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pulled the door shut behind him.
    And it was then, without warning, that the ‘voice’ slid into my mind, bringing as always a shaft of pure fear. This phenomenon had first happened several years ago at much the same time as the dreams started, but while I’d recounted those until my parents’ obvious lack of interest discouraged me, this other strangeness I’d kept fearfully to myself. Those who heard voices were after all distinctly suspect. Not that it was a voice as such. It filtered directly into my understanding without sound or visual image, compelling, personal and anonymous, and its message was always the same. ‘ Come to me! I’m waiting for you. ’
    At first I’d tried to signal back: ‘ Who are you? What do you want? ’ but there was never any reply. It seemed I was equipped to receive but not transmit.
    Yet that night after Hugo had left me there was for the first time a difference. It was nearer and clearer than ever before and excited exultation replaced the usual longing.
    â€˜You recognized me! Why did you take so long to come?’
    And as, without hope, I tried once again to establish contact, it switched off and my mind was my own again.
    You recognized me. Tumultuous conjectures went clattering round my head and would not be silenced. Neil? Ray? Or one of the others who had been at the King Orry the previous evening? And was it then to the Isle of Man that the ‘voice’ had been summoning me over the past five years? If so, now that I was here, what would happen?
    On a wave of escalating fear my mind suddenly went blank and, dreamlessly, I slept.

Three
    Hugo and Martha were at the breakfast table when I reached the kitchen the next morning.
    â€œSorry to have started without you, but I have to leave in a few minutes and it seemed a pity to wake you, especially after your disturbed night.” He looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “How are you this morning?”
    â€œFine,” I answered firmly, sliding into my chair and accepting a cup of tea from Martha.
    â€œNo after-effects of your nightmare?”
    â€œNone. I don’t remember dreaming at all.” Which was true. Not dreaming –
    â€œIt wasn’t one of your glorious Technicolor extravaganzas, then?”
    I flashed him a quick look and went on stirring my tea. “No.”
    â€œHer what?” Martha demanded.
    â€œShe went through a phase some years ago of extraordinarily vivid dreams. Do you still have them, Chloe?”
    There was no point in denial. Dreams, after all, were acceptable, something that happened to everyone. “From time to time.”
    â€œHow do they differ from ordinary dreams?” Martha asked with interest.
    â€œThey’re so real. When I think about them afterwards, it’s like remembering things I’ve actually done. Sometimes I’m not even sure whether they happened or not.”
    â€œHave you always had dreams like that?”
    â€œNo, only the last few years.”
    â€œWhich is odd,” Hugo commented, folding his table napkin. “Something must have triggered them off. When exactly did they start – can you pinpoint it?”
    That was something I’d carefully tried to avoid. “Four or five years ago, I suppose,” I answered evasively.
    He looked up sharply. “Since that business with the hypnotist?”
    â€œProbably, yes.”
    â€œWhat hypnotist? Hugo, what is all this?”
    He bent to kiss her. “I’ll have to leave Chloe to tell you or I’ll be late for prayers. See you in the staff-room about three.” He flashed me a smile. “Have a good day, little sister.”
    Martha didn’t even turn her head. “Chloe? Do explain!”
    My skin was tingling, as though the suspicion – almost the certainty – which I had been suppressing for so long was bubbling to the surface in a series of small electric explosions.
    I said tonelessly,