But no. This was not his business, not this part. Despite all his talk about ghosts and the paranormal, he was a child of the century. Its prejudices were his, more than he knew. Psychology. Science. Materialism. He could understand only with the understanding of his age. No. It would have been wrong—it would have been sinful under the circumstances of his illness—for her to enlist him against an enemy he could not possibly comprehend. The burden of the Uncanny was hers.

There are few who work the work of wonder. She was one. For others, there could be skepticism or belief; there could be credos, sciences, religions; theories or philosophies; politics; a point of view. For her, there was only ever this slow, steady tramp into the dark, and the narrative trail it left behind. If this should be the end for her—if help did not arrive, if the barkeep should call time and send her out into the street alone—then she would go in the fullness of unknowing. And so she would go whenever time was called. Because unknowing was her nature, the first rule of her game. The burden of the Uncanny was hers.

In the event, however, just as the clock struck eleven, Bernard wafted in. Heavy-lidded, foggy-eyed, he stepped, as if by magic, out of the gent’s lavatory. Robert the barkeep started. But Bernard only waggled his fingers at him as his willowy form drifted past like smoke.

He settled into the seat across from Harper. Harper sniffed at him.

“Hmph,” she said, so that her Guinness rippled.“You reek of your perversities.” She really had been frightened, and her heart was hammering now. “Also you’re drunk—or whatever it is you get.”

He made a listless gesture of indifference. Sat slumped in his black windbreaker and jeans with his legs splayed under the table, his trainers towards the flames. His shaven head shone in the firelight. “Also, I’m here—which you should be bloody thankful for,” he said. “How many of them are there outside—twenty-seven?”

“Three that I’ve seen so far.”

“I had to slither through the toilet window like a snake. No offense, darling, but in your case, I don’t think so. What were you planning to do, handbag your way home?”

“All right, all right, I’m glad to see you.” Her heartbeat was slowing down again. “If nothing else, I’m gratified by this evidence of our mystic nexus. You seem somehow to have sensed my troubles telepathically …”

“Yes, they came to me as in a dream,” he said. “I had just called in for my messages, when suddenly I heard a strangled muttering followed by a curse with two old geezers talking football in the background. A mental image formed—I saw before me an idiosyncratic Luddite incompetently attempting to communicate with my answering machine from a local pub. I thought it might be you.”

“Ah.”

“Time!” called the barman.