'It's not bad,' he replied, taking another swig of wine. 'Promotion to a better or new part is always there if you are diligent enough and hang out at the Character Exchange. I miss having a family — that must be good.'

'My mum is a hoot,' I told him, 'and Dad doesn't exist — he's a time-travelling knight errant — don't laugh — and I have two brothers. They both live in Swindon. One's a priest and the other—'

'Is what?'

I felt confused again. It was probably the wine. I looked at my hand.

'I don't know what he does. We haven't spoken in years.'

There was another flashback, this time of the Crimea.

'This bottle's empty,' I muttered, trying to pour it.

'You have to take the cork out first,' observed Arnold. 'Allow me.'

He fumbled with the corkscrew and drew the cork after a lot of effort. I think he was drunk. Some people have no restraint.

'What do you think of the Well?' he asked.

'It's all right,' I replied. 'Life here is pretty good for an Outlander. No bills to pay, the weather is always good and, best of all, no Goliath, SpecOps or my mother's cooking.'

'SpecOps can cook?'

I giggled stupidly and so did he. Within a few seconds we had both collapsed in hysterics. I hadn't laughed like this for ages.

The laughter stopped.

'What were we giggling about?' asked Arnold.

'I don't know.'

And we collapsed in hysterics again.

I recovered and took another swig of wine.

'Do you dance?'

Arnie looked startled for a moment.

'Of course.'

I took him by the hand and led him through into the living room, found a record and put it on the turntable. I placed my hands on his shoulders and he placed his hands on my waist. It felt odd and somehow wrong but I was past caring. I had lost a good friend that day and deserved a little unwinding.

The music began and we swayed to the rhythm. I had danced a lot in the past, which must have been with Filbert, I suppose.

'You dance well for someone with one leg, Arnie.'

'I have two legs, Thursday.'

And we burst out laughing again. I steadied myself on him and he steadied himself on the sofa. Pickwick looked on and ruffled her feathers in disgust.

'Do you have a girl in the Well, Arnie?'

'Nobody,' he said slowly, and I moved my cheek against his, found his mouth and kissed him, very gently and without ceremony. He began to pull away then stopped and returned the kiss. It felt dangerously welcome; I didn't know why I had been single for so long. I wondered whether Arnie would stay the night.

He stopped kissing me and took a step back.

'Thursday, this is all wrong.'

'What could be wrong?' I asked, staring at him unsteadily. 'Do you want to come and see my bedroom? It has a great view of the ceiling.'

I stumbled slightly and held the back of the sofa.

'What are you staring at?' I asked Pickwick, who was glaring at me.

'My head's thumping,' muttered Arnold.

'So's mine,' I replied.

Arnold cocked his head and listened.

'It's not our heads — it's the door.'

'The door of perception,' I noted, 'of heaven and hell.'

He opened the door and a very old woman dressed in blue gingham walked in. I started to giggle but stopped when she strode up to me and took away my wineglass.

'How many glasses have you had?'

'Two?' I replied, leaning against the table for support.

'Bottles,' corrected Arnie.

'Crates,' I added, giggling, although nothing actually seemed that funny all of a sudden. 'Listen here, Gingham Woman,' I added, wagging my finger, 'give me my glass back.'

'What about the baby?' she demanded, staring at me dangerously.

'What baby? Who's having a baby? Arnie, are you having a baby?'

'It's worse than I thought,' she muttered. 'Do the names Aornis and Landen mean anything to you?'

'Not a thing,' I replied, 'but I'll drink to them, if you want. Hello, Randolph.'

Randolph and Lola had arrived at the doorstep and were staring at me in shock.

'What?' I asked them. 'Have I grown another head or something?'

'Lola, fetch a spoon,' said Gingham Woman. 'Randolph, take Thursday to the bathroom.'

'Why?' I asked as I collapsed in a heap. 'I can walk.'

The next thing I saw was the view down the back of Randolph's legs and the living-room floor, then the stairs as I was carried up over his shoulder. I started to giggle but the rest was a bit blurry. I remember choking and throwing up in the loo, then being deposited in bed, then starting to cry.

'She died. Burned.'

'I know, darling,' said the old woman. 'I'm your grandmother, do you remember?'

'Gran?' I sobbed, realising who she was all of a sudden. 'I'm sorry I called you Gingham Woman!'

It's okay. Perhaps being drunk is for the best. You're going to sleep now, and dream — and in that dream you'll do battle to win back your memories. Do you understand?'

'No.'

She sighed and wiped my forehead with her small pink hand. It felt reassuring and I stopped crying.

'Be vigilant, my dear. Keep your wits about you and be stronger than you have ever been. We'll see you on the other side, come the morning.'

But she was starting to fade as slumber swept over me, her voice ringing in my ears as my mind relaxed and transported me deep into my subconscious.

27

The lighthouse at the edge of my mind

A wave burst on the rocks behind me, showering me with cold water and flecks of foam. I shivered. I was on a rocky outcrop in the darkest gale-torn night, and before me stood a lighthouse. The wind whistled and moaned around the tower and a flash of lightning struck the apex. The bolt coursed down the earthing cable and trailed a shower of sparks, leaving behind the acrid stench of brimstone. The lighthouse was as black as obsidian and, as I looked up, it seemed as though the arc lamp rotating within the vast lenses was floating in midair. The light swept through the inky blackness illuminating nothing but a heaving, angry sea. I looked backwards in my mind but could see nothing — I was without memory or past experiences. This was the loneliest outpost of my subconscious, a memoryless island where nothing existed other than that which I could feel and see and smell at this moment in time. But I still had emotions, and I was aware of a sense of danger, and purpose. Somehow I understood I was here to vanquish — or be vanquished.

Another wave burst behind me and with beating heart I pulled on the locking lever of the steel front door and was soon inside, safe from the gale. The door securely fastened, I looked around. There was a central spiral staircase but nothing else — not a stick of furniture, a book, a packing case; nothing.

I shivered again and pulled out my gun.

'A lighthouse,' I murmured, 'a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere.'

I walked slowly up the concrete steps, keeping a careful watch as they curved away out of sight. The first floor was empty and I moved on up, each circular room I reached devoid of any signs of habitation. In this way I slowly climbed the tower, gun arm outstretched and trembling with a dread of impending loss that I could not control, nor understand. On the top floor the spiral staircase ended; a steel ladder was the only means by which to climb any higher. I could hear the electric motors that drove the rotating lamp whine above me, the bright white light shining through the open roof hatch as the beam swept slowly about. But this room was not empty. Sitting in an armchair was a young woman in the process of powdering her nose with the help of a small hand mirror.