The second hand of the wall clock with the New York City skyline picture, moved in static, sharp flicks, the noise grating on Duncan's nerves.

He glanced up to check the time. Two o'clock. Pushing aside the paperwork he'd been absorbed in for the last three hours, he got up from his stool and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, feeling his tight stomach muscles flex. Dressed in just pyjama bottoms, Duncan had absolutely no intention of leaving the flat for the rest of the day. Sunday's were made for this.

He strolled over to the sofa, turned on the tv, and started up his PlayStation. He couldn't wait for the arrival of the second version of the game system next year. How were they going to get the graphics better than they already were? Resident Evil loaded up while he watched the screen impatiently. This was the best. Tomb Raider was pretty good but he got tired of her walking into walls and getting stuck, and Crash Bandicoot just drove him insane.

Fully immersed in the game, Duncan passed the afternoon away unconscious of the change from daylight to sunset. When he finally switched off the machine, a tangerine shade covered the white walls of the living room.

He got up to go and relieve his bladder and was returning to the room - his bare feet making a slapping sound on the corridor's ceramic flooring - when something made him stop in the doorway.

It was too still. Too quiet.

He placed his hands either side of the doorframe, the dark hairs on his arms prickling up one by one.

Something wasn't right.

The atmosphere of the now orange tinted room had transformed from a comfortable, if somewhat clinical aura to a warmer, much more dense concentration of air. He couldn't catch his breath as the walls closed in on him.
My God, the room is shrinking.
Unbelievably, the kitchen zone faded away. His pulse thumped through his chest, banging against his ribs, a film of sweat clinging to his skin. Would it stop? Would he be crushed to death by the ever encroaching walls?

Duncan's knees began to feel weak and he could hardly believe his own eyes. Beginning from the edge of the kitchen walls, a soft, dark shadow grew inward and upwards, raising a solid wall which separated the room into two. He blinked forcefully but the rest of his body refused any signal of movement that his tight nervous system was sending round.

As the living room took on its reduced measurements, the remaining walls morphed in colour to match the new, phantom divide. The light from the bay window increased and Duncan watched in amazement while the curtains faded away into nothing - leaving the window looming large, filled with the sunset.

A tingling in his toes shocked him out of his catatonic state, a buzz of energy tickled his skin through the floor. Looking down he saw the modern flooring darken and change its construction, gently turning into planks of hardwood - a large, circular rug appearing in the centre of the room. It was dark in colour with a pattern, fringes of tassled threads spreading out around its circumference.

He'd been so caught up watching the floor that it came as a shock to him when he brought his head up to see the furniture. His designer sofa and tv unit had been replaced by dark wood bedroom items. A huge wardrobe - big enough to fit the whole of Narnia in - with a matching chest of drawers and bedside table next to a single bed. The covers on the bed were made up of an old fashioned eider down and a patchwork blanket. The smell of the room was different. Mothballs and damp.

Faintly, from somewhere in the room, Duncan picked out the echo of running feet. He swallowed dryly and passed his tongue across his lips. There it was again! A pitter-patter of little feet. It sounded too light footed to be an adult and somehow he just knew that it was a child. The steps grew louder and as they did so, the shape of a little boy emerged as he ran from the new kitchen wall, across the rug, and jumped onto the bed in front of the window.

This scene repeated over and over - a cinematic rerun of action - the boy becoming clearer and more real each time he sped past Duncan. His clothing of black knee socks and grey shorts taking on the reflection of the sunset. A sleeveless jumper over a light blue shirt. A slim, angular face with a short crop of red hair.

**********

Sarah was tired. Not just physically but emotionally drained. She dragged herself around the house and let herself in at the back door. Thankfully, this time it had remained locked as she remembered. After kicking off her trainers and making a large mug of hot chocolate, she had a sudden urge for change.

When would she ever know the truth about her mother's death? For years now she'd been hounding her father for answers to questions that her grandfather had never set straight. He had always said, "There's no need to bring up the past, Sarah," and "Why would you want the details about something so terrible?"

She knew, first hand, the reason why the front bedroom was closed off. She'd helped her grandfather to close it up. But the motives for boarding up the fireplace had never been explained. Besides, on a cold day like today and definitely through the winter, the old central heating system couldn't cope with keeping the house warm. Why was she still so hesitant to pull it open and put it to use?

Sarah went to the living room to take a better look at the fireplace. Okay, so grandad had told her about her father boarding it up after her mother died. It must have been something to do with her death, or maybe her father, as she suspected, didn't want to be reminded of the wonderful times they had had as a family, together in front of the flames.

She had noticed strange things about the glimpses of darkness behind the boards from time to time, however in her current state of mind, this could easily be put down to animals or insects stuck in the chimney, or even leaves. The years of hopeless searching were weighing heavy on her. If she was ever going to move on with her life, selling this place might well be the way to go. And in order to do that, a blocked up fireplace would be the first thing to put off prospective buyers. She sipped her drink, studied the boards and contemplated how to go about it.

**********
"You'd be best to leave your mother to calm down for a while, Luke."

David Taylor stacked up the plates of half eaten lunch and helped his son to carry everything back to the kitchen.

"Do you think she'll be alright?"

Luke didn't see his mother in tears very often. Even the occasional still born baby lambs failed to set her off.

David piled the dishes into the sink and rested his hands on its metallic sides while he looked out the window.
"She's a tough one. Don't worry about her. It's Chris you should be concerned about."

Putting down his collection of washing up onto the counter, Luke pulled a puzzled face.
"What? Why's that?"

"This morning we had a bit of a discussion, Chris, your mother and me. Apparently he wants us to change our will and make it so that you two can sell the farm and split the money between you. But that would mean that the Tyler's wouldn't have land here for the first time since the Vikings. It's not something that your mother and I are prepared to do. It would be like Sarah's family giving up their place. The Lakers have been around almost as long as we have. You can trace that family right back to the Witchfinder General of East Anglia in the 1600's. Besides," Luke's father turned and held his son's arm with a heavy, strong hand. "Besides, we already arranged it years ago that you get to inherit the farm and Chris will have to pay for his half if he wants in."

Luke was stunned. "But that doesn't seem fair, Dad? Why can't we share it all?"

David sighed and let go of Luke's arm.

"Because Chris just wants to get the money. He's never been interested in keeping the place - never once shown any interest in helping out round here. He signed up as soon as he left school and made it clear that he was going to sell it, whether you wanted to or not. He would kick you out of your own home without a moments hesitation. You on the other hand... "

"Yeah, I get it, Dad. I probably wouldn't even ask for the money."

"Exactly. But maybe now you can understand why he gets at you like he does."

"Kind of."

"Anyway, he's still out there in the front yard if you want to talk to him about it. Don't know if it'll do you any good though."

"Right. Thanks, Dad."

Luke left his father bent over the task of dish washing and went out to deal with his brother. He felt sorry for him now, but still dubious of his nasty streak. He found Chris leaning against his Honda Civic, smoking a roll up.

As Luke came round the side of the renovated farmhouse, Chris flicked his ash in an irritated manner and grumbled under his breath.
"What the fuck do you want?"

Luke held up his hands but kept his eyes on the car.
"Just heard about the inheritance thing."

"Ah, yes." Chris took a deep drag and blew out a pale cloud of smoke. " Yes, that's a beauty, isn't it?"

"Yeah, um... I get it now why you were so pissed off at lunch but," his hands were beginning to sweat. " But, did you have to bring it up about Clara again?"

Chris smirked as he dropped his cigarette onto the concrete and ground it out under his boot.

"Seemed like the right thing to do. You know what that little bitch did to me?"

"Hey? What did she ever do to you?"

"That time she stayed over - when you were playing number one son and doing the shearing with Dad all weekend - I was the one who comforted her and helped her out with her stupid homework. I was the one who gave her a shoulder to cry on. But you know what she said to me when I tried to give her a kiss? "

Luke shook his head. He'd heard nothing about this from Clara. Chris stood straight and looked sharply at Luke.

"She said that there was no way she'd let me come within an inch of her and that all the good genes must have been given to you and that I was just the abortion of shit stuff before you were born. That I was so ugly she'd puke."

"What? Why would she say that?"

It took Luke a couple of seconds to recall the memory of that particular weekend. The one were Clara had overheard Chris' insults while she was in the bathroom.

"Ah, shit, yeah. I remember, now. No it had nothing to do with how you look. It's because she heard you being a dick to me and wanted to get you back for it."

"Little bitch! She could've told me that and I would have said sorry for it, if I'd have had a chance of getting in her good books."

Luke took a deep breath.
"Listen, if you call her a bitch once more I will slap you. And no, I was the one in her good books that weekend."

"Oh, yeah?"

Chris grinned slyly at his brother, Luke knew he had guessed the truth. Luke cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. He couldn't remember the last time when they had been in this kind of semi-relaxed brotherly moment.

"Yeah. In the haybarn..."

"Dirty dog. Does Duncan know?"

"No. Or Sarah. Clara was way too much in love with him to tell him. It only happened the once. Stupid thing to do."

"Bet it wasn't all that stupid, ey?" As much as Luke now knew that he must be jealous of his little brother, Chris must also realise that Luke was a soft hearted man. "Anyway, dickweed, I'm shipping out of here next week. Back to Germany."

"I thought you were being posted back here?"

"Yep. I am, but before that happens I'm getting married. Then, I'm bringing her back with me."

"What? Does Mum know?"

"Nope." Chris opened the door to his car. "And that's the way it's going to stay okay, Bro?"

Luke nodded slowly. He watched his brother get into the vehicle and start the engine. After winding down the window, Chris lit up another ready rolled cigarette and winked at Luke, he clamped the cigarette between his teeth and said,
"Sorry."

Luke raised a hand in salute.
"Me too."