In the Overlook all things had a sort of life. It was as if the whole place had been wound with a silver key. The clock was running. The clock was running.

He was that key, Danny thought sadly. Tony had warned him and he had just let things go on.

(I’m just five!)

he cried to some half-felt presence in the room.

(Doesn’t it make any difference that I’m just five?)

There was no answer.

He turned reluctantly back to the clock.

He had been putting it off, hoping that something would happen to help him avoid trying to call Tony again, that a ranger would come, or a helicopter, or the rescue team; they always came in time on his TV programmes, the people were saved. On TV the rangers and the SWAT squad and the paramedics were a friendly white force counterbalancing the confused evil that he perceived in the world; when people got in trouble they were helped out of, they were fixed up. The did not have to help themselves out of trouble.

(Please?)

There was no answer.

No answer, and if Tony came would it be the same nightmare? The blooming, the hoarse and petulant voice, the blue-black rug like snakes? Redrum?

But what else?

(Please oh please)

No answer.

With a trembling sigh, he looked at the clockface.