Bourne and Meredith’s eyes met. As if some unspoken message passed between them, they moved on. Paul followed them. They moved round the semicircular end of the ruined conservatory. More of the rusty, ornate wrought-iron pillars had collapsed bringing down a large part of the remaining structure. Meredith and Bourne were now walking down the littered path beside the western side of the destroyed billiards-room. Paul blinked. A strange alteration in his state of mind had taken place. He was aware of an increased alertness almost reminiscent of the return to sharp sobriety after the warm slightly out of focus state induced by alcohol has worn off. Time seemed to have slowed.

He halted.

Something made him turn his head slightly to the left. In the gap that had once been the door from the billiards-room to the conservatory stood the figure of a girl, solid and real. She wore a proud little toque hat, a grey-green jacket, waisted with a short flaring skirt, and a long, ankle-length skirt of the same colour, widening all the way to the ground. Below the jacket was a white, high-collared, frilly blouse. She stood, neither sideways nor facing him, only her pale, heart-shaped face turned towards him. Her expression was one of extreme and tragic sadness, and appeal.

It seemed to him that their eyes met across the air above the ruined conservatory and across time. He wanted to move towards her, to call out to the others. But he was afraid the movement or sound would dispel the situation. And he was utterly sure that the only thing that mattered was to help her.

He had no idea how long he stood there. Meredith and Bourne were out of sight now, behind the lounge wall. He drew a deep, slow breath and moved a step forward. She remained visible, quite motionless. He was almost standing against the battered, waist-high stonework that formerly had supported the curved glass wall of the conservatory. Slowly he placed his right hand on the rough top of the grey sandstone. He looked down. With his broken wrist and arm in a sling it was going to be a bit of a struggle to get over. His glance flicked up. She was still there. Leaning on his right hand he bent forward, raised his left leg to the top of the stonework, brought up his right leg and managed to cross. He straightened up.

His heart was pounding, he saw that the figure of the girl was drifting away into the billiards-room. He followed it, crunching over tiles and broken glass. A piece of stone that had once formed part of a kerb separating path from plants caused him to stumble, to look down. When he recovered and looked across at the doorway he found that she had gone. He scrambled across the uneven, debris-bestrewn ground, came to the doorway and halted.