There was no sign of the other sister. Or of the mother, Mary Estelle. Perhaps she had had trouble getting away from the old people’s home.

The priest finished the service and the coffin was lowered into the ground.

The woman moved away first. There seemed to be little connection between the three mourners: they had not spoken at all, or made any bodily contact. The grandson left next, following her. Nicholas remained for a while longer, looking down into the grave, and then he, too, walked away, taking a different path from the other two.

Hobbes went over to the grave.

The wooden cross was temporary, a simple affair.

Leonard Graves

1896–1981

Eighty-five. A good innings. But he couldn’t help thinking of the last such marker he’d seen, a week and a half ago, scrawled in black ink on a cellar wall. No dates on that one, only the woman’s name, Adeline, and the usual comfort of R.I.P. Was it heartfelt? he wondered. Did they really want her to rest in peace? He couldn’t get the idea out of his mind, of a victim lying hidden somewhere, in secret, decaying or decayed.

Hobbes turned away and walked back towards the car. As he did so, an absurd little ditty came into his mind.

Graves in his grave. Grave Mr Graves, in his grave.

On this grave day, grave Mr Graves in a grave lay gravely …

And then he stopped.

A woman stood a little way off, looking right at him. She was young, still in her teens, with long black hair parted neatly in the middle. She had taken off her raincoat and was holding it over her arm. It was an odd thing to do, on such a cold day.

Hobbes knew there was something familiar about her straight away.

She was wearing a blue and yellow dress: a blue background with yellow flowers.

It was the exact same style as the ones laid out in the Graves household.

He walked quickly towards her, but she saw him coming and stepped back. One of her hands rose to her face. Yet still he followed her, conscious that he was acting strangely, even threateningly, but he couldn’t stop, not now. He called to her: ‘Hello there.’

She paid him no attention, moving into a grove of trees. Her shape flitted between the trunks and branches, a flash of blue here and there. He couldn’t help thinking of Alice in Wonderland, hurrying from one adventure to another, the strangeness of the everyday.

Hobbes reached the trees and entered the shadows.

She was nowhere to be seen.

He stood where he was, listening, listening …

All was still.

The last of the raindrops fell from the branches.

A single bird sang a few bittersweet notes, and fell silent.

He heard a twig snap.

To his right.

He followed the sound, deeper into the trees. They were planted thickly here, and soon he reached the high wall that surrounded Richmond Cemetery and had to turn back. For a moment, he thought that two people moved ahead of him, quite separately. But both vanished at the same time: an illusion of some kind. He moved on at a pace, hoping to catch a true sight of the young woman. But soon he came out of the grove and stood at its edge. He had reached another area of the grounds, one with many old tombs set closely together, a tumble of stones draped in moss and ferns.