A Finer End

that.’
    ‘Even if I’m crazy?’
    ‘You’re not crazy.’ She spoke vehemently. ‘You will find an explanation for these writings. May I read them?’
    ‘Would you?’ The thought seemed to please him. You might see some clue I’ve missed.’
    ‘Well,’ she said slowly, wondering if she had completely taken leave of her senses, ‘have you tried simply asking Edmund what he wants?’
     
    This, thought Bram Allen as he looked round his gallery, was what a church should be like. The plush carpeting muffled both voice and footfall, the illuminated paintings on the hessian-covered walls glowed as if they were stained-glass windows lit from within, and bells chimed musically with each swing of the door. It seemed an impenetrable sanctuary... and it was the only place he felt truly safe.
    There were some, he knew, who were made uncomfortable by the fierceness of the creatures in Fiona’s paintings, but he had always found them strangely reassuring, as if that very quality might hold evil at bay.
    What did concern him was the fact that the number of Fiona’s paintings on the gallery walls was steadily decreasing. Although his other artists sold well, it was Fiona’s work that provided the backbone of the business, and it had been months since she’d produced anything she was willing to let him display. Not that he wanted to hang those recent paintings — God forbid! What on earth had possessed her to paint that face?
    Fiona’s gift was not something that could be subjected to a rational analysis — or so he’d always assumed. But now he wondered if there was some external factor at work, something that had changed in their lives? Or in Fiona’s life?
    As he gazed out of the gallery window, the bell began to toll for Evensong at St John’s, just across the street. That was his signal to close for the day. Automatically, Bram tidied and switched off lights. Then, as he locked the door to the last peal of the bells, it came to him. Something had changed in Fiona’s life this past year. She had become friends with Winnie Catesby, who had begun counselling Fiona to express the grief she felt over her childlessness. Was this what had triggered Fiona’s visions?
    But that still didn’t explain why she should paint that particular child. Had Winnie somehow managed to loosen a fragment of memory lodged in Fiona’s subconscious? Or did Fiona know more than he had always believed?
    Bram realized he was sweating and wiped a hand across his brow. One thing was certain — he must find a way to stop Winnie Catesby’s meddling before it destroyed them all.
     
    The kitchen of the Dream Café smelled strongly of cabbage, but Faith didn’t mind. Her morning sickness seemed to have improved at last — and the food odours did help disguise the ever-present smell of damp that permeated the place.
    The café was built right into the base of the Tor, and condensation coated the limestone walls with a slick sheen. The front room held tables; the rear was divided into a small shop on the left and the kitchen on the right, separated from the eating area by a serving bar. Not that they served much — the menu consisted of hot soup, tea (herbal or otherwise), and a vegetarian special of the day. Faith, who had barely boiled water at home, had become quite adept at concocting the soups and hot dishes, and this morning she would have everything ready by opening time. Humming as she put the final dusting of paprika on the day’s cauliflower bake, she imagined what her mum would say if she could see her handiwork. But the thought brought a stab of homesickness and a prickle of tears behind her eyelids.
    It had been almost three months since that day in early April when she’d run away from home. She would never have believed she could miss her beastly brother and sister so much — or her parents. So many times she’d been tempted to go back, to invent a story they would accept — she’d say it had been a boy in her class... but, no, that wouldn’t be fair... a stranger, then, passing through on a pilgrimage to Avalon...
    But she had known instinctively that lies wouldn’t wash, that they’d demand the one thing she couldn’t give them — the truth. So she’d managed as best she could; begging friends to let her climb in their bedroom windows for a dry night’s sleep, then, when their hospitality wore out, she’d slept rough wherever she could find a spot, taking handouts from the local charities.
    School seemed