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  I thanked him again and stepped out into the darkness.

  There’s something very disorienting about arriving in a strange place after dark and I’d criss-crossed England so many times over the last few days that my sense of direction was more tangled than a ball of wool after a couple of kittens had been at it.

  There was some sort of village green ahead of me so I skirted it, carrying my suddenly heavy suitcase. It felt strange to be travelling under my own steam, rather than sitting still while the scenery whizzed past of its own accord. And there was the silence too. Everything seemed very quiet. I suddenly missed the throbbing diesel engine of my bus.

  I struggled on, trying to keep my shoes dry, pulling up at the only three-storey building around the green. The windows were lit, giving it a welcoming appearance. The sign over the door read, appropriately, ‘Travellers’ Rest,’ and the outer door was open.

  I walked up the path, pushed open the inner door, stepped over the threshold, and knew at once that I had made the right decision. This was everything an exhausted traveller could possibly desire.

  A real fire crackled in a real fireplace, with three or four armchairs set invitingly around it. A low coffee table carried a selection of today’s newspapers, all carefully folded. A number of amateur watercolour landscapes hung around the walls. A tall bookcase was jammed with colourful paperbacks. In the corner, a small reception area had been built. It was empty at that moment, but someone had to be around because a very tempting smell was wafting into the room from behind a door marked ‘Kitchen Staff Only’.

  Some might have sneered at it but I thought the homely, slightly old-fashioned atmosphere was wonderfully welcoming. The whole place promised clean, lavender-smelling sheets, claw-footed enamel baths and home cooking. All of it exactly what I would have chosen for myself.

  I suspected there would be no TV in the bedroom and that while there might be a TV lounge, there was definitely no WiFi. I’m not one of those people who believe the government is watching us through our own electronics – although going on my past experience, I do suspect that one day I’m going to end up wearing a helmet made of tin foil to stop them listening to my thoughts – but at this moment, this lack of contact with the outside world was very reassuring. I was, to use an expression, at the arse end of nowhere and very happy to be so. I couldn’t run forever and it was time to rest and take stock. I had to run smart – not far.

  I let my suitcase fall with a thud. It was heavier than it had been when I set out to spend Christmas with Michael Jones and just before my life had fallen apart, but for the purposes of providing for the needs of a fugitive, it was pathetically inadequate. As it hit the highly-polished floor, however, the kitchen door opened and a woman came out.

  She was extremely tall and slender, wearing a severely cut black dress and jacket that emphasised her dark good looks and highlighted her pale blue eyes. I caught a glimpse of gold jewellery at her wrist and neck. She looked respectable and competent and fitted in perfectly with her surroundings. I felt a great relief. If the place had been awful I’d have been in real trouble, but it wasn’t – it was lovely.

  Her colour, a very striking combination of blue and turquoise with a little purple around the edges, swirled gently towards me.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, as if she’d been waiting for me, and I assumed she had seen the bus come in. ‘You’ll be wanting a room.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Certainly. For how long?’

  ‘I really don’t know how long I’ll be staying. Not for very long, I think.’

  ‘You’ll stay for New Year.’

  It wasn’t a question but I was too tired to notice. And it was warm in here. And something smelled delicious. And for all I knew I might be staying for New Year. Why not? I’d only been running since the day after Boxing Day and it seemed like forever. Another world ago. A normal world. A normal world that I’d once inhabited.

  I hadn’t played any major part in this normal world, but I’d been married to a wonderful man. His name was Ted and he hadn’t been handsome or dashing or exciting, but he’d been everything to me. We’d lived quietly because that was what we liked. He, because a quiet family life was all he ever wanted, and me, because I could use marriage to hide from the world and pretend to be normal.

  To Dr Philip Sorensen, the rather nasty man in charge of the Sorensen clinic, I was some kind of asset to be acquired. He’d kept me in his clinic, against my will, and I’d only escaped with the help of Michael Jones, who, it turned out, had his own agenda.

  I’d accepted his invitation to spend Christmas with him because I thought … well, never mind what I thought. Even now I cringed at what I’d thought. He was acting on instructions from Sorensen. They’d taken advantage of my absence to search my house and plant a number of surveillance devices. In my house. In my lovely little house where I was supposed to be safe.

  Every time I thought of it my mind filled with images of angry snow and I had to force myself to calm down, because I’d seen the damage that could do. I’d seen the sinister, swirling snow that could consume us all.

  Anyway, that was Sorensen – keen to avail himself of my talent. I, on the other hand, was really rather keen not to be availed of. Hence the flight from my home, my world, everything. And now I was here.

  She moved around behind the desk. ‘Have you come far?’

  Paranoia kicked in again. Why would she want to know that? Her colour curled around her, gentle and welcoming. Soft tendrils reached out towards me, but I told myself this was only the natural curiosity of a proprietor ensuring her latest guest wasn’t a homicidal maniac or escaped criminal. Or, in my case, avoiding sinister government agents. The question was simply a polite enquiry and I should pull myself together and answer it.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and then wondered if she would wonder at someone who had obviously been on the road for some time, only to arrive at an obscure village in the middle of nowhere, so I lied. I was doing that a lot these days.

  ‘I missed my train, caught another I thought was going in the right direction – which it was – but it didn’t stop at my station so I jumped off at the next stop, tried my luck with a bus and somehow ended up here. And now I seem to have been travelling for ever and I’m very tired.’

  She smiled sympathetically and pulled out the register. ‘Well, I’m sure we can help with that.’ She opened the book and I studied her as she flipped through the pages.

  ‘We have three rooms,’ she said.

  ‘Is anyone else staying here?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We don’t normally have guests at this time of year.’

  I remembered the backpacker on the bus. ‘There was someone who came in on the same bus as me.’

  ‘Oh yes. A dark girl. With an enormous backpack.’

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  ‘Ah, that will be Joanna. She always makes an effort to be here at this time. We all do.’

  For a moment, her colour flickered. Only for a moment and then it was gone. I had imagined it. I put it down to tiredness.

  She handed me my key. ‘Room Three. It’s at the front and you’ll have a nice view out over the green.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll bring your case up for you.’

  The room was lovely – everything I could possibly want. It was all done out in shades of creamy yellow and pale blue. Like everything else it looked slightly dated but very clean and comfortable. Two long sash windows looked out over the green. She drew the curtains, shutting out the rainy night.

  ‘You won’t be able to see them until the morning, but your room looks out over the Three Sisters.’

  ‘Does it?’ I said, politely.

  She laughed. ‘You haven’t heard of our main attraction then?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The Three Sisters – our group of standing stones?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Well, we’re not Avebury or t
he Devil’s Arrows, but we’re very proud of them anyway. Legend says they were here long before the village was built. Three women lived here, all alone until one day one of them became sick or injured or something, and a passing man tended her. Why he was in this out of the way spot, who he was, or where he was going is unknown, of course.’

  She was bustling around the room and turning down the bed.

  ‘Anyway, he stayed. He provided for them and they provided for him. It’s been that way ever since.’

  She wasn’t quite telling the truth but I assumed this would be the tourist version. The nice version. The one that omitted blood, pagan rites and sacrifices.

  ‘They’re fine examples of prehistoric menhirs and popular with sightseers. We get quite a lot of visitors in the summer.’

  ‘But not at this time of year, I imagine.’

  ‘Oh no, not at this time of year.’ Her colour had brightened as she talked about the stones.

  ‘They must be very good for business.’

  ‘Indeed they are. We look after the stones and they look after us. As it has always been.’

  She showed me the small bathroom with towels laid out ready. I might never leave this place. I could have a bath, swill out my underwear, change into nightclothes and sleep. Comfortably. In a bed. I felt sleep tugging at my eyelids. I was nearly dead on my feet.

  ‘You look so tired,’ she said kindly. ‘Why don’t you have a bath and we’ll serve your supper in your room. You’re our only guest so it won’t be a problem. Shall I get Becky to bring it up in say, thirty minutes?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘We want you to be comfortable.’

  I made myself ask politely. ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, laying my key on the bedside table, ‘there’s the three of us. My name is Veronica, Veronica Harlow. Becky, my daughter, you’ll meet later, and my mother, Miriam Harlow, who isn’t too well at the moment, and is staying in her room.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She shrugged. ‘She’s had a long life. And she’s said to me, more than once, that she’s ready to go. I often think we know our own time, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, uncomfortable. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘Young people never do.’ Her colour reached out towards me again. I stepped back and went to open my suitcase, hoping she would take the hint, which she did.

  I had a bath, luxuriating in the warm water. I would have liked to take longer, but mindful of Becky bringing up my supper, I climbed out very reluctantly and put on my pyjamas and dressing gown. My room was gently lit and warm. This time yesterday I’d been on a train, hurtling towards yet another unknown destination. Tonight, I was warm and safe. I sat in the armchair and curled my legs around me.

  I hadn’t realised I was so tired. I looked at the jumble of clothes in my suitcase. I’d sort it all out tomorrow. There was plenty of time. I’d stay a few days and gather my resources before … before what? Where was I going to go? I couldn’t run forever. I had money but it wouldn’t last indefinitely and the second I shoved my card in the cash machine they’d know where I was. I couldn’t find somewhere permanent to live without getting a job. And I couldn’t get a job without an address. Or an NI number. I know there are people who live off the grid – and very successfully, too – but I wasn’t one of them. I wouldn’t know where to begin.

  All my doubts and fears came rushing back again, threatening to overwhelm me. I pushed them away. I was tired. That was all. There would be a solution somewhere. There always was. All I had to do was find it.

  Becky brought up my supper. I disliked her immediately and it was mutual.

  I was astonished that someone as physically and mentally dominating as Veronica Harlow should have such a small, spindly and insignificant daughter. Unlike her mother, whose long, thick, black hair was swept up in an elegant bun, Becky’s was thin and mousy and hung around her face. Her eyes were so pale as to be unnerving. I looked at her and thought – weak, but resentful with it. Her colour was the same as her mother’s, but more muted, and trembling around the edges, with just a hint of modern orange. Did our Becky have a rebellious streak? She certainly wasn’t happy about something and for some reason, that resentment seemed to be focused on me. I wondered if perhaps she’d planned a night out and the sudden arrival of an unexpected guest had put paid to that.

  The food was excellent. Cream of mushroom soup, lamb chops and lemon tart. There was a slightly old-fashioned feel to the menu and the crockery, but it was all delicious.

  I fell asleep ten minutes after finishing my meal. I just had time to leave the tray outside, lock the door, climb into the soft, warm bed and that was it.

  I dreamed and it frightened me.

  Reality ripped itself apart in a maelstrom of blood and death and suddenly there were two alternatives. In one, I died. Jones died. Sorensen died. Everyone died. Crushed beneath the white silence of the angry snow.

  In the other reality, the world did not end. Everyone lived. Everything survived. Everything except for the slow-growing trust I was beginning to feel for Michael Jones. That did not survive. As if from a great height, I saw myself running. As far and as fast as I could. That had been only three … no four days ago and now I didn’t know where I was or what to do. I was a swirling snowflake, lost in the storm.

  And then I was awake.

  The sheets were tangled and the bed was hot. Throwing back the covers, I slipped out of bed and went to the window for some fresh air. I drew back the curtains. The rain had stopped and the night was clear and bright and I was looking at a monochrome landscape. Moonlight painted the frosty grass a sparkling silver. The same moonlight cast three impossibly long black shadows. I craned my neck but couldn’t make out the cause. Only the long shadows they threw. The famous Three Sisters, I guessed.

  I fumbled with the catch but the window wouldn’t open. I left it because I didn’t want my rattlings to disturb anyone at this hour. Wandering into the bathroom, I ran myself a glass of water. Then I straightened the bed, climbed in and went back to sleep.

  I knew I’d missed breakfast the minute I opened my eyes. Weak winter sun streamed in through the windows because I’d left the curtains open. Yesterday’s rain had not returned and today was a new day.

  I showered and slowly dressed. I should be sorting out my clothes. I should be planning to move on. There were so many things I should be doing and I was so tired. More tired even than yesterday.

  There was no one downstairs. I wondered if Becky was at school but of course, it was still the Christmas holidays. I was losing track of time. The fire was freshly lit and today’s papers lay unread, but I wanted some fresh air. I pulled my coat around me and stepped outside.

  The first thing I saw was the Three Sisters and they were impressive. I wandered across the grass to see them up close.

  This was not a stone circle. These were menhirs, three solitary stones standing in a tight group. The central stone was massive, over twenty feet high, a solid, unbroken slab, black against the blue sky, thick and strong, dominating the group.

  The left-hand stone was shorter, thicker and lighter in colour, and it was damaged. A large crack ran down from one corner. The stones were roped off, presumably in case a lump fell off on someone, but I stepped back anyway. It looked as if it could come down at any moment.

  The third stone was small and slender. Almost a baby stone.

  I stared absently at them, trying to imagine how the world had been when they were young. Because they weren’t young now. They were rugged, lichen covered monuments that looked as if they had been here since the dawn of time. They stood before me, sleeping and silent in the chilly sunshine.

  And then, suddenly and without warning, they weren’t. They had opened their eyes. They were awake and I was the focus of their interest. Their will. I was looking at the stones and the stones were looking right back at me. They reared
above me, dark and dangerous, drawing me in. I could feel the attraction. Involuntarily, I took a step backwards. I’ve been to Stonehenge. I’ve seen the stones there. Massive and impressive, but lifeless. There had never been anything like this. This deep, intense interest.

  It was frightening. I stepped back again, feeling the need to keep a distance between us. This country is riddled with ancient stones everywhere. Some standing in groups, others solitary and alone. All of them silent. Switched off, you might say. Or so I’d thought. I shivered. Suppose a monument the size of Avebury suddenly switched itself back on. What would happen? Thousands – hundreds of thousands of people visit these sites every year. Suppose one day the stones woke up. Woke up and lashed out.

  I made myself take another step back and the feelings were gone. They were just three ancient stones standing motionless and mute in the sunshine, as they had done for millennia.

  I decided to leave them to it.

  The village green was ringed by tiny cottages, each with its own front garden. Immaculate grass verges were edged with staddle stones to keep the cars off. Not that there were any cars in sight anywhere. In fact, the only sign of modernity that I could see was the bus stop outside the pub, which itself was imaginatively named The Three Sisters.

  I walked slowly around the green, admiring the cottages and enjoying the sunshine. I walked past the combined village shop and post office, miraculously still open in these days of rural closures. Just the other side of that was the village hall, stone built and neat. The building was set back from the road behind a clipped privet hedge, but the notice board informed me there was a lot on these days. The Mothers and Toddlers group met Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. Yoga classes were held on Tuesday mornings, step aerobics on Thursday evenings and watercolour classes on Friday afternoons. I couldn’t help reflecting that even the village hall enjoyed a fuller and more active social life than I did.