With a portion of the truth I said “I wanted to find out what you might be subjecting yourself to.”

“Me and Bell, you mean.” When I mutely allowed that she could be included Roy said “So did you?”

“I think it’s a thoroughly unpleasant place, and I wouldn’t want any part of it.”

“But your aunt did, Patrick.”

“It didn’t do her any good, did it? I can’t recall a painting of anywhere like it.”

“I know which one it must have been, dad. Where all the sleeping bags are dancing in the street at night.”

“They weren’t here then, Roy,” Bella said. “How about her painting where the cars on the motorway are escaping the traffic jam by driving into the sky?”

“I don’t see much of a connection,” I said.

“Perhaps that’s because you’re not an artist, Patrick.”

“You’re saying you are.”

“No, I’m—” She closed her eyes while she shook her head. “You’ve already heard me say what I am.”

Some of Roy’s resentment might have been provoked by how I’d apparently inhibited her. “Are you giving us a lift, dad?”

“I thought you didn’t want one.”

“You can as long as you’re around.” With no increase of enthusiasm he said “Unless you want to leave us here.”

“Let’s get away by all means,” I said.

I started the car as soon as the doors were locked, while my passengers were fastening their seat belts. I was driving under the motorway when the radio let out a mutter. Had I left it on or switched it on without realising? “Cross,” it mumbled, unless this was a distorted fragment of the presenter’s name, and I could have fancied that it added “Inadvertent,” not a welcome comment just now. As I made sure the radio was turned off, a face whose outline swarmed with symbols peered at me from beneath the motorway, and then it did so from a second pillar. I felt not just watched but threatened with some hindrance all the way to the homeward ramp. I sped onto the motorway, wishing the traffic would let me go faster. We’d travelled less than a mile when Roy said “Can we have some music on for Bell?”

I felt uneasy as I poked the button. I’d had enough of several words, and wasn’t anxious to revive them. The strains of an opera came as a considerable relief. “It’s Orpheus,” Bella said at once. “Even older than Handel.”

“How old’s that?” Roy said, which I thought was a bid to contribute.

“Nearly as old as anyone here,” Bella said with a laugh and a nudge. “Listen and you’ll hear her brought back from the dead.”