Simon let the bike carry him down the hill where there was a narrow cycle lane leading to the traffic lights. Zetland Road, he saw the name on the right hand arm, leading to what looked like a less busy part of town, maybe he would have time to investigate it later. He thought of Mr Blackmore. Time, Simon, it's always your problem. No problem now, Mr Blackmore, I have three months of it. No need think about school any more. The The sun reflected off the blacktop but there was the lightest breeze to keep him from sweltering. Di had given him a pair of trousers for his birthday and he already regretted wearing them to cycle into town. Shorts would have been more practical. Live and learn, Mr Blackmore. He was preoccupied with the harsh words his grandmother had said. The worst thing was it might be true. A car sat impatiently next to him and already he longed for the open country of his own village. In the rear seat a witch with pointed hat but when he looked again it was just a girl dressed for a party, too early in the day he could not help thinking. Something buzzed trying to get under the front of his helmet and he swatted it away. A greengrocer's shop to his left among the cafes and pubs and he could not help imagining a scene from a movie where someone ran into the displays knocking potatoes and beetroot so they hurtled and tumbled all the way down the pavement, passers by scooping them in their arms to give back to the shopkeeper. The light changed, the traffic started up again and the irritable drivers tried their hardest to push past him until the next red just a few seconds down.

He rode the last bit into Bristol casually and waited in the shade a few minutes after reaching the bank and parking on the rack. Sticking the helmet in his rucksack he ruffled his short black hair and wafted his T shirt to cool down. Wondered whether he might need to have it cut but he would prefer to go to his regular barbers and anyway in town they might be expensive. As he opened the door the rush of air conditioning cooled his skin. it was dark and formal and he could hardly see.

He jumped as an earnest man in his mid twenties emerged from the shadows. “May I help you sir?”

“Oh. Yes. Please. I just want to open a student account. I mean, I’ve set up the account on the Internet and I have to provide some documents. I’m going to University in Sheffield in September.”

“Yes we can do that for you now. Come over to the desk.”

It went as quickly as he could expect. “Your name?”

“Er, Wyche. Simon Wyche.”

“Witch? That’s an unusual name.”

Sighing inwardly, it was the same every time. “No, Wyche. W-Y-C-H-E.”

“Oh. Sorry. You’ll be one of the family from Wyche Farm, near Yate Gate, by any chance?”

“Well yes, as a matter of fact. I wouldn’t have thought we were famous.”

“I don’t know. It’s just because I was born in that area. Lived there till I was six. My family are Chadwicks. Curse of the thirteenth and all that. Sorry, didn’t mean to get distracted. Now, address?”

“Well, Wyche Farm, Yate Gate.” “BS35 1NT” he added, just to avoid meaninglessness. “Here’s the account code.”

“Oh, yes. That’ll do. Now we’ll just set the security answers and we can send you a passcode on your phone.”

Simon typed in the responses. “Now just sign there, and there.” He took the pen, signed his name there and there and slipped the pen into his pocket. The cards, security device and cheque book should he ever dream of wanting such a thing would be sent on later. “You know about the book? The black book?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Oh it’s just a superstition. But my girlfriend’s a Chadwick. My gran's against it.”

The man sat back, looked at him carefully making Simon feel under inspection. Pausing, he seemed to be considering how to say it. “My grandmother taught me about the book. I was never allowed to date a Wyche. Well, I can look after your money for you and advise you on how to invest but we all have to bow to our grannies. Hope it goes ok.”

Stuffing his passport and i.d. into the side pocket of his trousers to sit alongside the birthday money his grandmother had sent and the accidentally purloined pen he started out into the sunshine.

He had to get to Northumbria Avenue. North View. There was a row of shops there, one of them a jewellers. Denton’s. Rich’s father. Rich had been in his class since primary school. Richard St Claire. Not Sinclair. Now they were all in their diaspora. He knew the way easily enough, it was a few miles and hilly so he could take his time.

Simon felt freer than ever in his life. It was nearly midday and the sun at its highest. Buying a can from an express store he rode slowly along back roads, avoiding the traffic and sipping as he wandered up the hills in an unnecessarily low gear. Mentally checking the map in his head. The hill carried on nearly two miles. The end a little tougher and he stopped a while after reaching the top. As he rode a curving street the destination came into view, between a curtain shop and an estate agents.

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“Sorry Si, Rich isn’t home,” said the man in the shop. His dad. Ed, he thought. “But he said he’ll be back in about an hour. You can wait if you like or come back later.”

“Matter of fact I wanted a watch,” said Simon. “Got some money for my birthday.”

“You’re eighteen too now of course. Off to Uni?”

“Yeah. End of September. Law at Sheffield. Assuming I get A’s.”

“Let’s see. How much are we looking at? Hands or numbers?”

“Hands. Definitely. My gran gave me a hundred and fifty. I want something that’ll look good and last.”

“How about this?”

The watch had a silver strap and blue face. It showed the date and came in a presentation box that Simon could photograph so his grandmother could see what her money had bought. Though she was at the edge of her mental abilities and undoubtedly his parents were more involved in her presents. Still knew about the Chadwicks though, that archaic and superstitious part of her mind functioned perfectly. They are cursed, that lot. You will have no children. While there is still life in me, and all that. Anyway he could wear it if he went to see her in her flat, he would be sure to make the journey one more time before leaving. Turning over the ticket he saw a hundred and sixty two pounds and reached into his pocket.

“One fifty to you. Since it’s your birthday.”

Simon was openly delighted. He did not really know Rich’s father very well, though he had met his mum many times. Not knowing anything to say he just let him set it and adjust the clasp to his bony wrist then put it back into the box and in a small bag which Simon slipped into a secure pocket.

“You can stay for Rich if you like. Then again. Maybe this, maybe that. At Cathy’s most likely.” Simon knew Cathy, wondered whether Ed approved of the relationship, probably it didn't matter to him, then realised his mind was straying.

“Think I’ll go out onto the grass for a bit. I’ll text him to say I’m around.”

As he was unlocking the bike Rich’s dad came out again. “Wait there a second.”

He disappeared into the back of the shop and came out with some old coins in his hand. “Here. I found them in the shed the other day. They might be interesting to you.”

“Thanks bud,” said Simon. He looked at them in the sunlight facing the window where they showed up dark against the collection of rings and jewellery in the trays on the shelves inside. They were very old and bore the head of a king he did not recognise. IACOBVS DG ANG SCO FRA ET HIB REX. Hib must be Ireland. A shilling, a penny and a farthing. He smiled at Mr Denton and slipped them into his pocket, but after thinking a second he took them out and wrapped them in a clean tissue, then put them safely back in. “Thanks,” he said again and started to ride off.

He popped into a local baker’s to buy a couple of bits for lunch and took off to the start of The Downs which stretched as far as he could see, past football pitches and a wooded area and he knew there would be cliffs at the far end by the Gorge. He found shade, propped the bike against the tree and took his T-shirt off. It was black, so impractical on a hot day and he wondered that his skin was not stained. A picture of four bearded men on the front who called themselves Hear Sister. Laid it on the bars with his helmet on the ground underneath. He wondered whether he might explore to the far end of the open space, he had only once been as far as the cliffs and slopes, but he could do that trip another time, when it was less effort. More time, Mr Blackmore, he couldn't help reciting. This time he took out a pack of cigarettes. Then he remembered. Eighteen now and his self-promise that he would give up before becoming addicted. Putting the lighter back in his pocket he lay against the tree.

He thought again of the Chadwicks, drifting into reverie. And Di. The curse. Could it really exist? Meticulous records in the famous book for nearly four hundred years and the undying wrath of older generations towards offenders. Legend was there had never been a successful union of the two sets of families. Legend could be stuffed. The sun glinted through the branches, hypnotising and he slept.

He went for his phone for the time then remembered and took the watch out of its box. Clasping it on his wrist he read three o’clock. Have I been asleep two hours? He took out the phone. Put it back, no messages, not expected back at any particular time. Five would be fine.

Pulling on his top he felt briefly dizzy as he stood. Waves of heat shimmered on the surface of the road a short way distant. The sun seemed to stare down at him. In his half-sleep he glided slowly down through narrow streets until he realised he did not know where he was. Downhill would do well enough. A terrace of houses broke to give view of an open space behind and several similar rows worked their way down the hillside with allotments below. Carrying on down he made the easy assumption this would take him back to the city centre. On a steep section he put his head down to see how fast he could go. A sudden blast of cold air cut into his face then evaporated into the warmth. Alerting himself he realised the road was bumpy and was glad he had paid extra for a bike with proper suspension. Suddenly he saw he was going too fast for the surface, which had changed from gritty tarmac to dust and stones.

Hitting the brakes he skidded to a halt. Looking ahead down the hill the landscape was almost devoid of built form. He turned round to see the way he had come. Above was a bare hill. He could see his skid on the track that snaked down. In the distance stood a small chapel and a gallows.

Simon held his breath. Reaching up he touched his chin, half checking whether he had acquired twenty years’ growth of beard while asleep. Shaking himself out of the spell he surveyed. No sign of a bustling city. Behind him and above, the fields now empty, where he had slept after lunch. Apart from the gibbet hardly any evidence of civilisation. Below just a few houses in the valley issued smoke. A small stream spattering down the gulley deep below him to his left disappeared into a snake of trees. He started down towards a curve in the hill. Something caught his eye.

By the stream two crows stood guard on top of a large black object lying in the bed. He blinked and looked again. It was old and corroded and looked as if it had been burnt. The glass had completely disappeared. But he could see the number plate very easily. He worked out the reg. 1963. Looked like a Morris Minor, he had seen one at a rally on TV.

Checking the security of his helmet he carried on tentatively down the hill.