked for his attention, so that instead of cycling past the narrow mouth of the street, as he had done so many times before, he stopped and wheeled his bike slowly back to stare over the brick wall, where an old man was cutting jackapples to make wine.

7
London, March 1999
    THE AGENT MUST HAVE SCENTED HIS EAGERNESS. THERE WAS already a bid on the house, he said. A little below the asking price. The contracts had already been drawn up. But if Jay was interested there were other properties available. The information, true or false, made Jay reckless. It had to be this house, he insisted. This house. Now. In cash, if they liked.
    A discreet phone call. Then another. Rapid French into the mouthpiece. Someone brought coffee and Italian pastries from across the road as they waited. Jay suggested another price, somewhat higher than the existing offer. He heard the voice on the other end of the line rise by half an octave. He toasted them in
café-latte
. It was so easy, buying a house. A few hours’ wait, a little paperwork and it was his. He reread the short paragraph under the picture, trying to translate the words into stone and mortar. Château Foudouin. It looked unreal, a postcard from the past. He tried to imagine standing outside the door, touching the pink stone, looking over the vineyard towards the lake. Joe’s dream, he told himself dimly, their dream fulfilled at last. It had to be fate. It had to be.
    And now he was fourteen again, gloating over his picture,touching it, folding and unfolding the thin paper. He wanted to show other people. He wanted to be there
now
, to take possession, even though the paperwork was only half completed. His bank, his accountant, his solicitors could deal with the formalities. The signing of the papers was merely an afterthought. The essentials were already in motion.
    A few phone calls and it could all be arranged. A flight to Paris. A train to Marseilles. By tomorrow he could be there.

8
Pog Hill, July 1975
    JOE’S HOUSE WAS A DARK, CROOKED TERRACE, LIKE MANY OF the houses which lined the railway. The front gave directly on to the street, with only a low wall and a window box between the front door and the pavement. The back was all crowded little yards hung with washing, a shanty town of homemade rabbit hutches, hen houses and pigeon lofts. This