'Not in the least,' I said.

'Well, then,' Uncle Mo said, as though it was therefore all settled.

I nodded. 'Well, I can see it might be a good idea to go away for a while, but I'd like to think about it.'

Allan nodded. 'Good idea; sleep on it.'

'Jolly good!' Uncle Mo said.

Erin glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece behind Allan's desk. 'Well, it's late,' she said.

We all agreed it was late, and time for bed.  As we left the room I took another look at the desk by the door where I'd seen the list of names and addresses earlier, but the desk had been tidied and was bare of paper,

After we'd all left the study, Allan locked the door behind us.

I lay in my hammock in my room in the farmhouse, my mouth dry, my hands sweating and my heart thumping.  I had waited in a state of increasing dread and excitement for what I hoped was about two hours, but now I had to act, and I felt as nervous as I think I've ever felt in my life.

'God,' I whispered into the darkness. 'Forgive me and help me in what I'm going to do.'

I still had not heard the Voice.  I knew that God was still there, still talking - or at least able to talk - to me if only I could calm my troubled soul.  I was not sure there was any point in asking God for help - They do not tend to interfere at such a level of events - but if it kept Them trying to talk to me, perhaps I would hear something that might help me over the course of the next hour or so.  It could do no harm.

My Grandfather once compared the Voice of God speaking to a human soul to the reflection of the moon on water; if the water is perfectly calm, the moon is seen clearly, undistorted.  If the waters of the soul are slightly disturbed, the moon will still be visible and recognisable, but it will seem to move and shiver and it may not be possible to make out any features upon it.  If the waters of the soul are in torment, tossing stormily about, then the moon's single bright face will be broken into a million sparkling points of light, casting up a meaningless clutter of scattered light which an observer might not even be able to identify as moonlight.

Well, the surface of my soul just then was riven and agitated indeed, and I should not have been surprised that I could not detect the Voice.  Still, I felt the loss keenly, and one petulant, childish part of me interpreted it as just another abandonment.  I sighed.

'Here goes,' I whispered (though not, this time, really to the Creator), and got up.

I dressed, used my penknife to cut an inch of candle, then pocketed the knife, the stub of candle and a box of matches.  I had a pencil and a sheet of paper in another pocket.  I put on an old flat cap I hadn't worn since I was about fourteen - it was slightly too small for me but that meant it wasn't likely to fall off, and it did cover my fair hair quite effectively.  I put my ear to the door, listening, but could hear nobody about.  I left the room and went to the toilet; I had meant to, using the noise of the flush to cover my footsteps heading further along the corridor, but in the event I would have had to have gone anyway, so affected by my trepidation had my entire system become.

I knew from long experience where each and every loose floorboard was along the corridor, and could avoid them easily even in the total darkness.  On the stairs I hugged the sides of the steps, and near the bottom - to avoid five noisy stairs without the noise created by jumping - I slid down the banister rail.  The farm's back door is in the old kitchen, now used as a washroom; it has the quietest door.  I closed it gently behind me, and was out into the cool night and the smell of freshly moist foliage, the south-facing greenhouse to one side.  The sky was three-quarters clouded and the wind smelled damp, but the rain held off.

I kept near the wall as I crept away, heading north, clockwise round the buildings of the Community, round the outside of the orchard.  I climbed over a wall into the formal garden behind the mansion house, glanced up at the sky and hid behind a bush.  The moon came out from behind the clouds for a few moments and let me see the route ahead.  As the darkness returned I padded along the grass beside the path until I got to the dark bulk of the house.

The blocks of sandstone which line each window space of the house have little horizontal notches cut into their top and bottom edges, creating a channel it is possible to wedge fingers and the welts of boots into.  I climbed until I could reach the window-ledge of the storeroom behind the office, then hauled myself up and kneeled on the narrow shelf of stone, pulling out my penknife.  I slid the blade up between the top and bottom parts of the sash and felt it connect with the window catch.  Bless us for our happy indifference to security.

The bottom section of the window proved reluctant to move; the top slid down easily enough, however, and I stepped over and was inside.  I pushed the window back up; it made a tiny squeak and a faint rumbling noise at the same time, but was probably not audible outside the room.

The storeroom's curtains hadn't been drawn, but the minuscule amount of light coming from outside wasn't enough to give me any idea of the room's layout, though I knew roughly where the door to the office must be and had the vaguest impression out of the corner of my eye of bulky, shadowy shapes.  I crossed to the door, walking backwards, slowly.  My left leg collided with something on my second step; I felt down and around and sidled past what felt like a desk.  I bumped into another couple of obstacles with my calves, and hoped my shins were appreciating such thoughtfulness.  Then my bottom connected softly with a shelf, which I felt wobble.  There was a faint rattling sound from above and I grimaced, hunching instinctively and putting a hand over my cap, waiting for something to fall on my head.  The rattling subsided; I relaxed and felt along to the door which led to the office.

I didn't imagine it would be locked like the door from the office to the corridor but it did occur to me it might be, and then what was I to do?  I got down on all fours to look under the door and make sure there was no light coming from the office beyond.  The door was not locked; it swung open.  The office was even darker than the storeroom, the curtains drawn over the tall bay windows.  I closed the storeroom door, took out my inch of candle and lit it, quickly waving the match out.

I went over to the desk by the door.  The drawers were locked.  I ground my teeth, screaming curses inside my head.  I looked around the desk.  There was a recessed handle above the top right-hand drawer; I pulled it out to reveal a shallow plastic tray whose various compartments held pencils, pens, paper-clips and rubber bands.  In one small compartment there were two keys.  I offered up a silent prayer of thanks, pointless or not.

Each key opened all the drawers on one side of the desk.  There were various bundles of unused envelopes, a box of typing paper and a cardboard folder of carbon paper; in one deep drawer there were lots more cardboard folders, many of them stuffed with what looked like correspondence, and in another drawer there was a promising-looking bundle of loose papers.  I set the candle on top of the typewriter case and started going through all the various papers and folders.

Footsteps.  On the stairs, coming down.

I froze.  Instantly, I realised I should have opened one drawer at a time, not left them all out and open.  I started stuffing the folders and papers back into what I hoped were the right drawers in a frenzy of silent desperation, feeling my hands shake and my guts clench.

Somebody was at the door.  I slid the drawers back in as quickly as I dared, once again howling imprecations at myself inside my head.  One drawer stuck momentarily.  I pulled it back out and slid it back in at a slightly different angle, my whole body quivering with fear.