The boy at the head of the gang shouted at the girl, waving at her, pointing at her, shooing her. An idea formed in Francis's head that he could help her. He could be a hero - a real hero. The notion amused him.
Francis walked towards the group of children as they began to take aim with their stones. He had expected them to scatter as he approached, but they seemed far less intimidated by him than they were by the girl.
'Leave her alone,.' said Francis as he approached.
They looked blankly at him and Francis looked away to the girl and smiled in an effort to comfort her. When he looked back at the children, the boy who seemed to lead them was holding a large knife and jabbing the air between them. The ferocity of this small boy fascinated him. Francis cocked his head, peering at him, then he turned his back on the boy and began to walk towards the girl, who, infuriatingly, began to run as he approached her.
Francis chased the girl out into the flat rubble-strewn desert. Each time he was about to catch up with her, she put on another burst of speed, until he started to become annoyed. The sun hammered down mercilessly and Francis's eyes were stinging with salty sweat.
'I'm not going to hurt you,.' he said, gasping, taken aback by the pleading tone of his own voice.
'I want to help you.'
As he strained to put one last breathless effort into catching her, he stood on a stone, stumbled, twisting his ankle painfully, and came to a panting halt. The girl stopped too. She turned and looked at him from under her heavy eyebrows. A voice sounded behind Francis and he turned round.
A long way off, standing between them and the village, was the gang of children who had been attacking the girl. Their leader was shouting at Francis and waving at him, shouting words he did not understand, though he could tell they were not complimentary.
There was something ridiculous about this little boy, made even smaller by perspective, goading Francis and beckoning him to come back. Francis smiled and limped over towards the girl, who now made no effort to run away. The children began to stoop down and pick up stones. Francis could see the sunlight glint on the boy's knife, but he felt no fear.
'You needn't be afraid,.' he said. 'They won't hurt you while I'm here.' For the first time, the girl's expression seemed to lighten as her frown dissolved and she looked up. Francis basked in the glow of his good deed.
Arthur Weybridge had stopped drawing and, wondering where Francis was, had strolled through the village, up on to a small hill that shelved away sharply towards the desert.
What a magical place it was. The faint sound of children shouting was all that disturbed the tranquillity and he was struck by the contrast with how things had seemed when they had first come here. The memory of that attempted visit came back with sudden clarity - not just the commotion over the unfortunate death, but the remarkable fact that he had distinctly heard someone in the crowd utter the word 'jinn'. Did these people really believe in genies? Then something caught his eye and, squinting into the blazing sunlight, he was shocked to see Francis some way off. He was not alone.
Arthur Weybridge tried to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. What on earth was Francis doing out there? Did he not realise how hot it was? And just exactly who or what was that with him? Why could he not focus on them? And what were those children shouting and waving about so hysterically? A strange dread began to come over Arthur. The word jinn flashed unbidden into his mind once more.
When he had first heard the word, it had summoned up an Arabian Nights image of a genie in a bottle. But Arthur knew there were other jinn; there were evil jinn: there were the faithless shaitan, the shape-shifting ghul - ghoul, as we have come to call it - haunter of graveyards and barren places.
Arthur's eyes widened in horror and he began to run. The group of children were screaming as he passed them. One had a knife. He ran on, desperately trying to reach his son, shouting his name over and over.
Francis heard his father's calls but chose to ignore them. Whatever it was would have to wait. There was something about this urchin girl that intrigued him. People were seldom of any interest whatsoever to Francis, and yet this girl was different in some way.
Francis looked down and smiled at her and she smiled back: a wide smile, her lips parting, her mouth filled with shining white teeth. But they were the small, sharp teeth of a lizard.
Francis's body was lying on its back when Arthur reached it, one arm over his face as if to defend himself, a dark and cruel redness shimmering horribly at his throat. The thing that Arthur had chased away had dissolved into the heat haze: one moment animal, the next a girl, the next a woman, then an animal once more; then nothing at all.
Mr Weybridge stooped down and picked his son up and staggered back towards the village, humming gently to himself as he walked. The children who stood nearby parted to let him through, their heads bowed.
I took a deep breath, realising that I must have been holding my breath for some time and stood up a little more abruptly than I had intended. I walked back to where the drawing was hanging by the door.
'So this must be . . .' I began.
'Yes,.' said my uncle. 'That is the drawing Arthur was doing when Francis went to meet his fate. It was the last drawing Arthur ever did, actually. He blamed himself for Francis's death and punished himself by depriving himself of his only real pleasure in life.'
'How sad,.' I said.
'Indeed,.' said Uncle Montague.
As I looked back at the drawing I noticed something. Standing in the shadow of one of the buildings was a figure - a small figure dressed in rags.
I was about to call my uncle to point out this discovery, when a curious thing happened. The figure seemed to shimmer as if the ink were still wet and then ooze into the rest of the drawing.
I blinked, amazed at this illusion of the firelight, or my overheated imagination, or both, and stared long and hard, trying to tempt the drawing to change again, but of course it did not and I returned to my chair by the fire.
'Did you see her?' said my uncle, gazing into the flames.
'Who?' I said, looking back at the drawing.
'Never mind,.' said Uncle Montague. 'More tea?'
'Thank you, Uncle,.' I said, returning to my chair.
'When you said -'
'Have you no desire to travel, Edgar?' interrupted Uncle Montague.
'Of course, sir,.' I answered. 'I should like to travel very much.' Though the truth of it was, any desire I had previously entertained about visiting the land of the Turks had entirely evaporated. Just at that moment there was a noise above our heads, a noise that sounded like footsteps running from one corner of the room to the other.
I stared at the ceiling and Uncle Montague slowly did likewise. The sound of footsteps gave way to a shuffling, sliding sound, which seemed to centre on a rather large crack in the plaster.
'That noise, Uncle?' I said, still staring at the ceiling.
'It is an old house, Edgar,.' he said, looking into the fire. 'It is full of noises.'
'But surely there is someone up there, Uncle?' I said. 'Are you not curious to know who it is?'
'No,.' said Uncle Montague. 'No, I am not. I know who it is.'
I assumed by this comment that my uncle meant it was Franz, as of course it must have been. What is more, I had the distinct impression he was eavesdropping on our conversation. I even wondered if he could see us through that wide black crack in the plaster. My uncle seemed unconcerned and did not turn away from the fireplace.
'I wonder what he is doing up there,.' I mused.
Uncle Montague nodded in a thoughtful way. He seemed lost in looking at something on the mantelpiece. I followed his gaze and saw a small photograph. My uncle noticed my interest and handed the photograph to me.
I was surprised to find that it was a wedding photograph. It seemed rather sentimental for my uncle, and certainly out of keeping with the rest of the objects in the room. Perhaps it would provide me with some insight into my uncle's state of mind.
Looking closer I saw that the wedding couple was a rather unpleasant-looking man with huge side whiskers and a deathly pale woman who seemed too ill to stand, and who sat smiling weakly. There was a strange smudge nearby - some sort of stain on the photograph. I looked back at my uncle.
'Weddings, Edgar,.' he said. 'They are grisly affairs, are they not?'
I had to agree, having suffered some interminable examples myself, during which I was forced to talk for hours to dreary aunts and uncles.
'Give me a funeral over a wedding any day,.' said Uncle Montague with a sigh. 'The conversation is almost always superior.'
'Are they relatives, sir?' I asked.
'Not of mine,.' he said. 'Or yours for that matter.'
'Friends perhaps, sir?' I ventured.
Uncle Montague shook his head.
'No, Edgar. I do not keep the photograph for sentimental reasons, I'm afraid, if that is what you were hoping. GO AWAY!'
I recoiled as if from a gunshot. There was a confusion of scuffling noises on the ceiling followed by retreating footsteps. The echoing of the old house gave the illusion of several pairs of feet running away at great speed. Once I had recovered from the shock I smiled to myself at the thought of Franz's panic.
'You may not be surprised to hear that there is a story attached to the photograph, Edgar.'
'May I hear it, sir?' I asked.
'Of course, dear boy,.' he said. 'Of course.'
Victoria Harcourt stood on the lawn, spread out like the green baize of a billiard table. She was the unenthusiastic guest at a wedding between distant cousins. It was a sultry August day, the air thick and heavy like an invisible eiderdown. The lake beyond the lawn was still and dark.
The service had been a dreadful bore and the reception was no improvement. Victoria's parents inhabited the less wealthy branches of the Harcourt family tree and were always keen to mix with their more affluent relatives. Victoria stood self-consciously in her tired, unfashionable clothes and hated every second.
The wedding guests milled about beside a marquee while their children inhabited the garden. Her mother gave her encouraging nods in the direction of the other girls - cousins she had encountered all too often at similar events.
Victoria sighed and stomped towards the huddle of girls, all dressed in white and looking like a spray of carnations. An older cousin she particularly loathed, called Emily, was at the centre of the group, speaking in intense hushed tones. Victoria craned forward to hear.
'You know this place is haunted?' she whispered. The smaller girls in the group gazed open-eyed and looked to their older sisters for comfort. Emily let the effect of her words spread through the group and then continued.
'A famous murderer lived here,.' she said. 'They hanged him and everything.'
'Gosh, Em,.' said one of the girls. 'Is that true?'
'Of course it's true,.' hissed Emily. 'Are you calling me a liar, Annabel?'
'No, Em, I . . .'
'Well, then,.' she continued. 'It is true. You ask anybody. Bartholomew Garnet, his name was. He was evil, they say - pure evil. They hanged him at Newgate in London. Papa told me all about it.'
'And the house is really haunted?' asked one of the smaller girls tremulously.
Emily nodded. 'As true as I'm standing here.'
'Have you seen the ghost, Em?'
'No,.' she said. 'But lots of people -'
Suddenly there was flash of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. The storyteller nearly jumped off the ground in panic and Victoria giggled. Emily glared at her. Rain began to fall in big, lazy drops, and then in a torrent that sent the ladies shrieking into the marquee, holding on to their hats.
'I say,.' said Emily, recovering her demeanour and exchanging a sly look with her sister. 'Let's play hide-and-seek in the house.' Emily's sister grinned.
'But what about the ghost?' asked one of the girls.
'That will just make it all the more exciting!' said Emily. 'We'll play in teams of two,.' she added bossily. 'Come on, Liz,.' she said to her sister. 'We'll be "it". We'll count to a hundred in the library.'
The girls ran giggling for the house, leaving Victoria alone. She had seen Emily wink and knew they had done it on purpose to get away from her. If there was one thing worse than having to play with her dreadful cousins, it was those same cousins refusing to let her play. Victoria looked away towards the lake, the rain pelting the surface.
She was about to trudge back to her mother, when she noticed a thin girl a little younger than herself who had likewise been left behind. She was dressed even more drably and unfashionably than Victoria.
Victoria smiled. In those few short seconds, rain had already soaked the girl's clothes and was running down her face, dripping from her nose and chin. The girl smiled back and shook the water from her hair. Victoria would never normally have even considered talking to such a creature, but on this occasion she thought she might be useful.
'We ought to get out of the rain,.' said Victoria.
'Rain?' said the girl, as if she had not noticed before.
Victoria laughed.
'Yes, rain,.' she said. 'You're soaked.' Victoria realised she too was getting drenched as the downpour increased in intensity. She ran into the house and stood in the hallway. The girl followed, leaving drips and puddled footprints.
'What's your name?' said Victoria, wiping her face with her hands.
'Margaret,.' said the girl.
'I'm Victoria. I suppose we're cousins,.' said Victoria. 'Everybody here seems to be my cousin.'
'Yes,.' said the girl.
'You're nothing to do with Emily, are you?' asked Victoria, peering at her. Margaret shook her head.
'Good,.' said Victoria. 'I hate her. She is such a . . . such a . . .' Victoria could not find a word sufficient for her feelings. 'I hate her.' Margaret smiled and nodded. 'Let's be a team and play hide-and-seek,. ' said Victoria suddenly. Emily and her sister could be heard counting in the distance. They were already up to seventy-four.
'I'd like that,.' said Margaret.
'Come on,.' said Victoria, making for the stairs. 'Let's hide upstairs. There's bound to be somewhere up there.'
The two girls ran upstairs. Victoria had never been in this house before, but she had been in many like it. They all seemed horribly familiar in their scale and decor - all so much bigger and grander than her own house.
The first two places Victoria tried to hide were both taken and she was shoved and hissed away. She stood in the corridor, looking right and left, not knowing where to go next, when Margaret suggested they go to the door at the end.
When Victoria opened the door, she realised that it must be the master bedroom and wondered if they ought not to go somewhere else. But they could hear Emily and Elizabeth on the stairs, shouting, 'Coming, ready or not!' and Margaret had found the perfect hiding place: a huge blanket chest by the window.
Victoria lifted the lid and smiled when she saw it was empty. Margaret climbed in, and Victoria climbed in after her, closing the lid behind them as Emily came clumping down the corridor and found two of the cousins who had hidden behind the curtains near the landing.
The chest was huge. There was ample room for the two girls to sit, though they did have to bow forward a little awkwardly. Victoria's neck was already beginning to ache, but she was buoyed by the thought that she might get one up on the awful Emily.
'They'll never find us here,.' whispered Victoria.
'No,.' said Margaret and giggled.
'Shhh,.' said Victoria, but then she giggled herself. 'Emily talks such rot,.' she said eventually. 'I bet she's never been here before in her life. She always has to pretend she knows something about every- thing. Did you see the look on her face when the lightning flashed?' She giggled again. 'I wish he really was wandering about the house - that murderer who was supposed to live here . . .'
'Don't say that,.' said Margaret.