I was so struck by hearing Florence Balcombe’s name that I almost forgot my predicament, but James Henry called out as if it wanted to talk to them all. And then, above everything else, it came once more, ‘Robert Burrington!’

And my own plug cried, ‘James Henry Hayward!’ I stuck my hand in there and shoved it deeper down, covering it with my handkerchief to deaden its cry.

‘Robert Burrington?’

Had the long man heard my plug? Could he hear? He stood there, and then I thought he seemed to sniff very slightly. I kept so still and quiet, a statue, a statue, I thought, I’m a statue, I’m made of marble, nothing in the world shall make me move.

‘Robert Burrington? Robert Burrington? Matron Sedley? Alasdair Fletcher?’

Can the bats hear them, I wondered, oh, please let the bats hear them. But there was only the faintest rustling from that vast dangerous ceiling above me. The stretched man stood in the doorway and from him something wondered loudly once more, ‘Robert Burrington? Robert Burrington? Edith Bradshaw? Nobby?’

From another part of the room there was a new voice, ‘Freddie Turner.’

‘Robert Burrington?’

‘Freddie Turner!’

Something flew over my head, in the dim light I thought it to be a hobnail but surely it was some insect, and whatever it was flew directly at the long man. It hit the long man and as it hit there was a very slight ding, and the cry, ‘Freddie Turner!’

‘Robert Burrington!’ Much louder.

‘Freddie Turner?’ A whisper now.

‘Burrington!’

‘Freddie?’

‘Burrington!’

‘Fred …’ and then all was still again.

All except a sudden crying out from my bath plug.

‘James Henry Hayward! James Henry Hayward!’

My plug was calling to it! And in answer there was a great roaring from the doorway, ‘Robert Burrington! Robert Burrington!’

What happened next happened at such speed that I could only afterwards piece it together. When I looked back at the doorway, the long man was not there, the doorway was empty. I could not see him at first, but in my panic I moved backwards, scuttered backwards on hands and feet, as if I were an upturned beetle, my hands scrabbling in the bat drop, sliding a little in its chalky crumbliness, and, as I moved, up above me, as if a wind had suddenly blown through the attic, the ceiling began to fidget most urgently. I tried to get up but kept losing my footing and sliding back down, and then I saw the great long figure approaching fast.

The principal object held by the stretched man announced itself louder than ever before, as if the mouth of a volcano had just opened, or a cannon calling, a holler, ‘ROBERT BURRINGTON!’

There was a sudden definite smell of gas, and also of some tar, and then the stretched man lunged forward.

‘ROBERTROBERTEDITHMATRONEDWINMISSNO-BBYFLORENCEBURRINGTON!’

And all went suddenly and entirely dark.

I am dead.

I am dead now.

I am dead now, I thought.