eborah was waiting impatiently by the Gate Six encampment for Lindsay. Already, most of the women taking part in the vigil were in place. The traffic on the main road back from Oxford and the need to change into more suitable clothes had delayed Lindsay enough for her to have missed the procession, but she could see that there were not sufficient numbers there to encircle the base holding hands. They had spread out along as much of the perimeter as they could cover, with gaps of about fifty yards between them. The flicker of candles, feeble against the cloudy winter night, was gradually spreading.

Deborah hustled Lindsay along the muddy clearing by the fence for half a mile till they reached their agreed station, a corner of the fence near a deep drainage ditch. They kissed goodbye, then Lindsay walked on round the corner to her position.

She turned facing the base, where the buildings and bunkers were floodlit against the enemy - not the red menace, but the monstrous regiment, she thought. She turned back and peered towards the nearest flame. She could just make out the silhouette of the next woman in the vigil and in the distance she could hear the faint sound of singing. She knew from experience that it would soon work its way round to her like Chinese whispers. She had been pleasantly surprised to see, for once, the police and military presence were fairly low key. She hadn't seen any journalists, but assumed they would all be down by the main gates, reluctant to stagger through the mud unless it became absolutely necessary. She smiled wryly. At least her story would have the unmistakable air of verisimilitude.

She took her Zippo lighter from her jacket pocket and flicked the flame into life. She hadn't remembered to ask Debs for a candle, so the lighter would have to do. She stamped her feet to keep the circulation going and started mentally planning her story.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a short scream, which was cut off by a squelching thud and the sound of crashing in the undergrowth. It came from Deborah's direction. Before she had time to think, she was charging back round the corner in the fence towards her. In her panic, she forgot about the drainage ditch and plunged headlong into it, twisting her ankle in an explosion of pain as she fell. Instead of landing in muddy water, she fell on something soft and yielding. Lindsay pushed herself away and fumbled with the lighter which she'd somehow managed to hang on to. The little flare of light was enough to show her a sight that made her heart lurch.

Deborah lay face down in the ditch, blood flowing from a gaping wound in the left side of her head. "Oh my God," she cried, fighting back tears of panic as she grabbed her by the shoulders. She remembered all the rules of first aid that instruct not to move victims with head wounds. But Deborah would drown if left lying face down in the mud. So she pulled at her left shoulder till she managed to turn her on her side. Lindsay pulled her scarf off and gently wiped the mud from Deborah's face. She gritted her teeth and cleared the silt from her nose and mouth and checked if she was still breathing by putting her ear to Deborah's mouth. She could feel nothing. "Debs, Debs, breathe, you bastard, breathe," she muttered desperately, pummeling Deborah's chest. After a few moments that felt like an eternity, she was rewarded by a sputtering cough as Deborah retched. Lindsay, herself facing nausea, then stood upright, yelling for help at the top of her voice.

It seemed hours before another couple of women appeared with a torch, looking bewildered.

"Get help, get help!" Lindsay almost screamed. "Debs has been attacked. Get the bloody police. We need an ambulance."

The next half hour was a blur of action as first police and then ambulance drivers arrived and rushed Deborah to hospital. Lindsay realised how serious the situation was when a young constable helped her into the ambulance, and she found herself racing through the lanes with flashing lights and siren.

At Fordham General, Deborah was immediately hurried away on a trolley with the policeman still in attendance. Lindsay sat, exhausted, wet, and filthy on the steps of the casualty unit, smoking a battered cigarette. She was numb with fear for Deborah. One of the ambulance drivers stopped to speak to her on the way back to his vehicle. "You did well, back there," he said. "Your friend might have died if you hadn't got her head out of the mud. Just as well you kept your head."

Lindsay shook her head. "I didn't keep my head. I panicked. I just acted on pure instinct. I was so afraid I'd lost her. How is she? Do you know?"

He shrugged. "Not out of the woods yet. But they're good in there. You should go inside in the warm, you'll get a chill out here. Get yourself a cuppa."

Lindsay nodded wearily. "Yeah." She got to her feet as he climbed back into the ambulance. As she turned to go, a heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder. It belonged to a reporter she recognised by sight.

"What's the score?" he demanded. "We heard someone had been attacked, but the cops are saying nothing." Lindsay stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Come on, Lindsay," he pressed. "Don't be selfish. I've only got half an hour to close copy time on the next edition. You've had every bloody other exclusive on this job. Give us a break."

She wanted more than anything to put a fist in his face. Instead, she simply said, "Fuck off," and turned on her heel, shaking his hand loose. But the incident had reminded her that there was something she could do to put a bit of distance between the attack and her emotions. She walked like a zombie into the hospital, asked a passing nurse where the nearest phone was, and transferred the charges to the Clarion newsdesk. Luckily, Cliff Gilbert took the call himself.

"Lindsay here, Cliff," she said, speaking very slowly. "Listen, I'm in no fit state to write copy, but there's a very good story going on here, and I've got chapter and verse on it. If I give you all the facts, can someone knock it into shape?"

"What?" he exclaimed. "What the hell's the matter with you? Are you pissed?"

"Look, someone's just tried to kill one of my best friends. I'm exhausted, I'm wet, I'm probably in shock, and I'm at the end of my rope. I need help."

He realised from her voice as much as her words that Lindsay was serious. "Okay, Lindsay," he said. "I'm sorry. I'll put you on to Tony, and you tell him what he needs for the story. No problem. Do you need back-up? I can get someone down there in an hour. Or a local freelance - "

"I don't want anyone else, Cliff. Maybe you should get some more cover down here, though. I'm through for tonight. Now give me Tony." A series of clicks followed, and Lindsay found herself talking to Tony Martin, one of her reporting colleagues. Cliff had obviously warned him what to expect, for his voice was quiet and coaxing. Lindsay forced the lid on her emotions and stumbled through the events of the evening. At the end of her recital, he asked for the number of the police station and the hospital. Her mind was a blank.

"Never mind," he said. "Listen, I'll make sure they put your by-line on this. It's a helluva story. I hope your mate pulls through. But you go and get yourself a stiff drink. You sound as if you need one. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," she sighed, and put the phone down. Through the door of the booth, she could see other reporters arriving. She knew she couldn't cope with them now, so she turned back to the call box and dialed home. Cordelia picked up the phone on the third ring. Lindsay's voice shook as she said, "It's me. Can you come down?"

"What?" Cordelia demanded. "Now? Whatever's the matter? You sound terrible. What's going on?"

"It's Debs. She's... she's been attacked. Someone tried to kill her. I'm at the hospital now. I found her. I really could do with you being here."

There was incredulity in Cordelia's voice. "Someone tried to kill Deborah? How? What happened?"

"There was a candle-lit vigil. We were by the fence, about fifty yards from each other. Someone hit her on the head and left her drowning in a ditch," Lindsay said, on the verge of tears.

"That's awful! Are you okay?"

"Physically, yes. But I'm absolutely drained. I thought she was dead, Cordelia," Lindsay wailed, tears finally coursing down her face. She sobbed helplessly, oblivious to Cordelia's words.

When she managed to control herself again, she could hear her lover's voice soothing her, saying, "Calm down it'll be okay. Why don't you come home now? There's nothing more you can do there tonight. I'd come down and get you, but I've had too much wine."

"I can't," Lindsay said numbly.

"Why ever not?" Cordelia asked. "Look, you'd be better off here. You can have a nice hot bath and a drink and try to get a decent night's sleep. Come home, Lindsay. I'll only worry about you otherwise."

"I just can't," Lindsay replied. "There's too much going on here for me to walk away from it all. I'm sorry. I'll ring you in the morning, okay? Thanks for listening. Goodnight, love."

"I'll come down first thing, how's that?"

"No, it's okay, leave it. I'm not sure what I'll be doing or where I'll be. I'll speak to you soon."

"Be careful, Lindsay, please. Ring me in the morning."

Bleakness descended on Lindsay. She stared across the busy casualty department in time to see Rigano shoulder his way through the flapping celluloid doors and head for the desk. He was immediately surrounded by reporters. She became aware that the phone was squawking.

"Lindsay? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here. Bye."

She put the phone down, feeling utterly defeated. She left the phone booth but could not face the melee round the information desk. She leaned against the wall, shivering slightly in spite of the airless warmth of the hospital. Rigano, whose eyes had been sweeping the room for her, picked her up almost immediately.

"That's it for now," he said brusquely to the crowd of reporters and strode over to her, followed at a few paces by her colleagues. He took her by the elbow and piloted her into a corridor. He stopped briefly and said firmly to their followers. "Go away. Now. Or I'll have the lot of you removed from the hospital altogether." Reluctantly, they backed off, and he steered Lindsay into an alcove with a couple of chairs. They sat down.

"She's going to be all right," he said. "There's a hairline fracture of the skull and a big superficial wound. She's lost quite a bit of blood and had stitches, but they say there's no brain damage."

The relief was like a physical glow that spread through Lindsay. "When can I see her?" she asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Come round about nine, and they'll let you in. She'll still be heavily sedated, so they tell me, but she should be awake. It'll be a while before we can get any sense out of her, though, so I need to know anything you can tell me about the attack."

Lindsay shrugged. "I don't know anything. I don't even know what she was hit with. What was it?"

"A brick," he replied. "There's any number of them lying around. You use them to pin down the corners of your benders."

"That's ironic," said Lindsay, stifling the hysterical giggle she felt bubbling inside her. "I really can't tell you anything. I heard a short scream - not a long-drawn-out one, quite brief - and a squelch that must have been Debs falling into the ditch. Then I heard what sounded like someone trying to run off through the woodland."

"Can you say in what direction?"

"Not really. It seemed to be more or less dead ahead of me as I ran towards the ditch, but that's the vaguest of impressions, and I wouldn't swear to it. I wish I could tell you that I'd seen someone, but even if he'd still been there, I doubt if I would have seen him. There was really no light to speak of."

"Him?"

"Well, it wouldn't have been one of us, would it?"

It was Jane who woke Lindsay at eight the next morning with a pot of hot coffee. Settling herself down on the end of the bunk, she waited patiently for Lindsay to surface. Brought back to the camp by one of Rigano's men, Lindsay had needed several large whiskies before sleep had even seemed like a possibility. Now she was reaping the whirlwind.

Jane smiled at her efforts to shake off the stupor and said, "I thought I'd better make sure you were up in time to get to the hospital. I've already rung them - Deborah is out of danger and responding well, they said. Translation - she's been sedated to sleep, but her vital signs are looking good. They say it's okay for you to go in, but they don't think Cara should visit yet."

"How is Cara?" asked Lindsay, who felt as if her limbs were wooden and her head filled with cotton wool.

"A bit edgy, but she's with Josy and the other kids, so she'll be more or less all right," Jane replied. "She wants her mummy, but at least she's old enough to understand when you say that Deborah's in the hospital, but she's going to be all right."

"Do you think we can keep her here and look after her okay, or are we going to have to get something else sorted out?" Lindsay asked anxiously.

Jane smiled. "Don't worry about Cara. She's used to the routine here now. It's better that she's somewhere she can see Deborah as much as possible."

"I'm just worried in case social services find out about her and take her into care," Lindsay said.

"If anyone comes looking for her from the council, we'll deny all knowledge of her and say she's with her father. By the time they sort that little one out, Deborah will be convalescent," Jane reassured her. "Now, drink this coffee and get yourself over to the hospital."

"Five minutes," warned the nurse as she showed Lindsay into a small side room.

Deborah lay still, her head swathed in bandages. There was a tube in her nose and another in her arm. Her face was chalky white and dark bruises surrounded her closed eyelids. Lindsay was choked with a mixture of pity, love, and anger. As she moved towards the bed, she sensed another presence in the room and half turned. Behind the door, a uniformed constable sat, notebook poised. He smiled tentatively at her and said, "Morning, miss."

Lindsay nodded at him and sat down by the bed. Reaching out cautiously, she took hold of Deborah's hand. Her eyelids flickered momentarily, then opened. The pupils were so dilated that her eyes no longer appeared blue. Frowning slightly, as she tried to focus, she registered Lindsay's presence and her face cleared.

"Lin," she said in a voice that lacked all resonance. "It's really you?"

"Yes, love, it's me."

"Cara?"

"She's okay. Josy's in charge. Everything's under control."

"Good. I'm so tired, Lin. I can't think. What happened?"

"Somebody hit you. Did you see anyone, Debs?"

"I'm so glad it's really you, Lin. I think I'm seeing ghosts. I think Rupert Crabtree's haunting me."

"I'm no ghost, Debs. And he can't hurt you. He's out of your life for good."

"I know, but listen, Lin. It's crazy, I know, but I have this weird impression that it was Rupert Crabtree who attacked me. I must be going mad."

"You're not mad, you're just concussed and sedated up to the eyeballs. It'll all be clear soon, I promise."

"Yes, but I'm sure it was him that I saw. But it couldn't be, could it? Just like it couldn't have been him I saw walking his dog on Sunday night. Because he was already dead by then, wasn't he?"

"What?" Lindsay suddenly stiffened. "You saw him after he was dead?"

"I told you before that I saw him. But he was walking towards his house. And he'd already been killed up by the fence. It's his ghost, Lin, it's haunting me." Her voice was becoming agitated.

Lindsay stroked her arm. "It's okay, Debs. There's no ghost, I promise you. You've got to go to sleep now, and when you wake up, I swear you'll be much clearer. Now close your eyes, go back to sleep. I'll be back tonight, I promise. No ghosts, just good old Lindsay."

Her soothing voice lulled the panic from Deborah's face, and soon she was sleeping again. Lindsay rose to go, and the policeman followed her. Outside he said, "Could you make head or tail of that, miss? All that stuff about being attacked by a ghost?"

Lindsay shook her head. "She's delirious, at a guess. It made no sense to me, officer," she said.

But she knew, as she walked away from the ward that she lied. The echo of her words seemed to pursue her. Deborah's words had triggered off a chain of thought in Lindsay, making a strange kind of sense. At last, vague suspicions were crystallising into certainties. Lindsay felt a growing conviction that Oxford was where the answers lay.