Floating in a cold black sea, draped in a clammy shroud of seaweed that clung to his skin like slug-slime. Strange shapes moved in the distant darkness: a white animal—it could have been an antelope—and something that looked like a police dog. Floating and drifting, the icy water permeating his flesh and chilling his bones, he briefly imagined himself surrounded by an unseen ring of black fish, though fish without fins or tails. As he drifted he turned slowly, feet above head, weightless in the great blackness, sinking down into a submarine grave, suffocated in the dead mass of black water that poured in through his nose and mouth, filling his sodden lungs, choking out the air.
He kicked out against the huge mass of water, banging his heels on the seabed. Grey light flooded his skull and he inhaled great lungfuls of cold water. Then a swimming black latticework crystallised out of the homogenous greyness, dividing the light, and his hands closed on wet leaves. He sighed a steam-train cloud into the damp air; he was alive, after all.
Alive and lying on wet earth, staring up into winter branches through drizzle-blurred lenses. A strange clamminess clung to the inside of his skull, like a cobweb draped through wet fog. There was something there, he could feel it, a ring of black things, shiny and cold, and a laughing girl. He lunged forward but the cobweb fell to shreds in his grasp, and what might have been there was gone, dissolving into the mist. A spasm of unexplained loss stabbed into his soul and he groaned quietly.
As the pain faded, he pushed himself up; he was in a dank winter wood in the fading light of early afternoon, all draped in a fine drizzle. He shivered, cold to his bones, and the lining of his jacket clung to his arms like seaweed.
Something moved on the back of his right hand, wet and cold. A huge black slug, as big as his thumb, was crawling across the skin. He expected revulsion but instead he was transfixed by the great creature as a strange tingle coursed through his flesh. A girl's laugh, far away, dwindled to nothing and a pig the size of a mountain shimmered briefly in the far distance. The slug crawled off onto the leaf mould, leaving a shining trail of silver slime on his chilled skin.
It had been a dream, nothing more than a quickly fading dream.
Cadwallader climbed unsteadily to his feet. He was stiff and cold and his joints ached—how stupid, falling asleep in wet woods in the middle of November. He shook his head, trying to banish the last slimy shreds of his dream.
As he bent down to brush the leaves off his clothes, he saw that his jeans were undone. A faint clamminess crawled over his groin and with a squirm of discomfort he hauled up the offending zip, refusing to speculate as to the cause of his undress. Then he clutched at the open front of his jacket, feeling the goose-pimpled flesh under the thin cotton of his tee-shirt. Where was his jersey, and hadn't he been wearing a hat and scarf? Something flashed, at the corner of his vision, a dazzle of white. He turned quickly, just as the rabbit disappeared into a clump of undergrowth. Once again the strange tingle crawled through his flesh and he stopped breathing, listening to the dead silence.
Silence? Then where was the thunder of traffic? As he peered through the trees and realised that this was not the little wood beside the motorway, strange shapes scuttled across the back of his mind, dashing for cover. He shivered suddenly and pulled the jacket tight across his chest. There was something in the left pocket, something hard pressing against his hip bone. With rapidly numbing fingers he pulled out a small medicine bottle, a quarter full of turbid liquid. Of course, Laura's present—so he hadn't lost it after all. Then the faintest trace of a frown scudded across his face; he seemed to remember brown glass rather than green.
Something pushed against his shins and he jumped back with a spasm of electric shock. A little dog—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel—was grinning up at him, oblivious to the surprise she had caused. Her sister was trotting down the path to join her, also wagging her tail with unmitigated joy.
'My goodness, you gave me a fright,' he gasped, clutching his fluttering heart, 'I nearly leapt out of my skin.'
The first dog jumped up again for a pat, padding muddy paws against his jeans, while the other scooted excitedly round his feet, sniffing at his shoes.
'Tell me,' he went on, 'Do you know where we are? I think I've got a bit lost.'
Before the dog could reply, however, a strong female voice thundered through the damp air.
'Charlotte! Hannah! Come here this minute!'
A woman, early forties and elegantly clad in a beige raincoat and brown leather knee boots, was marching purposefully down the path towards him. Not without reluctance, the two spaniels slunk away to join her.
'I am sorry about the girls,' she said, striding up to him, 'I do hope they haven't dirtied your trousers. They're sometimes just a bit too friendly.'
'Oh, but they're lovely little dogs and they weren't bothering me at all. In fact I was just asking them—if—.'
Cadwallader stuttered to a halt and grinned awkwardly.
'Actually, I wonder if you could help me,' he went on quickly, 'Could you tell me which direction to Maple Cross?'
The woman eyed him strangely.
'Maple Cross?' she asked, 'You mean the Maple Cross near Rickmansworth?'
'Yes. You see, I went for a walk and I think I… well, I seem to have lost my bearings.'
'You most certainly have. This is Pigott's Wood—we're about four miles north of Wycombe. Maple Cross must be fifteen miles away.'
Cadwallader stared at her blankly as his confused brain struggled to comprehend.
'Oh dear—I must have come further than I thought.'
The dog owner now wore an expression of frank suspicion.
'Look, I don't want to be rude,' she said, 'but I really have to be—.'
She stopped abruptly and leaned forward, sniffing the air between them.
'Isn't that geranium?' she asked quietly.
'Yes it is,' replied Cadwallader, 'It's home-made aftershave, a present from my little—.'
Seizing the front of his jacket, she hauled herself against him and stifled his cry of surprise with passion-hungry lips.