Banquet for the Damned by Adam Nevill

nods.
'We owe him nothing.' A car passes. Sunlight blesses the street in summer; snow distinguishes it in winter. This is a home for learning built from old stones, with an elegance to its arches and courts, and a mystery endowed by its shadows and legends. But the aesthetics have shifted: he can feel it. Something has arrived to disturb the calm, to wind back time and reinstall a grimmer place where thinkers burned for heresy and darkness brought dread to small grey towns.

CHAPTER SEVEN
'Hey now. You must be Mike.' Hart's vision is starting to swim and something beats against his temples from the inside. Before he knew it, the one shot of scotch he needed for Dutch courage, an hour before Mike Bowen was scheduled to arrive, grew swiftly to four generous measures.
'Hello,' the stiff figure answers, and embellishes the greeting with a single nod from a slender head. There is something graceful about the tall, thin-faced figure's movements as he steps, cautiously, into the flat's reception area, and Hart wonders if his heart beats at half speed. Only the student's grey eyes are quick and animate, but whenever they flit toward Hart they take in his beard and then glance away to peer at the wall or floor.
'Just go up the stairs,' Hart says. His guest begins a slow climb. 'What you studying, Mike?'
'Classics.'
'Liberal arts, God bless 'em. All set to be an academic?'
Mike nods. 'I hope so.'
'Where you from?'
'Boston, originally.'
Hart recognises the type: single, old money, with a manner as straight-backed as a Puritan's church bench. Takes himself seriously and only adopts the little silver earring to fit in, which only serves to make him look more incongruous.
In the lounge, Mike begins to shuffle about on his sensible shoes before coming to a standstill. 'What exactly are you studying?' he asks, and raises himself onto his toes.
Hart smiles. Kid with an attitude. Someone like Mike would only come to him through desperation, and would never tell a soul afterward. He gives Mike a run down of his credentials and the book he is writing.
'Interesting,' Mike says, sincerely. 'I've specialised in Ancient Greek religion.'
'Great,' Hart says, and slips a blank cassette into his tape recorder.
'Do you speak Greek?'
'Ancient Greek, Latin, and a little Pictish for amusement.'
When Hart wafts his hand, palm outward, at the couch, Mike looks uncomfortable and is eyeing the recorder. Nodding toward it, Hart says, 'Don't worry. I'd only use your interview with permission and I always change the names.'
The student sits stiffly on the couch. There is little point asking him to relax. 'Let me guess,' Hart says to clear the air. 'You wouldn't usually associate with anything resembling my work, but you're fascinated.' He says 'fascinated' slowly and hopes the whisky hasn't added a sarcastic tinge to his voice. There is another gentle nod of Mike's narrow head and a sideward sweep of the eyes. 'Absolutely.'
'You've never had a history of vivid, perhaps hallucinatory dreams?'
'That is correct.'
'But recently your world turned upside down?'
Mike adjusts his position on the couch.
Hart grins. 'Seems to be happening a lot in this town. Makes you wonder.'
Mike angles his head toward Hart. 'Really?'
'Oh yeah. You're not the first.'
'Lifestyle or atmospheric conditions perhaps. A susceptibility to the baroque ambience of the town.'
Hart smiles. 'Maybe.'
'Will you let me know of your results?'
'Sure. When I've collected enough data, which doesn't seem to be in short supply, I'll let you all know.'
Mike removes his coat and stretches out his corduroy-clad legs. Sitting opposite, Hart runs through his spiel and opening questions about medication and alcohol consumption, which Mike answers candidly; he confesses to treatment for depression. Hart nods in sympathy, but swiftly moves on, remembering Kerry's aversion to his prying. 'So, Mike. What I'd like you to do now is tell me about your dreams, in your own time.'
Mike clears his throat. 'Well, about a month