‘She’s not your friend, Ruth. She might mean something to you, but you’re nothing to her.’

‘Where’s the picture? Abberton—what have you done with it? Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Do you believe what Waterhouse said? That my memory’s inventing things that haven’t happened?’ He starts to come towards me. ‘If it hasn’t happened, it’s not a memory. Do you think it’s possible to see the future?’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘A clear image—like a photo, or a film—of something that hasn’t happened yet but is going to happen.’

‘No! Stop it! You’re scaring me.’

‘Me strangling that bitch Trelease—putting my hands round her throat and squeezing . . .’

‘Don’t.’ I back away from him. He looks determined and, at the same time, terribly afraid. Like a man walking into a fire.

‘They say she’s alive. You say she’s alive. Maybe you’re all right. If you’re right, then what I’m seeing in my head can’t be the past. What if I haven’t killed her, but I’m going to?’

‘Aidan, don’t do this,’ I beg, putting my arms round him. He’s rigid, like stone. ‘What you’re saying’s not possible.’

‘Abberton,’ he mutters. ‘It’s part of a series. She hasn’t done them all yet—maybe only that one, the first. But she’ll do more. I can tell you how many there are going to be: nine. I can tell you what their names will be.’ He pushes me out of the way, pulls the lid off a blue marker pen and starts to write on the side of a cardboard poster tube. He reads aloud as he writes, like someone in a trance. ‘Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow, Goundry, Heathcote, Margerison, Rodwell, Winduss.’

I stare at him, wondering who he is, who he’s turning into. He’s sane. When I told Charlie Zailer that, I believed it. ‘Aidan, you’re making no sense,’ I say shakily.

He grips my arm. ‘Go back to Megson Crescent,’ he whispers, his face close to mine. ‘If it’s the future, it can change. It has to change. Tell her not to do the other paintings—make her stop. Tell her to get out of Spilling and go somewhere I won’t find her . . .’

‘Stop it!’ I scream. ‘Let go of me! It’s not true. It’s not possible to see the future! Why won’t you tell me the truth?’

‘Why won’t you tell me the truth? What happened at Hansard’s gallery that made you leave? What happened between you and her? You’ve never told me, not really. You want to know what I’ve done with Abberton? You want to know where I’m going when I walk out of here now? Tell me the story!’

‘There’s nothing to tell!’ I sob. No questions; we agreed. Does he remember how we used to be, how easily we understood each other?

He pushes me away as if he can’t stand to touch me any more, and heads for the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out. Alone in the workshop, I lock the door and turn off all the lights. I huddle in the corner by the electric heater and whisper to myself, ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ as if by saying it I can make it true.