In reply, a soft pulse of recognition.

‘How long will you stay?’

The slender mound beat its own private heart twice, three times, but showed no signs of going anywhere; it seemed it would stay awhile.

‘Is this your very last visit?’ asked Quartermain.

Who can say? was the silent reply of his old friend revisiting, nested in a wirework of ancient hair.

I do not so much mind my scalp turning gray, Quartermain had once said, but when you find whiteness sprouting down there, to hell with it. Let the rest of me age, but not that!

But age he did and age it did. He was all of a dead winter grayness now. Still, there was this heartbeat, this tender and incredible pulse saluting him, a promise of spring, a seedbed of memory, a touch of … what was the word out there in the town in this strange weather when everyone’s juices roused again?

Farewell summer.

Dear God, yes.

Don’t go yet. Stay. I need a friend.

His friend stayed. And they talked. At three in the morning.

‘Why do I feel so happy?’ said Quartermain. ‘What’s been going on? Was I mad? Am I cured? Is this the cure?’ Quartermain’s teeth chattered with an outrageous laugh.

I just came to say goodbye, the voice whispered.

‘Goodbye?’ Quarterman’s laughter caught in his throat. ‘Does that mean—’

It does, came the whisper. It’s been a lot of years. It’s time to move on.

‘Time, yes,’ said Quartermain, his eyes watering. ‘Where are you going?’

Can’t say. You’ll know when the time comes.

‘How will I know?’

You’ll see me. I’ll be there.

‘How will I know it’s you?’

You’ll know. You’ve always known everything, but me above all.

‘You’re not leaving town?’

No, no. I’ll be around. But when you see me, don’t embarrass anyone, all right?

‘Of course.’

The quilt and the sheets under the quilt were lowering, melting to rest. The whisper grew fainter.

‘Wherever you go … ‘began Quartermain.

Yes?

‘I wish you a long life, a good life, a happy one.’

Thank you.

A pause. Silence. Quartermain found he didn’t know what to say next.

Goodbye then?

The old man nodded, his eyes misted with tears.

His bed, the coverlet, his body was flat as a tabletop. What had been there for seventy years was now totally and completely gone.

‘Goodbye,’ said Mr Quartermain into the still night air.

I wonder, he thought, where, oh just where in hell he has gone?

The great courthouse clock struck three.

And Mr Quartermain slept.

Douglas opened his eyes in the dark. The town clock finished the last stroke of three.

He looked at the ceiling. Nothing. He looked at the windows. Nothing. Only the night breeze fluttered the pale curtains.

‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.

Nothing.

‘Someone’s here,’ he whispered.