“It started,”
Wesley begins, “When I arrived at a village, in Yorkshire
somewhere, in 1923. It was dusk, which made locating the imbalance a
bit of a doddle. There were traces everywhere, sparkling brightest
round a single cottage set apart from the rest. There was no red; in
the residue I mean, which I remember thinking was odd. I wandered
round the cottage, getting my bearings and making sure I was at the
right place. Once I was certain, I was about to knock when the front
door opened.
“I know why you're
here,” she said, the woman who answered the door. “You'd better
come in.”
