A silver globule of saliva dribbled down Neil Laker's cheek. He lay fully clothed on the bed, wrapped with a warm blanket. For all intents and purposes he was sleeping, though his eyes were wide open.

In his mind he was there, back there with Maria, together on a winter's night, cuddled up close on the sofa in front of a roaring fire.

Little Sarah was fast asleep in her bed upstairs, surrounded by fluffy farm kittens and barbie dolls. A long weekend of treats and being totally spoilt for her sixth birthday had worn her out.

He was drifting off himself, listening to his wife humming a tune quietly as they gazed into the hypnotic flames. She was wearing her black, satin pyjamas and fiddling idly with her hair, undoing and redoing the long braid. He nodded off.

He woke up with a start.

Maria knelt in front of the fireplace, her hands clasped together as if she were praying. Neil could hear her chanting something over and over again.

He slid down from the sofa and crouched close behind her, putting his arms around her, a heavy sensation building between them. The density of the air causing hairs to prickle on the back of Neil's neck.

"Maria. Love, is everything okay?"

"Sssh!"

His wife's body snapped ridged and her head shot up straight.

"What's going on?"

He held her tighter, sensing her fear and beginning to feel unnerved himself.

"Can you hear that?"

"Hear what? There's nothing there Maria."

"Listen God damn it! You never listen."

Neil sighed and leaned in closer, his mouth brushing against her left ear. The fire turned a different colour, a deeper red with no hint of the yellowy amber of before.

"There. Did you catch it?"

Softly shaking his head, he concentrated harder, picking up the crackle of the flames clearer. As he began to wonder what it could have been that had spooked Maria so much, he caught it. A whisper, one female voice. No, wait. Several female voices, a chorus of talking, so low that it resembled wind rustling through leaves.

"What is that?"

He felt Maria shrug against him. They were both frozen to the spot, their ears straining to make a coherent pattern out of the meaningless chatter. Their bodies leaned towards the fireplace, the heat of the flames scalding their faces.

A spark of burning ash shot out from the fire. Then a second. Then another. Husband and wife pulled back from the attack. The number of red-hot specks multiplied until they were under fire from a horde of cracking ash-bullets.

Maria screamed. She covered her face with her arms. The sleek material of her pyjamas caught alight. Specks of orange flame rose to life. Neil smacked his hands across her clothing to put out the sparks.

They rested back against the foot of the sofa as the shots ceased firing. The fire, now a shade of ice blue. The chanting had grown louder.

Maria's shaking took over her body.
"Oh my God. Do you hear what they're saying?"

Once again, Neil strained to catch the words. When he did the blood drained from his face and a cold film of dread covered his body.

"When there is one, there is three.
Three become one
If blood there need be
Give one to be free
Or be bereft of all three."

"Jesus Christ, almighty. We've got to get out of here, Maria."

"No. Wait! There's something in the fire, I can just see a - "

"I don't care what you think you see, woman. Get away from there."

Maria shrugged free from Neil's grasp and reached towards the fireplace.

"For God's sake, Maria. Come away from there!"

Time itself ceased to exist.

Maria sat frozen in place with her arm outstretched, her fingers inches from the now immobile flames, an expression of surprise and curiosity painted across her face.
Neil was trapped in a freeze frame of horror and concern, his mouth gaping open as his silent words of warning were no longer given voice. Their physical bodies remained this way, a passage of three hours slowly ticked by on the clock above the mantelpiece. The steady flicks of the timepiece cut across the heavy, dead silence surrounding them. Their spirits lost in another place, a dark place where they had to fight. Fight to live. Fight to die.

**********

Sarah let the warm water of the shower rinse pleasantly over her upturned face. She rubbed her eyes free of their makeup, smoothing back her wet hair and wringing the shampoo from the ends.

A burst of cold water poured through the shower head as the old boiler gave up the ghost and called an end to her comfort.

"Bloody thing."

She rubbed herself dry on a scruffy old towel and wrapped herself in a large, cotton dressing gown, pulling the hood over her wet hair to stop the cold drips from sneaking down her neck.

Black marks streaked down the back of the bathroom door.

Frowning with incomprehension, she lightly touched the stains, her fingers coming away with smoky ash smeared on her damp skin.

"What the?"

Moving closer she smelled the odour of burnt wood, she heard the chanting, felt the anger, somehow sensed the fear her father was experiencing at that exact moment.

Sarah lost consciousness, passing out into a dream of her father.

*****

Little Sarah ran down the stairs. The banging was really loud. She jumped across the cold kitchen floor, her toes barely touching in her speed. Why was daddy yelling? She stopped under the archway and gasped at her father.

Neil was distraught, his jeans and t-shirt torn, blackened and wet. His hair stuck up wildly and one of his shoes was sliced open at the toe, gaping like a flapping mouth. He was raging across the room, grabbing planks of wood and flinging them at the fireplace then bashing at the brickwork with a large flat hammer.

Little Sarah wanted to make him stop.

"Daddy? What are you doing, Daddy?"

Neil paused at her voice, standing, panting for breath with the hammer gripped tightly. His eyes tried to focus on her.

"Go away."

Feeling hurt, she pressed to get an answer.

"Why are you doing that, Daddy? Does Mummy know? Where is Mummy?"

Neil continued panting. His chest heaving harder as she watched him struggle to keep control of his rage.

"I said, go away!"

His daughter ran over and flung her arms around his legs, the top of her head just reaching his stomach. He smelt bad. Sweat and soot and something else. Something stale and rotten.

Neil roughly pushed her away, knocking her to the burnt floorboards.

"Get upstairs and don't come back down."

Sarah hesitated, tears beginning to heat up in her eyes. She passed a grubby hand across her dripping nose. She was scared.

"Where's Mummy?"

Neil hurled the hammer at the fireplace, sending ash spraying everywhere. He yelled at the top of his voice.

"She's not here. She's never going to be here again. I wanted to go. Not her. Not you. I, I should have gone!"

Sarah crept backwards along the floor on her bottom, her pretty white nightdress streaking with dirt. Her father went back to slinging planks of wood and hammering, tears streaming down his face. Mucky rivers.

"Never coming back. I won't let them take you. Not three. Not one. Go away. Go away!"

*****

Twenty-eight year old Sarah blinked open her eyes. She grimaced as she freed her twisted arm from under her. She sat up and rubbed her left knee that had been bruised in the fall. Wow, that was a memory she thought she'd forgotten about. What had made her pass out? Low sugar levels or lack of sleep? The latter was nothing new.

Pulling herself up on the side of the bath, she went to check herself in the mirror. It was facing the floor. She flicked it up and observed the dark circles around her eyes. Yes, probably lack of sleep. Maybe she should try one of her grandfather's remedies and heat up some warm milk and Ovaltine. She positioned the mirror to face the ceiling and turned to the door.

It was white.

Making her way into the kitchen, Sarah flicked on the lights. She banged around, setting the milk to heat up on the stove and stirred the brown drink powder into the pan. As it swirled and simmered, the perfume set off other memories in her brain. Better, warmer ones.

Her grandfather, leaning over the stove, preparing the drink for her. He always sang a rude ditty as he did so. She remembered one in particular:

I'm the king of the castle. Get down and wipe your arsehole.

She remembered giggling and squirming her way onto his knee as he sat in his chair at the table. She would wrap her hands around her warm drink and sip it while he tapped out his pipe and stuffed the sweet tobacco back in. He would bounce his knee gently, making her giggle again, singing her more silly songs and puffing on his pipe.

They had been happy together for a while. Her father had been taken into care for the first time, for all their safety, so life at the farm had consisted of beautiful early mornings with bacon and eggs and afternoons of chores for both of them.

Lambing time was her favourite. Clara was often allowed to stay over with her, until her father had returned from the psychiatric ward that is. The girls had loved to help Sarah's grandfather with bottle feeding the orphan lambs, which unfortunately for the animals, was a yearly part of farm life. They would sit in front of the gas fire grandfather had set up in the utility room and wrestle the animals under their arms, while holding on tight to the baby bottles of formula.

They had giggled with pleasure as they checked that the lamb's tails were twitching to show that they were getting the milk. The animals had tugged fiercely and hadn't stopped sucking, even when all that remained was air.

Clara and Sarah had given them names. The happy baby creatures were blissfully ignorant of the fate that awaited the two males.

Timmy and Trigger were destined for the dinner table. Grandad had never let on the fact, and to his credit, had concocted such an elaborate story of the fantastical farm that the lambs were going to that the girls were content to help load their charges into the truck. Even if it was bound for a very different destination.

Clara and Sarah had hugged each other and jumped up and down with glee at the thought of the two lambs frolicking around in the freedom of the Highlands.

Grandfather had smiled to himself as he'd signalled the truck driver with a bang of his hand to take the lambs for slaughter. He'd tapped out his pipe on the back of the lorry before it drove away and probably considered which way he was going to serve up the chops when they arrived the next Sunday. Maybe with mint and butter this time, instead of gravy. Sarah had preferred it that way.

He'd hustled the girls back into the farmhouse, shutting the door against the cold spring wind. It was a shame that the big fireplace was out of action in the living room, but no doubt he'd completely understood why her father had destroyed it.

She wondered what her grandfather had thought about her father's actions. Maybe he'd hoped beyond all hope that the next time her dad returned home it would be the last time he left them. Maybe he'd considered what it would take for them to finally return to being a family. How they could have put all that behind them. Somehow she had the feeling that the old man had known that this would never happen and he had known exactly why.

Sarah.