He listens. No more cries. Only that solitary one. From someone being tortured. And which had reached him through wall upon wall in the terror-stricken, helpless house.

It did come from there, however impossible it may seem, and you know it, Martin!

No, he replies, sick and tired, but alarmed. He has turned the light on yet again.

Anna, he thinks. A comforting, calming name to cling to when one cannot find rest.

He is in such a state that he feels he must see her immediately. He will have to go to her, however much he dislikes stepping outside the door.

The idea chivvies him. He gets up and puts on his clothes. His feet are slightly numb when he puts his full weight on them. It’s because of the storm.

Better go to Anna, he thinks, twisting open the many well-oiled bolts.

And then he is out in the bewitched house. There are passageways and doors in every direction. The dark side passages and the broad, empty corridors, brightly illuminated and furnished with pointing gilded arrows along the walls. The arrows are long and beautiful, and point inwards towards the centre. A heavy black roof arches above it all. Everything is hidden and everything is on guard. However quietly Martin may move, someone will hear him, and narrow cracks or silent peep-holes will open in the doors.

At that moment a choked cry comes from somewhere. Martin catches his breath. Somebody in front of him has heard it as well, and he too catches his breath. The two of them are standing beside a glaring lamp and their eyes meet fleetingly. The doomed cry is mirrored in them. They are too embarrassed to talk about it. If one of them had asked ‘Did you hear anything?’ the other would not have answered him. They have chosen to keep their distance.

A door opens and a head emerges.

‘Anything the matter?’

‘No,’ they reply, blindly.

The face in the doorway disappears; the door closes quietly; the well-oiled bolts slide back. That’s what this house is like. Martin walks on quickly. From one door that seems to be tight shut he can feel piercing eyes watching him. I ought to be inside, he thinks. This is no house for walking about in.

At the crossway the gilded arrows are pointing towards an inner core. But it is not in this corridor. The arrows merely point round another corner further on. And they do not end there either. Nobody sees where they end, they just point inwards. Nobody goes there, unless he has arrows on his clothes. All the others keep to the side passages. All kinds of activity go on in the side passages, muffled and camouflaged, but there.

Martin bumps into a man who is walking in the direction of the arrows and does not wish to be seen, for he halts, shamefaced, as if he does not know the way.

‘Are you familiar with this part?’ he asks, looking away.