VIII

something frightening. Which is crazy.
    Still, while my imagination is filled with wispy-haired skeletons, bloodstained floors and grisly murder weapons, in reality, behind the few doors that I can open, I’m finding nothing but old trestle tables, broken stools and iron bedsteads.
    The only dead thing I’ve found so far is a mouse, lying on its side with its little scratchy paws bent up and its front teeth showing. When I saw it I knew straightaway it was dead, so when it started moving – shifting a little, this way and that – I wanted to scream. But soon I saw the reason: its stomach was full of maggots, crawling in and out through a hole in the skin. The maggots were making it move. I poked it with a bit of old kindling from the fireplace, then left it alone.
    Now, passing the entrance to a staircase, I find I’m almost at the end of a passageway. I’m not exactly sure where I am, but I think it’s somewhere north of where I started, somewhere close to the White Tower. Pushing open the last door before the passageway’s dead end, I look into a small chamber, where one narrow window lets in a slice of watery light.
    I wrinkle my nose because the room smells musty. In the far wall there’s another door – shut. Near it, some pieces of furniture are huddled together as if they’ve been shoved out of the way: a round table covered with worn black velvet, a bench, three stools and two folding chairs made of painted wood. The only other thing in the room is a rickety-looking portable altar near the window, with a place to kneel – complete with fraying cushion – and a picture hanging on the wall above it.
    The picture looks familiar – I want to have a closer look. I come fully into the room, closing the door softly behind me, and approach the altar. Yes, it’s a painting of the three nails used to fix Jesus to the cross, very like the one I’m carrying.
    I pull my picture out of my belt-pocket to compare. Looking at it, it occurs to me that perhaps I should say a couple more Hail Marys; I always worry that I may have lost count and said four rather than five (in which case the protection against murder and evil spirits won’t work, will it?).
    So I kneel on the cushion – which puffs out a cloud of dust – and begin in a whisper, not daring to shatter the silence of the empty room:
    “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…”
    Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
    And stop. I’ve heard someone speak.
    For one mad moment I think it’s the Virgin Mary replying. But then I hear another murmur – muffled, but close by – and footsteps. They’re coming from my left – from beyond the door in the far wall. I’m frozen, not breathing – listening.
    Then the handle begins to move. I don’t even consider racing back to the other door, the one I came through – there’s no time for that. Instead, I dive for the corner beside the altar, crouching low, so that the width of the altar shields me.
    Instantly, though, I can see this is not enough. I’m hidden from the door, but someone only has to move into the centre of the room and I will be in plain view.
    The door begins to open. My mother’s voice says, “This is the best place – no one comes in here.”
    My back’s resting on a piece of wainscot with a pattern of small holes in it. I realise it’s one of the doors of a press – a cupboard set into the wall. Quickly, still crouching, I open it a little. The cupboard is quite deep, lined with shelves in the upper part. The space below them is empty and, though not high, it is wide: plenty big enough for several people to hide in, let alone just me.
    This is the moment of decision: do I hide? Or do I stand up and admit I’m here; take the telling-off for roaming around without Compton, and go back to my room?
    I don’t stand up. I edge into the cupboard. Perhaps because I’m scared. Perhaps because, if my mother has secrets, I want to hear them. And later I wonder if there was something else at work too: maybe the three nails. Maybe God.
    They’re entering the room now: my mother and whoever she’s talking to. Slowly, carefully, my ragged breathing sounding loud in my ears, I pull the cupboard door shut, hoping they’re still not far enough into the room to see it move.
    I brace myself for being found out – for an exclamation – but it doesn’t come. Instead my mother says, “We don’t have long. I must be quick.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” says a man’s