Dying Fall

O’Brien! He kept the corner shop, so he did.’
    How the bloody hell has Cathbad got so Irish all of a sudden? He looks at Michelle, who raises her eyebrows and almost smiles. Encouraged, Nelson pushes open the door.
    As Nelson enters, they all turn and look at him. ‘Dada!’ says Kate, who is on the floor playing with a train set that Nelson remembers from his own childhood.
    ‘She says that to everyone,’ says Ruth, too quickly.
    ‘She’s as bright as a button,’ says Maureen admiringly. ‘You couldn’t speak at all until you were two, Harry.’
    ‘It must have been embarrassing for you, having such a stupid child,’ says Nelson, sitting on the uncomfortable chair at his mother’s side. Cathbad and Ruth are side by side on the sofa. The remains of an elaborate tea lie on the coffee table. Maureen has even got the cake forks out.
    ‘Oh, you weren’t stupid, Harry,’ says Maureen kindly. ‘You just didn’t try at school.’
    ‘I was the same,’ says Cathbad. ‘I just wasn’t interested in the things they taught at school. I think real learning only begins after you stop being educated.’
    This is from the man who has two degrees and works at a university, thinks Nelson. He takes a piece of chocolate cake. Maureen hands him a plate without looking round.
    ‘You wouldn’t believe the interesting things that Cathbad’s been telling me about Samhain and the Festival of the Dead,’ she says. Not for the first timeNelson wonders at the way that Maureen, not a woman famed for her religious tolerance, can stomach any amount of New Age philosophy, especially when it’s about contacting the dead.
    ‘I often see the ghost of Uncle Declan, don’t I, Harry?’ she says now.
    ‘Frequently.’
    ‘You must have strong psychic powers,’ says Cathbad.
    Maureen is delighted. ‘Well, I do think I’ve been blessed that way,’ she says modestly. ‘I have such powerful instincts about people, you wouldn’t believe. That’s why I knew immediately that you and I would get on, Cathbad. And Michelle …’ She looks up as her daughter-in-law comes into the room. ‘I knew as soon as I saw her that she was the girl for Harry.’
    ‘I don’t think my instincts can be very good,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m always being wrong about people.’ Does she mean him, thinks Nelson. Does she think that she was, in some way, deceived by him? But he’s always been straight with her, never promised her anything. Or perhaps she means Erik, her old professor. She was certainly wrong about him, as they all were.
    Michelle sits on the sofa and leans over to look at Kate.
    ‘She’s grown so much,’ she says.
    This simple remark effectively silences Ruth, Cathbad and Nelson. But Maureen is in full flow.
    ‘You wouldn’t believe Michelle has grown-up daughters, would you? She looks so young. The three of them look like sisters.’ She reaches out for a photograph ofMichelle, Laura and Rebecca, taken when they visited Blackpool last Christmas.
    Ruth takes the picture but still seems unable to speak. Cathbad says gallantly, ‘Three beautiful women.’
    ‘They are, to be sure,’ says Maureen. ‘And the girls are clever too. Both of them at university. What are they studying, Harry?’
    ‘Laura’s reading Marine Biology at Plymouth,’ says Nelson. ‘Rebecca’s doing Media Studies at Brighton.’ These subjects mean absolutely nothing to him. Neither he nor Michelle had any further education; they just pay the bills.
    ‘Clayton Henry was telling me that anything with “forensic” in the title is popular these days,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s because of all those TV programmes about forensic science. Maybe soon they’ll be offering courses in forensic media studies.’
    ‘Oh don’t talk to me about those programmes,’ says Maureen, who never misses an episode of
Silent Witness
. ‘It’s not right, what they do to those poor bodies.’

CHAPTER 19
    After a few minutes in the Pendle Forest, Nelson is thinking longingly of Blackpool. It’s another rainy day and the clouds are low over the fields. The grass is black, the streams grey and troubled. Nelson drives slowly through the twisting lanes, cursing when he has to stop for sheep or cattle grids. Next to him, Cathbad hums serenely, looking at the lowering landscape with every appearance of pleasure. When they stop at a crossroads, a raven, huge and jet-black, regards them from the top of the signpost.
    ‘That,’ says Cathbad, ‘is a very bad omen.’
    ‘Do