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kept squeezing, disconnected from his grief. Then he closed the bathroom door, locked the flat, and drove very slowly away.
    He stayed in bed for three days.
    The third and last person he told about his visions worked out of a small shop off High Street in between a discount luggage store and a bakery. A hinged shingle proclaimed ‘Madam Sydel - Readings, Seeings’.
    She was a wizened lady, brown and twisted as the trunk of some hardy Mediterranean tree, her wildly dyed hair sown with glazed beads. When she reached under her scalp and scratched purposefully, Nicholas realised it was a wig. Still scratching, she led him into a parlour lined with tasselled silks and smelling of incense and burnt hair. She sat him down and took his hand.
    He jumped straight into business: ‘I see ghosts.’
    ‘Oh? How much do you charge?’
    Nicholas went home, picked up the phone, and bought his airline ticket out of Britain.

    The day before he stepped in the cab for Heathrow, he had woken to a rain as light as steam drifting from the sky. By mid-morning, when he reached the cemetery in Newham, the sun was having a tug-of-war with the clouds and was creating small diamonds on the roses and willows.
    Nicholas sat heavily beside Cate’s grave.
    He looked at her headstone and a felt a swirl of guilt. It was black and angular and Cate would have hated it. ‘Like something by Albert Speer,’ she’d have said. Her parents had done the choosing. Nicholas remembered the typed, formally worded letter asking him for nine thousand pounds for the funeral, grave lease and a ‘lovely service where the council plants spring and summer flowers on the grave’. He read the gold-lettered epitaph for the hundredth time.
    In God’s loving arms .
    Was it true? There was no sense of her here. No feeling that she lay below him. No feeling that she watched from above. The air was cool for summer, and, with the rain drying, felt empty and fleeting. Was she trapped in the silent playback going on and on in the echoing little bathroom in Ealing? Was she gone completely, the spark in her brain extinguished and her with it?
    In God’s loving arms.
    ‘I’m going,’ he whispered.
    He waited. For a sign. For a whisper of wind. For anything that said she heard him and wanted him to stay.
    The willows held themselves silent. A car with a sports muffler rutted past on the North Boundary Road. Nothing.
    Nicholas got to his feet and left.

    Three days later, a hemisphere away, he lay on his little sister’s childhood bed, listening to rain crash down in an endless, dark wave.
    And now he was home.
    But home with what? A ring wedding him to a dead woman. A few thousand pounds. A couple of niceish Ben Sherman shirts.
    Seventeen years. Nothing.
    And his mother, what had happened there? No new man. Same house. Twenty new teapots. Nothing.
    Rain. Faces. The dead. Trees.
    DANG DONG.
    The doorbell: a bakelite mechanical thing that rang two tuneless notes, one as you pressed in the smooth worn button, the other as you released it.
    Nicholas blinked and picked up his watch from the pink bedside table. It was nearly two in the morning.
    DANG DONG.
    ‘Mum?’ he called.
    He swung his legs out of bed, sat up.
    DANG DONG.
    ‘Coming!’
    As he passed his mother’s bedroom door, he heard hefty snores befitting a circus strong man.
    ‘Why don’t I get it?’ he suggested to no one.
    Down the hall. By old habit his fingers found and clicked the switch for the outside light. He swung open the front door.
    Two police officers in slicks waited on the stoop. One was big and dark-haired and stood closest to do the talking. The other, bigger and with fair hair, waited behind, ready to bend the cast-iron handrail or uproot a tree to prevent escape.
    ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the dark-haired officer. Nicholas dubbed him ‘Fossey’ in his mind. ‘Sorry to disturb your sleep. We’re going door to door seeking information about a young boy who’s gone missing.’
    On cue,