Curiously, it was Mallory who tried to persuade Halliday to leave with them. Unlike Leonora, the still unresolved elements in his relationship with Halliday made him wish to keep in touch with the younger man.

‘Halliday, you’ll find it difficult staying on here.’ Mallory pointed across the river to the pall of darkness that hung like an immense wave over the town. Already the colours of the walls and streets had changed to the deep cyclamen of dusk. ‘The night is coming. Do you realize what that means?’

‘Of course, doctor. I’ve waited for it.’

‘But, Halliday…’ Mallory searched for a phrase. His tall figure, eyes hidden as ever by the dark glasses, looked up at Halliday across the steps of the hotel. ‘You aren’t an owl, or some damned desert cat. You’ve got to come to terms with this thing in the daylight.’

Giving up, Mallory went back to the car. He waved as they set off, reversing onto one of the dunes in a cloud of pink dust, but Halliday made no reply. He was watching Leonora Sully in the back seat with her canvas and easels, the stack of bizarre paintings that were echoes of her unseen dreams.

Whatever his feelings for Leonora, they were soon forgotten with his discovery a month later of a second beautiful neighbour at Columbine Sept Heures.

Half a mile to the north-east of Columbine, across the drained river, was an empty colonial mansion, once occupied by the manager of the refinery at the mouth of the river. As Halliday sat on his balcony on the seventh floor of the Oasis Hotel, trying to detect the imperceptible progress of the terminator, while the antique clocks around him ticked mechanically through the minutes and hours of their false days, he would notice the white faades of the house illuminated briefly in the reflected light of the sandstorms. Its terraces were covered with dust, and the columns of the loggia beside the swimming pool had toppled into the basin. Although only four hundred yards to the east of the hotel, the empty shell of the house seemed already within the approaching night.

Shortly before one of his attempts to sleep Halliday saw the headlamps of a car moving around the house. Its beams revealed a solitary figure who walked slowly up and down the terrace. Abandoning any pretence at sleep, Halliday climbed to the roof of the hotel, ten storeys above, and lay down on the suicide sill. A chauffeur was unloading suitcases from the car. The figure on the terrace, a tall woman in a black robe, walked with the random, uncertain movements of someone barely aware of what she was doing. After a few minutes the chauffeur took the woman by the arm, as if waking her from some kind of sleep.

Halliday watched from the roof, waiting for them to reappear. The strange tranceljke movements of this beautiful woman — already her dark hair and the pale nimbus of her face drifting like a lantern on the incoming dusk convinced him that she was the dark lamia of all his dreams — reminded Halliday of his own first strolls across the dunes to the river, the testing of ground unknown but familiar from his sleep.

When he went down to his suite he lay on the brocaded settee in the sitting room, surrounded by the landscapes of Delvaux and Ernst, and fell suddenly into a deep slumber. There he saw his first true dreams, of classical ruins under a midnight sky, where moonlit figures moved past each other in a city of the dead.

The dreams were to recur each time Halliday slept. He would wake on the settee by the picture window, the darkening floor of the desert below, aware of the dissolving boundaries between his inner and outer worlds. Already two of the clocks below the mantelpiece mirror had stopped. With their end he would at last be free of his former notions of time.

At the end of this week Halliday discovered that the woman slept at the same intervals as he did, going out to look at the desert as Halliday stepped onto his balcony. Although his solitary figure stood out clearly against the dawn sky behind the hotel the woman seemed not to notice him. Halliday watched the chauffeur drive the white Mercedes into the town. In his dark uniform he moved past the fading walls of the Fine Arts School like a shadow without form.

Halliday went down into the street and walked towards the dusk. Crossing the river, a drained Rubicon dividing his passive world at Columbine Sept Heures from the reality of the coming night, Halliday climbed the opposite bank past the wrecks of old cars and gasoline drums illuminated in the crepuscular light. As he neared the house the woman was walking among the sand-covered statuary in the garden, the crystals lying on the stone faces like the condensation of immense epochs of time.

Halliday hesitated by the low wall that encircled the house, waiting for the woman to look towards him. Her pale face, its high forehead rising above the dark glasses in some ways reminded him of Dr Mallory, the same screen that concealed a potent inner life. The fading light lingered among the angular planes of her temples as she searched the town for any signs of the Mercedes.

She was sitting in one of the chairs on the terrace when Halliday reached her, hands folded in the pockets of the silk robe so that only her pale face, with its marred beauty — the sunglasses seemed to shut it off like some inward night was exposed to him.

Halliday stood by the glass-topped table, uncertain how to introduce himself. ‘I’m staying at the Oasis — at Columbine Sept Heures,’ he began. ‘I saw you from the balcony.’ He pointed to the distant tower of the hotel, its cerise faade raised against the dimming air.

‘A neighbour?’ The woman nodded at this. ‘Thank you for calling on me. I’m Gabrielle Szabo. Are there many of you?’

‘No — they’ve gone. There were only two of them anyway, a doctor and a young woman painter, Leonora Sully — the landscape here suited her.’

‘Of course. A doctor, though?’ The woman had taken her hands from her robe. They lay in her lap like a pair of fragile doves. ‘What was he doing here?’

‘Nothing.’ Halliday wondered whether to sit down, but the woman made no attempt to offer him the other chair, as if she expected him to drift away as suddenly as he had arrived. ‘Now and then he helped me with my dreams.’

‘Dreams?’ She turned her head towards him, the light revealing the slightly hollowed contours above her eyes. ‘Are there dreams at Columbine Sept Heures, Mr—’

‘Halliday. There are dreams now. The night is coming.’

The woman nodded, raising her face to the violet-hued dusk. ‘I can feel it on my face — like a black sun. What do you dream about, Mr Halliday?’

Halliday almost blurted out the truth but with a shrug he said, ‘This and that. An old ruined town — you know, full of classical monuments. Anyway, I did last night…’ He smiled at this. ‘I still have some of the old clocks left. The others have stopped.’

Along the river a plume of gilded dust lifted from the road. The white Mercedes sped towards them.

‘Have you been to Leptis Magna, Mr Halliday?’

‘The Roman town? It’s by the coast, five miles from here. If you like, I’ll go with you.’

‘A good idea. This doctor you mentioned, Mr Halliday — where has he gone? My chauffeur… needs some treatment.’

Halliday hesitated. Something about the woman’s voice suggested that she might easily lose interest in him. Not wanting to compete with Mallory again, he answered, ‘To the north, I think; to the coast. He was leaving Africa. Is it urgent?’

Before she could reply Halliday was aware of the dark figure of the chauffeur, buttoned within his black uniform, standing a few yards behind him. Only a moment earlier the car had been a hundred yards down the road, but with an effort Halliday accepted this quantal jump in time. The chauffeur’s small face, with its sharp eyes and tight mouth, regarded Halliday without comment.

‘Gaston, this is Mr Halliday. He’s staying at one of the hotels at Columbine Sept Heures. Perhaps you could give him a lift to the river crossing.’