He looked at her, finding it hard to believe, yet not able to dismiss her sincerity. ‘What was his goal?’

‘He told me that his goal was to finally lose all self – all individuality – and become part of the being of light that is at the centre of all existence.’

‘A state of nirvana?’

‘Exactly. A permanent state of grace, devoid of all earthly concerns and worries.’

‘He turns from a human into something like a tree?’

She smiled. ‘Not a bad analogy. He was explaining to me how he was going to become part of the energy from which all existence stems.’

Next to him he heard Des telling Emily about his wonderful birdie at the thirteenth hole. Jason tuned him out. ‘Does that mean you don’t fear death?’

‘I don’t fear death at all. Death is the beginning of our journey to enlightenment.’

‘That sounds very Buddhist, to me.’

‘Well, perhaps, except Buddhists believe in reincarnation. I don’t subscribe to that. I think we move on from here.’

‘And you find that comforting?’

‘Very.’ She raised her glass.

He raised his and clinked against hers. ‘Cheers.’ Then he turned to Emily and Des. ‘Hey, Happy Christmas, to all of us still on the earth plane!’

They all touched glasses again and drank.

His phone, which he had put on silent, vibrated in his pocket.

He pulled it out and looked at the display.

Despite Matt having assured him, a couple of days ago, that he reckoned he’d fixed the problem, there was another set of numbers on the display. This time just one row of digits.

And it looked like a countdown was in progress.

278137… 278136… 278135… 278134…

A countdown to what, he wondered? The number reduced by a single digit at what seemed to be exactly one-second intervals.

Were they connected to the ones he had seen previously?

Then, just as before, the numbers vanished.

Next time any digits appeared, he was going to try to write them down before they’d gone and then see if he could work out some kind of pattern – although he’d always been rubbish at maths.

‘You still with us, Jason?’ Des asked.

He looked up with a start. Emily, Louise and Des were all staring at him.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just a text from a client.’

He slipped his phone back in his pocket. Thinking. Baffled.

66

Wednesday 26 December

‘May I offer you a glass of prosecco?’ Claudette Penze-Weedell said.

‘Well,’ Jason replied, hesitantly, as he sat beside Emily on a white velour sofa. He would have preferred a large gin and tonic, or a whisky, or just about anything else. But the ghastly woman was already advancing towards them, with two sparkly pink-tinted glasses with gold stems, filled to the brim with a bubbly substance.

‘It was an absolute bargain, this fizz,’ she said. ‘On special offer – not that Maurice and I would ever buy something on price. But this is so delicious.’ She gave them a knowing look. ‘Simply kicks any champagne into touch, don’t you agree?’