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the orphanage half an hour later, by which time it was completely dark. As if they had overheard that morning’s conversation, the black-cloaked figures had made no more appearances since the one at the train station. Lucy had dismissed it, but Jack, whose every waking and sleeping thought was not occupied by George, Matthew, and whoever the other one was, was less inclined to let the matter lie.
    Slipping through the back door, he took off his trainers and entered the hallway. It was deserted and completely silent, all the other children being put to bed at least an hour ago. Jack had never really enjoyed their company. They were much younger than him and into completely different things like football and the latest brand craze. Plus, they seemed to not think much of him, either, being the only one at a secondary school. Having already spent several years here, Jack had largely given up trying to socialize with them and spent as much time as possible out or with Lucy. Preferably both.
    He walked up to his room quietly and opened the door with the least amount of noise possible. Depositing his small bag of the day’s purchases on the bed (his new hoodie and shoes, though quite adventurous for his normal spending, had been as always dwarfed by Lucy’s near worship of Philip Green), he slumped into the aging plastic chair. In a pseudomystical way, the soft drift of light from the moonlit window fell upon his schoolbag and the unfinished English homework inside.
    Sighing the sigh of someone who knows they can’t get away with avoiding something for much longer, he pulled out his English books and cleared the desk. “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats was printed in cold black ink in the middle of the page.
    How does Yeats create the sense of impending darkness in this poem?
    Jack opened the desk drawer, feeling for his Biro. His hand fell on something else, a small card. He pulled it out and held it up to the lamp. It was a business card, printed in a generic Microsoft design layout. It read
Apollo Hill Mental Institute
, with a single telephone number underneath.
    Jack breathed out heavily. He knew it must be a coincidence or a cruel joke. How much gratification could he really expect from this? But he thought there was always a chance, no matter how miniscule it might be. He paused for a moment longer. Then he got out his mobile and keyed in the number.
    The ringing stopped, and there was a crackling noise.
    “Hello, Apollo Hill Mental Institute,” said a female voice.
    Jack’s mouth seemed to crack with dryness. He managed to force the words out after a few seconds. “Hi, can I see if I can visit a patient, please?”
    “I’ll need your name and the patient’s.”
    “Jack Lawson, and the patient is Alex Steele.”
    There was a tapping sound of a keyboard and a mouse clicking.
    He suddenly felt very aware of himself—the feel of the chair, the brushing of his clothes, the silence of all else but the background noise from the phone, and the vibrations of his quickening heartbeat. He didn’t dare move in case he lost the signal.
    “I’m sorry, but we don’t have anyone by that name on file. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
    “No, don’t worry … Thanks.” Jack hung up and let out the breath he’d been holding. He felt very hot. He ducked over to the window, creaking it open. The cold air was like icy water on his skin, and he gulped it down. He had
known
it couldn’t have been real. And yet, through his insistence on trying, he seemed to have lost his friend all over again.

Chapter IV
excavation
    In another Victorian building many miles away, a phone clicked onto its hook. Gaby glanced up at the others.
    “Jack?” Vince asked.
    Gaby nodded. Her face was flushed, and she looked a little scared.
    Charles looked up from his game of chess, his finger poised on a white pawn.
    They were in the mansion’s expansive and extremely run-down kitchen. Brass pots and pans were hung above