Nothing. Nothing she could hear or see. And yet … And yet, the silence had a quality of motion. The emptiness, the blackness had a life. She could feel it, in the prickpoints of her skin, in the warp of her nerves. He was still there. He was stalking, circling around her. Closing in on her. There were shuffling footfalls on the stone—she could hear them. Coming towards her. He was closer with every moment. Gripping that curved knife she had seen in the jungle. Lifting it. She could hear the swishing upswing of the blade.

“Jacob!” she cried again, in terror this time, her voice trembling. The dragon stick fell from her slack fingers. It clattered on the stones. She grabbed her satchel, yanked it open. Drove her hand in, fumbling around. What a mess. She felt her glasses case. Her compact. A lipstick. Some tissues. Some receipts. Her keys. Half a Twix bar. Then her matches—she found them—she seized the box. Drew it out, the satchel dropping free on its strap. She heard herself panting as she fumbled for a stick. She struck it on her thumb. Again, there was the blinding flame. The shadows scrambling like rats. The round of the church. The staring heads on every side. The stone bodies of the knights at her feet. The long nave. The far altar, the faint glow of stained glass above …

But empty, all of it, otherwise. The entire place. Utterly empty. Except for her.

“Crikey,” she whispered.

And she grabbed her stick and got the hell out of there.

8

Weary, weary, weary, she reached home. Hung up her hat, her cape. Climbed the stairs. She had to rest halfway, her hand upon the banister, her head against the wall. Then she climbed on.

She reached the third floor landing. Paused again. Peeked in through Bernard’s half-opened door. She watched the factotum sleeping for a moment. She allowed an unwonted expression of tenderness to cross her face.

Bernard had placed a bottle of Gilbey’s by his bed. He had filled his room with marijuana smoke and left a pile of snuffed-out roaches in the ashtray. It was childish of him; he confessed as much to himself. But it was such a rare thing for him to sleep in his own bed that he feared it would betray how worried he had been for her, how frightened he had been.