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remained, captured in the bed, in the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, in the carpet, in the ornaments on the dressing table, in the very walls of the house. There still seemed to be an impression in the mattress, an indentation where he would have slept. She looked around the room, realised there were no female artefacts, nothing to suggest a woman's touch. There were no dresses in the wardrobe, no brushes or make-up on the table, no beauty accoutrements like a hairdryer or crimpers or rollers or stylers. Nothing in the room suggested a woman’s presence.
    Puzzled, she walked out and headed to the guest bedroom. As she opened the door, the smell of sickly sweet perfume greeted her. She guessed this must have been where Melantha slept. Cupboards were open and empty; drawers were likewise devoid of clothes and personal items. The sheets from the unmade bed lay coiled like a snake on the ground.
    She walked around the room, hugging herself against the cold chill that blew through the partially opened window.
    About to leave the room, she noticed the charred remains of a letter screwed into a ball on the dressing table. She reached out to pick it up, and a sudden gust blew through the room and the door slammed shut, making her jump. The charred pieces of paper took flight like a flock of dark birds and flew around the room. Verity stood with her mouth open.
    After a while, the charred remains came to roost all over the ground.
     She shook her head, picked up the ball of paper, and unfolded it, the charred edges crumbling between her fingers. She could make out words, but apart from the words Trinity and Derbyshire, they weren't words she recognised. They looked foreign.
    Without really thinking about it, she put the paper in her purse and hurriedly left the room. Although it used to be her home, the house now felt alien, uninviting and cold, and she didn't want to stay any longer than necessary.
    She walked out of the house and then wandered around the garden to see if she could find anyone, but the place seemed deserted. She couldn't understand why the house was unlocked with no one here.
    In the back garden, she stood and looked at the house, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed movement in an upstairs window, a face, peering down at her, but then she realised it was just the reflection of a crow, circling lazily in the sky.
    Verity clucked her tongue, and then headed towards the station. There was nothing left for her here but memories.
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 7
     
    Zen trudged along the side of the road, his attempt at hitching a lift so far unsuccessful. If anything, the drivers took one look at him and went faster, probably afraid he might car-jack them if they went any slower.
    To make matters worse, a cold wind gusted. He hugged himself, elbows tight to his sides as he blew into his cupped hands to get some feeling back into his fingers.
    This damn odyssey seemed stupid, but he needed to get away – somewhere they couldn’t find him. He’d seen many strange things before, usually while under narcotic influence, but presently stone cold sober and drug free, things didn't get any freakier than when nightmares invaded reality.
    Not for the first time, he wondered whether he was having flashbacks, narcotic epilepsy, but deep down he knew he wasn't. It was too real, the people in that hellish world too corporeal to conjure from a fervid imagination.
    He spat on the ground and rolled himself a cigarette. He meant to pack in smoking, but there was no chance of that now. He needed nicotine like people needed oxygen.
    He absently wondered where his parents were. The last he’d heard, they were travelling the hippy trails through India, with the intention of heading to Angkor Wat, the ruined city in the jungles of Cambodia where they believed they would find their enlightenment.
    Before that, it had been the Inca town in the shadow of Machu Picchu in the mountains of Peru. And before that Stonehenge (he liked to