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But it wasn't the only note on the fridge door, or the only name. There was nothing to make it stand out.

Unless you were an old boyfriend.

Or someone who knew John Bruces's life inside out.

He glanced towards the window. Had she calmed down? He couldn't see her face but she hadn't kicked anything for ten seconds.

"What about members of Bruce's campaign?" he said. "They'd have a motive if they were expecting a top job at the end of it all. Or some fanatic with a John Bruce fixation . . ."

She turned away from the window. "How many of them would know there was a problem with John's brain scan?"

"We're not totally sure that there was . . . "

She stamped her foot and stabbed a finger once more at the HV. "That is not John. That is what you're left with after you rip away all the decency and the . . ."

She started to cry. Maybe it was delayed shock over Karen's death, maybe it was an excess of emotion.

Maybe it was just time.

"Do you want anything to eat?" asked Nick an hour later, knocking on her door.

The door opened. "I'll cook," she said, attempting a smile. She felt better, ready to greet the world again. The last hour had been cathartic.

"Are you sure?" asked Nick. "I'm a dab hand in the kitchen."

"No you're not," she said, pushing past. "You warm things up. And don't you get sick of all that processed food?"

"No." He followed her through into the kitchen.

"Well, you should. It's not good for you."

"It's even worse for the vegetables," he joked. "Think of all those carrots happily sunning themselves in the garden, a light breeze playing through their leaves."

She almost laughed. If only she could prolong this moment of normality. Two people engaged in light conversation, no thought about the past or the future or anything that might be happening beyond the walls of the room.

Nick shattered that wish in a second.

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier," he said.

Louise ignored him. She pulled a chopping board down from an overhead cupboard and looked for a sharp knife.

"I think there is something we can do," he continued. "It won't be easy. It might not even be possible but . . ."

She stared at him, barely daring to hope.

"Do you think you might put down that knife?" he asked. "I find it hard to be brilliant in front of an armed audience."

He'd been thinking about the possibility for the last day, mulling it over, reading associated literature. In theory it ought to work. But the mechanics of putting that theory into practice . . .

"You see, what we really need to do," he said, "is find a way of re-uniting the two parts of John's consciousness."

"You can do that?"

"I don't know but I can't see any reason why it shouldn't be possible. After all, if we're right it's already happened once. All we've got to do is reverse the process. Persuade the part of John inside Pendennis to disconnect and then—somehow—reconnect with the real John."

"Would he be able to reconnect?"

The sixty-four million dollar question. In theory 'yes' but no one tell the British Medical Authority.

"I think so. I'm making a guess here but I don't think we need perfect alignment. I don't see this as delicate neurosurgery where you need to reconnect every nerve and blood vessel back to its sister. I see this more like a skin graft or setting a bone. We position John's missing sub-personality as close to the top of his head as possible and let nature do the rest."

"What if it didn't?"

"We'd try again. Look, when I reconnect all I do is position myself over a mythical hole in the top of my head and think myself inside. I don't even know if I'm facing the right way. But it works every time."

"But your head's empty when you do that." She heard what she'd said and rolled her eyes. "Sorry, but you know what I mean."

"Pendennis's wasn't. You've seen the scans. If John can connect with Pendennis, surely he can connect with his old self."

She smiled, a genuine broad smile. The first time he'd seen her do that in ages.

"It could work, couldn't it?" she said, her excitement growing. "And if John's whole again then he'll come to his senses and pull out of the election . . . and retract all those things he's been saying. But how would you get him out of Pendennis? Hypnotism?"

Nick hesitated. Should he tell her? He decided on a compromise. "That's the plan," he said. "Though there are problems. Even if I do manage to persuade him to separate, I don't know if I'll be able to see him. When I try to look at myself in the higher dimensions I see nothing. Now, is that because I'm one giant eyeball or is it because I'm invisible."

"Couldn't you tell where he was from his voice?"

That was the bigger problem. She was in such a good mood at the moment. Positive and focussed. Exactly how he needed her to be. But if he told her he was deaf in the higher dimensions, that he couldn't hear and probably couldn't speak either . . . how would she react then? How can you hypnotise a subject who can't even hear you?

"I don't know," he said. "But there is a way I could find out. In fact, I think it's essential if we're to have any chance of ferrying John across the Atlantic."

"What?" she asked.

"I need you to separate."

"I'll do it," she said, the words flying out of her mouth. "Whatever it takes." Anything to get this nightmare over with. For Karen, for the John trapped inside Pendennis's head, for the world, for everyone.

Ten minutes later she was having second thoughts. Hypnotism was fine—for other people—but she was too practical, too suspicious. When Nick told her to close her eyes, lie back and relax she immediately tensed. She couldn't help it. She felt uncomfortable, and vulnerable, her head filling with stories of dubious stage hypnotists and the humiliation they put their subjects through. Not that she thought Nick would, but the idea once implanted wouldn't go away. And the harder she tried to shift it, the tenser she became.

Nick's voice droned on, telling her to relax, to imagine herself somewhere peaceful where she felt safe. A week ago that would have been her yard, sitting under the beech tree watching lambs racing and bouncing across the field consumed by the pure joy of being alive on a warm summer day. Now her yard was a place where emergency vehicles parked, where murderers stalked and Karen . . .

Poor, dear, sweet Karen. And with that thought came the guilt. Guilt that she was alive and Karen wasn't. Guilt that here she was with a chance to do something about the situation and all she could do was build barriers and wallow in self-pity. Why couldn't she relax? Why couldn't she lie back and allow herself to be hypnotised? Why couldn't she do something!

She thrashed and turned. She struggled. She tried to force her mind to blank, shoving and squeezing at thoughts that refused to budge. She . . . 

"This is no good," she said, getting up and pushing Nick away. "I want to help. I really do. But not now. I'll try again later."

She tried again later. And again. Perhaps if she got drunk? But there was no alcohol in the fridge, not even a bottle of wine.

"Perhaps if you tried self-hypnosis," suggested Nick. "Maybe you'd find that easier."

He gave her a few exercises to try. Some basic self-hypnosis routines to help her relax.

She tried. She really did. But nothing seemed to work.

"Perhaps it would be better if you were alone," said Nick. He cleared a space on the floor next to the bed and lay down. "I need to see what happens to the ley line when it hits the coast. We may be able to follow it across the Atlantic. You relax. I'll be back in about an hour."

She watched him lay back and stare at the ceiling. And then he was gone. Or so she supposed. His breathing had lowered and he wasn't asleep. Unless he'd learned how to sleep with his eyes open.

She sighed and turned back to her own problems. She had to master this. People's lives depended on it. She rolled her eyes. That's all she needed. Extra pressure. The fate of the entire world depends upon you, Louise Callander. Now relax.

A whirring sound came from the kitchen—the fridge freezer. She hadn't realised before how noisy it was. And was that a tap dripping in the bathroom? She lay there, feeling hypersensitive, sucking in faraway sounds from the apartment and the grounds—a dog barking, a passing lorry, a pigeon in the woods.

Relax.

A voice in her head. Funny, for a moment it sounded like Nick but it couldn't have been. He was still off enjoying himself in the higher dimensions. She glanced over towards his body to make sure. It lay there, silent, his lips not moving.

Relax.

That voice again, lapping over her consciousness; the second syllable elongated, ending like the distant sound of a wave crashing on an empty beach.

A gently shelving beach. The sun shining, the sea lapping, the sand warm beneath your feet, pressing through the gaps between your toes as you walk.

Yes, she could feel it now. Soft, warm, fine-grained sand.

A gentle breeze blowing off the sea, a tang of salt in the air.

She could taste it too. And smell it. Salt, ozone . . .

 . . .and a deserted beach. No one else about. Just you, the sand and the ocean.

The ocean. She could hear the waves crashing far out to sea, the water surging up the gently shelving beach, then receding.

Nibbling at the sand beneath your feet.

Yes, she could feel that too. The tingling, tickling sensation along the soles of her feet. The sand excavated beneath her heels and toes.

The water rippling over the tops of your feet and ankles. The water warm and inviting, the sun hot on the top of your head.

Yes, it was hot. She could feel the slight burning on her scalp and shoulders.

But the water's warm. The perfect temperature. You can feel it rising up your legs as you wade deeper. It's becoming harder to walk, resistance from the water, slowing you down, lifting you up . . .

She rose with the wave, lifting her arms, stretching onto tiptoe.

You lie back in the water; let the sea take your weight, arms outstretched . . .

Floating, the sky as blue and deep as eternity.

Floating, almost motionless, the gentle rise and fall of a summer sea on a windless day . . .

Floating . . .

The sun so bright you have to close your eyes.

Floating . . .

You can feel your mind drifting away into deep, fathomless sleep.

It was working! Nick looked down on Louise's shimmering form on the bed.

"You're feeling relaxed, calm and confident," he said, forming the words in his mind and willing them into Louise's head.

"Yes," she said sleepily, her voice like a whisper from deep inside his mind. No direction at all, just there—nestling within him. A few minutes ago, when he'd first heard her voice, he'd almost shot out of the window. He'd been hoping she could hear him. It had been his plan all along. Kill two birds with one stone. See if he could hypnotise Louise from the higher dimensions as a dry run for Pendennis. He'd thought speak and willed Louise to hear him, hovering as close to her head as he dared. And then he heard her. The sudden sound of her voice breaking the perfect silence of the higher dimensions. And the shock . . . he was so used to sound having direction but this sound appeared to emanate from inside him as though injected straight into his brain.

He knew that telepathic communication was possible, even filmed it, but it was something else to actually participate in the process. It was incredible.

And from then on it had been easy. Far easier than any corporeal session. Louise's defences were non-existent. She was open, receptive.

But now came the hard part. Could he persuade her to die?

He took her deeper, counting through the levels, bolstering her confidence. And then introduced the hospital ward, the life support unit, the nurse.

"You'll never be in danger," he promised her. "And remember you're doing this for John . . . and Karen. They're both counting on you, willing you to succeed."

All the cards were now in play. Nick moved the nurse's hand towards the dial and began the count.

"Now," Nick urged. "You feel your mind rising. Your body lets go. It expels you, forces you free."

He waited. Scanning her face, the area above the bed. Would there be anything to see? Would there . . . 

A shape! He saw it. A vague outline, a pale cloud rising from Louise's head. A pale cloud now composed of a myriad of tiny specks of light. Not a shimmering mirage of the physical world but something sharper.

He watched transfixed. It rose, its edges wobbling like a football-sized bubble. A bubble filled with a thousand points of light; some blue, some red, some sparkling white; like miniscule stars trapped inside a shifting membrane. What were they? The imagers had hinted at nothing like this.

He called to her. "You're feeling relaxed, calm and confident. Nothing can go wrong on a perfect day like this. Now, slowly open your mind to your surroundings. What do you see?"

"It's dark."

"Look closer. Let your vision adjust to the level of light. What do you see?"

"I see . . . me on a bed and . . . Nick. But I can't see too well, there's something in my eye."

"That's because you've separated, Louise. You're looking down on your body from above but there's nothing to worry about. Everything is fine. Can you see me? I'm out-of-body too, floating a few feet in front of you."

"Something hazy? Like a speckled lampshade?"

He rose to the ceiling. "Does it move?"

"Yes, is that . . . is that you?"

"Apparently. Now, when you want to move all you have to do is imagine yourself moving and you will. We'll start slowly. See the window over there? Let's move towards it. Start off slowly and follow the talking lampshade."

He took her to the window. Next came the difficult bit.

"See that tree overhanging the wall by the gate?"

"Yes."

"We're going to go there. Fast. You'll feel a slight pain for about a second as we pass through the window but you mustn't worry. It's something that has to be done. For John and for Karen. They know you'll be brave. I've given you some painkillers and even now you can feel them swimming through your mind, deadening your pain receptors. You'll hardly feel a thing."