He was reminded of something. Something he'd read a long time ago. Norse mythology was it? No, druidic. The Nwyrve, that was it. Twelve serpent lines that were said to encircle the Earth. What could look more like a serpent than that?
Curiosity again. He had to follow the lines further. He couldn't leave halfway through a mystery.
He tracked them from above, keeping to the cloud line, shadowing their sinuous progress, the two lines twining and separating, never quite touching and never drifting more than a half mile apart.
He increased his speed, focussing on the point where the lines touched the horizon and sucking it towards him. The ground streaked beneath him. Speed beyond dreams. And then . . .
What was that?
He slowed. The light had intensified. A ball of light on the horizon. Like the first rays of a rising sun. But not the sun. That had already risen. And was that another line? Streaking in from the right. And another from the left? Four lines? Did they meet at that crescendo of light?
He accelerated, watching the ball of light grow—it was where the lines met, he could see that now. And something else, at the intersection, its features obscured by the brilliant wash of light.
He slowed again, dropping down from cloud height. It looked like a brightly lit roundabout at the intersection of two major roads. A circular rim of pulsing light connected to each of the—he counted—six lines that fed into the intersection. The twin line separating again and continuing its journey on the far side of the junction, the single line crossing it at right angles. It was amazing.
And now he came closer he could see other lights—dots—forming an avenue that flanked the twin line's approach. He dropped lower still, aiming for tree height but unable to make out any trees—the light from the lines was bleaching out every other feature.
He dropped as low as he dared, looking along the lines now, looking at the dots in profile. They weren't dots any more but rectangles and the intersection, it wasn't a circle but a rim raised off the ground on . . . stilts?
Or were they stones? Large, luminous, irregular . . .
A stone circle!
His eyes took in everything at once. Standing stones, everywhere, glowing, flanking the twin lines approach and holding up the rim of light. Or were they marking its position?
He flew closer. There was a gap. The rim of light was hovering above the stones, not touching. And the stones, though luminous were several magnitudes of brightness dimmer than the lines. Not that that diminished their effect. They were magnificent. Fifteen to twenty feet high in the ring and only slightly smaller along the avenue. And these were no hazy images of the physical world, no ghostly spectres but sharp and fast like the lines themselves.
The lines had to be leys. With a stone circle at their intersection what more proof did he need?
His mind raced. There were so many ramifications. So many things to comprehend all at once. This had to be proof that ancient man knew how to separate mind from body. The stones were markers. They had to be. Markers that some ancient architect had erected to delineate the site, to glorify, to map, to mirror the way the energy lines circled the intersection.
And which stone circle was this? There were so many.
He started to circle the site, trying to tune out the lines and the stones, peering into the bleached featureless gaps in between. It didn't look like Stonehenge.
But it did look inviting. And the more he looked at that perfect rim of light the less natural it looked. It was too regular. The ley lines swung and bucked their way across the countryside but this . . . this looked machine perfect. And it shone. More white than yellow and pulsing faster.
He climbed and swung over to a position directly above the centre of the circle. A perfect circle, a hundred metres at least in diameter, without a kink or a curve out of true. Could it have been manufactured? Who could have manufactured it and why?
He descended into the centre of the circle, all around him the light pulsed and . . . was that a sound? Something crackling, something humming, the air suddenly electric, the light hypnotic.
And there was something else in the circle, if he tuned out the glare of the lights, he could make out other shapes. A physical world of grass and roads and . . . was that a car? Something flashed by. Something large and red. And then another. He drifted closer, peering through the glare. It was a car. He was standing in the middle of a road. A road passing through a stone circle. How bizarre. Was it real or was he looking through some kind of portal to somewhere else?
And then he remembered. Avebury! The main road ran straight through the stone circle. He knew where he was.
And how to return to the clinic. He'd driven the route many times before, it was practically on the way between Oxford and the clinic.
He paused, one last lingering look around the circle. He'd come back when all this was over. With his imagers, with everything. Conduct a proper investigation.
And then he was flying—ducking under the dazzling rim and following the road south. Accelerating—by car, the journey would have taken him an hour and a half—this time it would take minutes.
He ate the miles, swinging left and right around bends, fixing his mind on the road up ahead or a distant car and pulling it towards him. Only slowing when searching for his next turn, not caring about speed cameras or police cars.
Or gates. He veered off the road the moment he recognised the hazy outline of the rectory against the skyline, swooping low over the neighbouring field before hurdling the clinic wall. Almost there. Only the window to negotiate. The one at the end above the garage.
He stopped, hovering for a second above the window ledge before stretching inside. The light level dropped immediately and the world shrank. His infinite up down, left right, all around vision constrained by the room's walls.
He floated towards the bed, wondering what to do next. Would his mind be sucked back inside his body as soon as he moved close enough? Or had that possibility disappeared the moment he snapped the membrane?
He hovered above his chest, waiting. What if he'd been away too long? What if there was a time limit? Reconnect within four minutes or you're brain dead?
Panic. He didn't look dead. But he didn't look alive either. He looked asleep. His eyes were closed . . . but was he breathing? He couldn't tell if it was breath lifting his chest up and down or the heat haze that passed for sight in this realm.
And why hadn't he considered this before he separated?
Not the time for recriminations. Concentrate! What did the literature say? All those accounts of out-of-body experiences. Something about the top of the head? A hole in the top of the head that drew you down and sucked you inside?
He moved closer, along his face towards the hairline. Should he feel something now? A tug? Or was that what the membrane was for? His ex-membrane flapping limp in the ether.
Nothing. He was practically touching his scalp. How close did he have to get? Did he have to . . .
The room sharpened into reality. Objects took shape, sound everywhere—birds, a tractor, a barking dog—and feeling, he could feel his clothes, the slight breath of air against his skin as he moved his face, his hands . . .
He had to tell Louise. He threw back the quilt, grabbed his jeans, a T-shirt, and . . . fell over, rolling over onto his back while struggling to push the other leg into his jeans. Why did it always happen when he was in a hurry?
He flew into the hall, his smile so wide it almost wedged in the doorway. He tried the kitchen first then the bathroom. Where was she? He ran down the hallway and banged on her door.
"Lou!"
No answer. He turned the knob, threw open the door. "Lou, you'll never believe . . ."
He stopped. The room was empty. She'd gone.
Louise checked the mirror. Was she far enough away yet? She'd driven close to thirty miles.
She pulled over onto a grass verge and took a deep breath. Time to phone. She couldn't face another night like last night. Not with those dreams, every one of them filled with slaughtered animals and grinning maniacs. If she didn't phone home in the next hour she'd explode.
She tapped in Karen's number. She should have finished the feeding by now. If anything terrible had happened Karen would have heard.
"Karen!" said Louise, interrupting as soon as she heard her friend's voice. "It's me, Louise. How are the animals?"
"Louise! How are you? Oh, they're fine. We've moved them all now except for Jasper. But how are you? Are you all right? Running off like that!"
"I'm fine. I'll explain later—why couldn't you move Jasper?"
"Need you ask? Jane needs another day to check the fences in that old paddock of hers. You know how she is about animals escaping."
"But Jasper's okay? You've seen him this morning?"
Louise couldn't bear to think of anything happening to Jasper. The donkey had been her first rescue case.
"He's fine." Karen laughed. "I took him some carrots for breakfast. Made his day. Oh, and I almost forgot, I met your brother."
"My brother?"
"Yes. Is it family problems? He looked worried. Really put out to have missed you."
"What did he look like?"
"Your brother?" She hesitated. "Fine, I suppose. Worried but . . . Is there something wrong? Why do you want to know what your brother looked like?"
"Because I don't have a brother, Karen."
Louise split into two people. The one on the phone, calm and asking all the pertinent questions; and the one inside, dissolving.
"Oh! Oh dear!" said Karen, flustered, her voice rising. "What's happening, Lou? Are you in trouble?"
"What did he look like?" Louise repeated. She had to stay calm; she had to keep Karen calm. "Was he short, tall, what?"
"I don't know. I . . . average I suppose."
"What about his age? How old was he?"
Louise held her breath. How old was Pendennis? He looked about nineteen.
"About our age?" said Karen without conviction. "Maybe a bit older. Late-thirties maybe?"
Relief. No one could describe Pendennis as late-thirties.
"Who is he, Lou? An old boyfriend?"
"No idea. Did he say what he wanted?"
Karen breathed heavily into the phone. "He . . . he just appeared in your yard. I'd just topped up Jasper's water when . . ."
Karen stopped talking.
"When what, Karen?"
"Oh, I'm so stupid! He called me Louise. That's the first thing he said. I should have realised, shouldn't I. Oh, sorry, Lou. I shouldn't have been taken in like that. It's not as though we're alike, is it? Oh God, it's nothing to do with . . . you know, is it?"
"No, it's not," said Louise, quickly burying the subject. They were talking over an open line and she'd already got enough people in trouble without adding to her tally. "What exactly did he say, Karen?"
Louise could hear Karen fighting to compose herself, her voice trembling, her sentences punctuated by large intakes of breath.
"Something about . . . being sorry he missed you. Did I know where you were? When were you coming back? And something about a professor. Chubb, Stubbs, something like that."
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. I didn't know anything to tell."
"Did he say if he was coming back?"
"No, he just turned and left. Like I said, he looked upset."
Or angry. Insane-copycat-killer angry. Louise fought to hold herself together. Couldn't there be an innocent explanation? A reporter following up on the Framlingham murder?
"Do you want me to call the police, Lou?"
"No!" Louise almost shouted the word into the phone. Not the police. Not yet. "Only if he comes back," she continued. "And tell the others. Don't answer your door to any strangers. Understand?"
"You're frightening me, Lou. What's happening?"
"I wish I knew."
Louise disconnected the phone and slumped back in her seat. She was shaking. What had she gotten herself into? What had she gotten her friends into?
And then she was driving. She had to get away fast. People could be monitoring her phone. And she had things to do. Shopping for one. If she was going to be holed up at that rectory for any length of time she'd need fresh fruit and vegetables and some proper cleaning materials. The kitchen was a mess. The cupboards, the drawers, the fridge. And she'd need to stock up now before her face hit the headlines.
She found a market on the way back, parked outside the monitored zone, tucked her hair inside the hood of her coat and pulled the drawstrings tight. No one would recognise her now. All anyone would see was an ageless woman wrapped up against the cold. She pulled on her gloves. Not even a fingerprint would be left.
Nick started at the noise. Someone was running upstairs. Louise?
They reached the top of the stairs at the same time. "Where have you been?" he asked as she pushed past him into the kitchen. "I've been going crazy . . ." He paused in disbelief. She was weighed down with four heavy shopping bags. "Have you been shopping?"
He couldn't believe it. There was enough tinned food in the kitchen to feed them for weeks.
"We've got a problem," she said hoisting the bags onto the kitchen table.
"Someone saw you?" He was incredulous. Had the woman lost her mind? After all they'd gone through yesterday avoiding cameras. The detours, the about-turns. She'd compromised everything. And for what? French bread and some oranges as far as he could see.
Louise took a deep breath. "No one saw me. It's worse. Someone turned up at the farm this morning pretending to be my brother."
"How," he paused, not believing what he was hearing. "Please tell me you haven't driven home." He glanced towards the stairs, panic building. Had someone followed her back?
"It's all right," she said, starting to unpack. "I phoned. And before you shout at me I drove to the outskirts of Exeter. If anyone monitored the call they'd never trace it back here."
Nick felt like arguing the point but was curious.