The door creaked as I went through.  I paused.  I could hear music, and then a man's voice, distorted and professionally cheery, then more music.  I went on, and found another couple of rooms with names on them, looking to the front of the house.

The first one I looked at said 'Mrs Asis'.  I looked around, gave the gentlest of knocks for form's sake, then slowly opened the door and stepped into the darkened room.

It was bigger than Miss Carlisle's.  I saw two single beds and worried that Zhobelia might be sharing; that would complicate matters.  I need not have worried initially; there was nobody in the room.  I was wondering what to do when I heard slow footsteps and two voices approaching.

There were two wardrobes.  I opened one to find it almost full; trying to squeeze myself and my kit-bag in would probably take minutes and cause a commotion anyway.  The other was locked.  I tried the nearest bed; it was solid underneath, with drawers.  The voices were at the door now.  I pulled up the cover on the second bed.  Bliss!  It was an old iron-framed thing.  Plenty of room.  I pushed a plastic chamberpot out of the way and disappeared underneath five seconds or so before I heard the door open.  The carpet under the bed smelled of old dust and - very faintly - of vomit.

'I don't want to go to bed, horrible child,' said a voice that I thought I recognised; a curious feeling - half familiar, half dizzyingly novel - ran through me.

'Now, Mrs Asis.  Ye've got tae get yer beauty sleep, haven't ye?'

'I'm not beautiful, I'm old and ugly.  Don't be stupid.  You're very stupid.  Why are you putting me to bed now?  What's wrong with you?  It's not even dark yet.'

'Aye it is; look.'

'That's just the curtains.'

The light clicked on. 'There ye are, that's better now, isn't it?  Will we get ye tae yer bed now, eh?'

'I am not a child.  You are the child.  I should have stayed with the white man.  He wouldn't treat me like this.  How can they do this to me?'

'Now now, Mrs Asis.  Come on.  Let's get that cardie off.'

'Ach…' There followed a stream of what might have been Gaelic or Khalmakistani or a mixture of both.  I have heard that there are no real swear-words in Gaelic, so from the sound and force of the utterances directed at the unfortunate lass either Zhobelia was making up her own or she was speaking the language of her ancestors.

I stopped listening after a while, not so much from boredom but because I was having to concentrate very hard not to sneeze.  I pushed my tongue forcefully into the top of my mouth and forced one finger hard up underneath my nose until the pain alone brought tears to my eyes.  This worked, as usual, but it was a close-run thing.

Eventually Zhobelia was installed in the other bed and the girl bade her goodnight, turned off the light and closed the door.  Zhobelia muttered away to herself in the darkness.

I was now left with the ticklish problem of how to let my great-aunt know there was somebody there in the room with her without either giving her a heart attack or causing her to scream blue murder at the top of her lungs.

In the event, the dilemma was taken out of my hands by my own lungs, or my nose, anyway.  The urge to sneeze returned, more powerfully this time.  I tried to prevent it, but to no avail.

I kept my mouth shut and closed my throat with my tongue, so that the sneeze back-fired, repulsed into my lungs.  Despite my attempts to silence my sneeze, however, it was still loud.

Zhobelia's mutterings stopped abruptly.

CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

A charged, uneasy silence hung in the air.

Zhobelia mumbled something.

'Great-aunt Zhobelia?' I said quietly.

She muttered something else.

'Great-aunt?' I said.

'… I am, I'm hearing voices now,' she muttered. 'Oh no.'

'Great-aunt, it's me; Isis.  Your grand-niece.'

'I'm going to die.  That must be it.  Hearing little Isis.  It'll be her next, then him.'

'Great-aunt, you're not hearing voices.'

'Now they're lying to me, telling me I'm not hearing them.  What have I done to deserve this?'

'Great-aunt-'

'Sounds like Calli, not Isis.  Just a child.  It'll be them next:  Aasni and then the white man.  I wonder what they'll say?'

'Please, Great-aunt Zhobelia; it really is me.  It's Isis.  I'm under the other bed.  I'm going to come out now; please don't be alarmed.'

'No, it's still her.  That's funny.  I thought dying would be different…'

I got slowly out from under the bed on the far side, so that I wouldn't suddenly emerge right in front of her.  I stood.  The room was dark.  I could just make out the dark masses of the furniture, and sense my great-aunt's bulk in the divan bed.

'Great-aunt; over here,' I whispered.

I sensed movement at the head of her bed, and heard skin or hair move on fabric. 'Oooh,' she breathed. 'Oooh!  I can see it now.  It's a ghost.'

Ye Gods, it was like being Miss Carlisle's Johnny again. 'I am not a ghost, Great-aunt.  It's Isis.  I'm really here.  I am not a ghost.'

'Now the ghost is saying it's not a ghost.  Whatever next?'

'Great-aunt!' I said, raising my voice in frustration. 'For goodness' sake; will you listen?  I am not a ghost!'

'Oh dear.  I've upset it.  Oh no.'

'Oh, Great-aunt, please; listen to me!' I said, stopping at the foot of the other bed. 'It's Isis.  Your grand-niece; I've come here from the Community at High Easter Offerance.  I have to talk to you.  I am as human as you are and not a supernatural apparition.'

There was a silence.  Then she muttered something in what I suspected was Khalmakistani.  Then, in English: 'You're not little Isis.  She's just… little.'

Oh, good grief. 'Grand-aunt, I am nineteen years old now.  The last time you saw me I was little.  But I'm not any more; I am a fully grown woman.'

'Are you sure?'

'What?'

'You're not a ghost?'

'No.  I mean, yes, I'm sure I'm not a ghost.  I am real.  I would like to talk with you, if you don't mind.  I'm sorry I had to hide in here in order to get to see you, but the young lady would not let me in….  May I talk with you?'

'Talk with me?'

'Please.  May I?'

'Hmm,' she said.  I sensed her moving. 'Touch my hand.'

I moved forward, then squatted near the bed and put out my hand, eventually finding her hand.  It felt warm and small.  The skin was loose and very soft and smooth.

'Oh,' she whispered. 'You're warm!'

'See?  Not a ghost.'

'Yes.  I see.  You're not a ghost, are you?'

'No.  I'm real.  I'm Isis.'

'Little Isis.'

'Not little any more.' I stood up, slowly, still holding her hand, then squatted again.

'Are you really Isis?'

'Yes.  Isis Whit.  I was born on the twenty-ninth of February, nineteen seventy-six.  My mother was Alice Cristofiori, my father was Christopher Whit.  My brother's first name is Allan.  You are my Great-aunt Zhobelia Asis; your sister was Aasni, who…' I had been going to say, 'who died in the fire that killed my parents', but I thought the better of saying that, and after a moment's hesitation said, '… who was my paternal grandmother.'

She was silent.

'Believe me now?' I asked, squeezing her hand gently.

'I think so.  Why are you here?  Have they sent you away too?  I thought here was only for old people.'

'Well, yes, I suppose I have been sent away, but not to here.  I came here to see you.'

'You did?  That was very nice of you.  Mohammed comes to see me sometimes, but not very often.  He drinks, you know.  The girls have been; Calli and Astar.  And the Glasgow ones; they talk the old language.  I can't understand them, usually.  I keep telling them they must talk slower but they don't listen.  People never listen, you know.  Especially young people.'