‘Sometimes you have to dig deep. At other times, all you have to do is brush away a single layer of dust. That’s all.’

‘Still with the lessons, Jack?’

‘You look like you need it.’ Collingworth managed a smile.

A moment passed.

Then he said, ‘The second bedroom. There’s a whole bunch of stuff in there. And an old projector. It still works.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you can’t take the film away.’

‘No, no. Of course not. I’ll watch it there. Is that OK?’

‘Go on. But I won’t join yer. Too painful.’

Hobbes felt awkward about leaving the room, about wandering around the flat unattended, but needs must. The second bedroom was tiny, filled with unwanted furniture and piles of books and magazines. A collection of films rested on a shelf, mainly Super 8 and 16-millimetre. Their boxes were marked with titles: Georgie, 7 yrs old; Brighton holiday 1955; Georgie, first day at grammar school; George playing football, 1961. Hobbes chose the final film in the row. He turned to the projector, which sat on a raised stand, and slotted the spool on to the empty spindle. He tried to thread the film through the machine, but couldn’t quite work it out. A voice called, ‘Christ, but you’re hopeless. Here, let me, before you break something.’ Collingworth was standing in the doorway. He took over the projector, while Hobbes closed the curtains at the window. The screen was already in place, against the far wall. Hobbes waited. He had viewed a few scenes of the film, those that involved George Collingworth, at Jack’s behest, but that was a long time ago. Nineteen years! He didn’t have a clue what he was going to see, or even if his assumptions were valid.

And then the film started, its monochrome images darkening the beam of light, spilling on to the screen like ink on water.

The Spell Makers

A film by Nick Greaves

Yes. This was it! That name. Directed by, written by, produced by. Hobbes gasped. The truth might now unfurl, unspool right before his eyes in fluttering pictures, in shades of grey, in the forms and faces of the young men and women who moved and danced and kissed and argued and even came to blows on the screen. But the imagery was cut-up, back to front, non-linear. It was like something by Godard, for Christ’s sake! Was it a deliberate ploy on the director’s part, to fragment reality in this way, to make a point about life … or was it a series of fumbling accidents? But all the viewer had to do was concentrate. Try to make it come together, to make sense in the mind. Because Hobbes knew that somewhere in this chaos lay a hidden truth.

There were four main characters, all young, teenagers or early twenties: one boy, three girls. Siblings. Their parents seen only now and then. They all lived in a rambling old house called Leigh Park Manor. Hobbes remembered that name from somewhere, and the name of the on-screen family: Parnell.