

AN INTRODUCTION TO

NEW GHOST STORIES

First published in 2018 by DPN Books at Smashwords

© David Paul Nixon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced for any purpose – excluding brief excerpts

for review purposes – without the prior

written permission of the author.

Cover design by Marie Sloan

For my family

With thanks to the Velkys, Steven Lownds,

Marie Sloan and everyone else who

has given their time and support to the

project over the years.

For exclusive content and audio stories, visit

www.newghoststories.com
CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

A RHYTHM OF SIX

THE GIRL ON THE BENCH

BLIND

THE WIFE

IN A BOX

THE STORM WALKER
INTRODUCTION

Do I believe in ghosts?

A few years ago that wouldn't have been a difficult question: A resounding "no" would have sprung from my lips with barely a moment's thought. I love a good ghost story; I even watch some of those ropey documentaries on the less-respectable TV channels. But a believer – I most certainly was not.

Now things are more complicated...

My strange journey started almost three years ago. I was on the London South Bank, having just seen a Hitchcock classic at the cinema, and was killing time before returning to see a screening of The Innocents – the classic cinematic ghost story. By luck and coincidence as I walked out in front of Charing Cross station I crossed paths with an old school friend, someone I had not seen in years.

We took the chance to catch up and settled down in a nearby pub. I explained that I had a few hours before the film started and I ended up telling him the plot, as he had not seen it, though he was apparently a fan of horror.

At some point, as we started to trade our favourite scary tales, he said to me that he knew someone who had experienced the real thing. A relative who had actually seen a real ghost and had a real story to tell. Naturally, I was sceptical; I knew people who had seen ghosts, but these were always stories that had taken place during their childhood and lacked credibility, transformed as they were into fascinating anecdotes, ripened for ear-catching conversation. Yet he was insistent, and if I wanted I could hear the story straight from the horse's mouth.

After a few pints, this became something of a gauntlet thrown down and I felt obliged to pick it up. A few weeks later I found myself in an unfamiliar part of suburban London going to visit a man who, as it turned out, was firstly, not expecting to see us, and secondly, didn't want to tell us the story.

If this seems like a humorous situation, I can state quite categorically that it wasn't. He really didn't want to tell it. He was afraid we might laugh, that we might scoff. This was something quite serious to him; something he didn't like to talk about. Unfortunately, this made it all the more fascinating to hear. I'd only really accepted the invitation out of kindness, now I really couldn't wait to hear what the man had to say.

We managed to persuade him after a while; swore that we weren't about to laugh at him or mock him, that we really just wanted to hear what he had to say. He didn't want just to tell us the story though; he wanted to prove it! Prove that he wasn't making it up. There was this contradiction within him; a wanting to be believed but also a fear of being laughed at.

So we listened intently. What struck me about his story, and what caused me to really embark on the journey that led to me starting this book, is just how affected he seemed to be by what he had experienced. It seems like an obvious thing to point out doesn't it? But when you hear a ghost story, you always take it as a roller-coaster ride. Some frights and some chills, a bit of fun and a bit of a scare. You don't really take it seriously.

Yet, when I heard this story, I was taken aback by how serious it really was. It wasn't a bit of fluff told in low-light with a sense of relish. This was a defining moment in this man's life, and not a good one; a painful one.

I found the urge to tell his story almost irresistible. He was uncomfortable with the idea at first, but slowly I was able to talk him around. This was his chance to put his side of the story across, to present what had been a great tragedy in his life, without judgement, for others to discover. For him to just tell it like it is – people could either then take it or leave it.

And that's how I decided to approach the idea; I sat down with him and a microphone and just let him tell it, recording every word. This was useful for several reasons, not just for capturing his words but also it allowed me to scrutinise them. Though I found nothing suspicious about him or his story, I nevertheless wished to be certain that he was telling the truth, at least as far as he knew it.

I could detect no great diversions from the story he had told me before, no signs of great exaggerations or flexible facts. And as for his evidence... Let's be clear that this did not amount to categorical proof of supernatural occurrences, but it did establish a certain number of facts, dates, locations; proof that certain events had happened, even if their cause could not be concluded.

Having heard his story again, I felt even more strongly that he was sincere, that he was no great fantasist or exhibitionist. And for his part, it seemed that we had in some way helped him to get these matters off his chest, given him some small sense of catharsis.

And this is where my journey started. As I sat at home transcribing his words, I wondered who else out there had a real ghost story; a story that preyed on their mind that they had perhaps kept hidden, reluctant to tell their friends or family for fear of ridicule or worse.

I took small steps at first, just a mere few blog posts and forum entries. The early response was overwhelming – a mixed blessing to say the least. I had given out an open invitation for any joker, loon and nutcase to vie for attention. I was bombarded with the ridiculous, the stupid and the mundane; everything from tales of creaking doors and gates to the attacks of full-grown bogeymen.

But I stuck with it. My first storyteller confessed to have spoken to a few others online about his experiences and said he knew of a few he felt were serious, sensible people like him who had experienced something out of the ordinary, but also feared ridicule or the attentions of the over-enthusiastic amateur ghost-hunter.

Some of these became my first subjects and gave me confidence that the whole project was worth undertaking and worth the work.

It has not been easy picking through the heavy correspondence, trying to separate the honest voices from the dishonest ones. I have come dangerously close to being fooled and wasted a great deal of time chasing people who it turned out could not be relied upon; who if not lying outright, were being obviously very liberal with the truth.

I have applied some technique to my recording of the stories that follow in this collection. I can't say that I have been very scientific; I have tried simply to approach each case with my best judgement. I have asked for every story to be told twice, sometimes on paper, ideally at least once on tape, so that I could compare and examine their words, searching for any reason to doubt them.

I have required some kind of evidence as the minimum criteria for any sustained contact with anyone claiming to have a story to tell. This evidence could be anything from receipts to train tickets, emails, photographs; just small things to ascertain dates, locations, anything to tie down certain facts and to deter tellers of fiction. In some cases I may have refused to speak to people with honest stories because they lacked any items of proof. I sincerely apologise if I have offended anyone, but this has been a difficult process with many a trap to fall into. I have simply had to be ruthless.

What I present here are 11 stories from amongst the many hundreds I have heard and attempted to investigate. These 11 stories represent what, as far as I can tell, are the most truthful accounts amongst those I have heard.

Truth is a slippery thing and upon reading these stories you will undoubtedly feel this also. There are extraordinary things written within these pages; things I could not believe. Things that go beyond what goes bump in the night...

You may be sceptical; you would be foolish not to be. Yet in each case I have done my best to probe each subject, question them and challenge them. They have remained firm in their convictions, backed up much of what they have said and proved themselves within a certain reasonable doubt to be rational, sane people.

You will probably come to doubt this. And this in turn will be revealing; what these stories may say about the tellers, if they are not true, is almost as fascinating as the possibility of them being entirely factual.

What follows then are the edited transcripts of interviews or the written accounts of 11 subjects, printed here with as much fidelity as possible. I have avoided editing them unless absolutely necessary. I have removed any interruptions or any great diversions from the story, but only with great reluctance. I have striven to offer the complete testimony of each subject as authentically as possible.

Ensuring the confidentiality of each subject has been paramount to me throughout this whole project. Certain names or locations may have been changed or simply omitted to help protect their anonymity. The people who tell these stories did so at great personal risk and I am extremely grateful that they have put their trust in me.

It is possible with the tool of the internet to investigate, to form hypotheses and to put great effort into tracking down these individuals. In one case the teller of the story will be so easy to ascertain that masking it was virtually pointless. Yet I saw no reason to offer them any different assurances than any other subject. Nevertheless, I must ask and implore you to leave these people alone and not to attempt to uncover their identities. Frankly, they have been through enough.

What these stories tell us about the supernatural, about life and death, the universe... I cannot say. This project has made me simultaneously both more sceptical and more of a believer. Sceptical because of all the countless hours wasted listening to lies and dross and delusional behaviour. But in these stories there are 11 people who speak with a genuine pain. Their stories cannot so easily be explained away.

Does that mean I believe in ghosts? I think until I see one face-to-face, I will always be a sceptic. But do I believe there are things that exist in this world that defy explanation and our understanding?

You bet I do...

A RHYTHM OF SIX

He was excited at first. After all, he'd just made his name – and a fairly substantial amount of money – selling a script about ghost stories to a producer. Now the flat he'd used the money to buy apparently had a ghostly apparition of its own.

Well, not so much an apparition; more a noise. I felt certain he was talking crap. He told me it made a tapping noise. As someone who lives in an old Victorian tenement with piping more than a hundred years old, I wasn't buying it; just turning on the central heating was like unleashing a symphony of slow spoon players. The incessant clicks and clacks could go on all night.

It was then that he moved his coffee cup and tapped out a rhythm: tap t-t-t-tap tap. That's the noise it would make. It could happen at any time, day or night, coming from somewhere in the flat. "The rhythm of six" he called it. Always the same, never different. It would come from somewhere far away, never near where he was. And as soon as he went looking for it, it would stop.

I didn't believe him, and he knew I wouldn't. So he invited me over to come and see for myself. I was a little sceptical, not just because I didn't believe him, but because I thought that this might be some pretext for him to try something.

We had been close friends once, but then, after quite a long time of us being friends, he had got drunk and announced his "love" for me. It was quite definitely not what I wanted to hear. I'd never really thought of him as someone I'd want to go out with. I was seeing someone when we became friends, and I was seeing someone when he suddenly said he was in love with me.

I suppose I'd always found him a bit too much work. He was fun to spend time with, to talk to, but he could get pretty clingy. He barely let his last girlfriend out of the house – he liked your undivided attention because he wasn't very confident. And if you ignored him or didn't pay enough attention to him, he could get a bit sulky and offish.

I'd known worse, gone out with worse, but he never really seemed my type. I'd enjoyed spending time with him, we were decent friends – I thought. He'd made a bad lunge for me, and held on too tightly and a bit too long when I told him to let go. It wasn't a side to him that I'd seen before, and I didn't like it.

We didn't talk for a long time after that. And it was only when we started living nearby again, about a year ago, that we patched things up. Things were good between us, but he didn't have many friends in the area, so I saw him quite a lot, and knew he wanted a little more from me. It was a bit obvious.

I went along with it any way, I thought we had to get past this awkwardness – and I did genuinely like him; we'd had good times. A nice inexpensive night in with him and his DVD collection actually seemed nice, as long as he didn't try anything.

Anyway, we got take-out – pizza and chips – and put on some movies, a mixture of the good and bad. But not with the sound on loud – he didn't want me to miss it if we heard the tapping. I really didn't give a toss about it, and just went on eating and drinking and talking.

We were half way through taking the piss out of Keanu Reeves in Point Break when he suddenly cried: "There it is!"

"What?"

"The tapping." He grabbed the remote and stopped the movie.

"Did you hear it?"

I had the feeling I might have heard a knock or something, but I didn't want to over-play its significance. But Craig was adamant I had heard the ghost.

"It could've just been the pipes."

"It's June, the heating's off and none of the taps are on."

I wasn't buying it, but I could see that this was no joke. He honestly believed something was going on. He was getting all worked up; what mysteries could his home be hiding? Who had lived here before? What had happened to them? What kind of restless spirit lived here?

It was a bit sad how quickly the sceptic had become a convert. He'd started to really believe the kind of things he was writing about. I teased him about it; he admitted his imagination was running away with him, but he promised me that there was something, and that he wasn't just making it up. I told him he should contact that fool on the telly, the one who goes into people's homes to talk to the dead. He laughed at the suggestion – at least he hadn't become a complete believer.

We finished watching Christopher Lee in The Devil Rides Out at about half-past midnight and there was still no sound from the so-called ghost.

It was then that he said I should stay the night – it almost always made some noise in the night time. Considering our past, this was something I did not really want to do.

But it was tipping it down outside – typical British summer weather. The thought of staying made me a bit uncomfortable, but the lazy part of me was already thinking: it's wet, it's a bit of a walk, you're pretty drunk and you can't afford a taxi. Besides, it was probably safer to stay here than go out into the streets this late when clearly plastered.

He sensed doubt on my part, so he said, "I'm not going to try anything; I'll put up the fold-up bed in the library, you can lock the door if you want to."

So I consented and he set up the bed for me. His library was in the small second bedroom. As he put the bed up, I couldn't help notice just how much stuff he had based around the occult. Books about witchcraft, hauntings, pagans; all the classic ghost story authors: M.R.James, Poe, Le Fanu, Stoker... and suspicious things by sinister folk like Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey. I didn't believe in any of this stuff, but to be surrounded by so many tomes about nasty things was a little bit unsettling. It also made me wonder whether he'd fallen under their spell just a little, and had started to be swept up by it after all.

I didn't sleep well, but I put that down to the booze. I phased in and out; hard to know how long I was sleeping. I woke myself up properly and tried again. I ended up reading DVD sleeves in the moonlight. There was probably every Hammer Horror known to man, multiple versions of The Amityville Horror – even that movie they banned after the Jamie Bulger murder (bootleg of course).

I got up after a while to get some water. I moved in the dark to the kitchen and put on the light after a little searching. I grabbed a glass and turned on the cold water tap. The water was massively over-pressured and it spat out with a thump, hitting the bottom of my glass with enough force to splash onto my t-shirt. I turned it off quickly, swearing loudly, before wiping myself down with a tea towel – Craig had warned me about the tap earlier.

As I tried to wipe water up from the counter, I heard something. It was the slightest sound of tapping; not loud, but it was there.

I scoffed – it was the pipes after all. That idiot! I turned on the over-pressured tap again – it splashed heavily against the dirty dishes in the sink, getting me wet once again. But I turned it off quickly and waited for the sound of knocking.

I was sure I'd got it, but then nothing happened. I waited for more than a minute. I was so sure I'd found the source, but nothing was heard.

That didn't prove anything though; the tap was still probably the most likely explanation. I filled my glass with water from the hot tap instead. I waited a little then too, but there was no sound.

I started to walk out of the kitchen, and then I heard it:

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

I stopped still. That wasn't the sound of a pipe; it sounded like someone tapping on a wall or a table. Quite clearly in a rhythm; no clumsy clunking or banging.

I immediately assumed Craig was taking the piss, so I walked quickly out into the hall to see if he was there. It was empty and dark. I looked both ways, down to the bedroom at the end of the hall, and back across the landing to the living room. All seemed quiet and empty.

What had he said? It always stops when you go looking for it... Now it was giving me the willies. I felt a shiver and suddenly thought it would be best to go back to my room and hope the dark words of the occultists might protect me.

I walked forward a little, past the door to the bathroom. There it was again, behind me:

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

It came from the landing, I was sure of it. I spun around and saw a figure – I almost screamed, but after a second realised that it was the hat-stand.

I exhaled and shook my head. I chuckled slightly at myself and turned back towards the library.

There it was again: tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

It was from the stair bannister, creeping along the surface, getting closer to me with each tap.

I inhaled quickly – then it came again, from the bathroom door right next to me:

Tap-t-t-t-tap...

...TAP – right on my shoulder! Like someone poking me hard in the back.

I span around in a fright and tripped over the end of the rug in the hallway. I fell over backward with a screech, throwing my arms up in the air. My glass of water splattered dramatically over the wall. The glass, by some miracle, didn't smash – it landed with a thud on the carpet and rolled up to the door of Craig's bedroom.

I tried to get up, but as I scrambled to my feet all I did was roll the rug up under me. I stumbled again and fell back on the floor with a thump.

The door opened and Craig came out into the hall: "What the hell's going on?"

"It touched me," I screamed. "The thing touched me!"

He took me into the living room and, rather quaintly, thought that what I needed was some warm milk to calm me down.

He accused me of imagining it because I was drunk. I almost hit the roof: "I felt it! It touched my shoulder. You expected me to believe you; now you won't believe me!"

He said I should calm down: "All it did was touch you. That's not so bad."

"He didn't touch me, he poked me!"

"Well, how do you know it's a 'he'? Maybe it's a 'she'?"

"Oh you'd love that wouldn't you? A jealous she-spirit who wants you." Sounded like the kind of thing he'd try to make a story out of.

Despite my distress he was clearly very excited. I'd experienced it too, so there was no question now. It was real! He was suddenly in his element. It was time to research, find out about the house's history, who'd lived there before, what crimes had taken place in the area – maybe unsolved?

He'd missed something obvious: "What about the people who live downstairs?"

"There's no one – it's been empty since I got here. Maybe this is why it's not for sale – there's no sign. I bet it's something that happened in the house below."

It struck me instantly that he was very much in his own fictional world. That he was actually living out one of his own stories and that he was going to approach this like a work of fiction. I tried to point this out, but he said he'd studied ghost hunting and knew what it was that psychical researchers do when they hear about phenomena.

I didn't dare point out that most of that was made up too – guesswork that lent itself to mankind's natural capacity for making sense of things by making a story. But then I thought, well, what if it isn't all nonsense? I had just been poked in the shoulder. And I hadn't imagined it – I wasn't that drunk, surely?

I didn't sleep well the rest of that night as you can imagine. I kept having this unpleasant feeling that I was being watched. I think I was just being paranoid. But there was something in that house; something had touched me. I knew it. I didn't wait around for breakfast; I walked home and climbed quickly back into my own bed for comfort.

I didn't see Craig for a week or so after that. This wasn't deliberate – the thing at his place hadn't scared me that badly; I just had accountancy exams coming up and needed to revise. I got a phone call from him after a few days saying he was trying to contact the previous owners of the flat. The estate agents wouldn't let him contact them without themselves acting as go-between, but he was sure their address was on the paperwork somewhere. He remembered being told they had emigrated back to India, so it would be a while, one way or another, before he would hear from them.

He was also going to go to the town library to see if he could find any interesting references to the building and had contacted someone at the local historical society for any interesting things that had happened on his road. Some of the buildings were noticeably newer than some of the others and he'd wondered whether they'd been bombed in the war. Was this the restless spirit of someone trapped in the wreckage? Someone who had tried to make a noise so they could be rescued, but had not been heard in time?

He was so keen to make a narrative out of it.

He called on me again after my exams were over, under the guise of asking how it went. But quickly he wanted to update me on how things were progressing with his ghost hunt. I couldn't help but be jealous that he had all this time on his hands to spend chasing his fantasies.

The latest news was that he'd written to the flat's previous owners in India, having found their address, and was looking into finding a way to trick the council into giving him the address of the owners of the empty flat downstairs.

His historical research of the area had come to nothing as of yet; no suspicious goings on to speak of. Yes, some houses had been bombed in the war – but just down the street, not close by. The man at the historical society had been very friendly, but he didn't have anything "juicy" for him. He did, however, know someone who was researching a spiritualist guide to the area, and that he would contact him on Craig's behalf. So something good could come of that.

Then Craig stopped silent for a moment. "There it is again," he said. "The rhythm of six."

He said he'd be in touch soon and hung up. Later that night he texted me asking if I wanted to come over the evening after. I suggested an earlier time – somehow I didn't want to go over there again and be around when night fell.

I called around at about two in the afternoon. He invited me up and almost as soon as I had reached the top of the stairs there it was:

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

"I knew it," he said with relish.

"Knew what?"

"It doesn't like you."

"What?"

He walked me into the living room. "I think it reacts when you're here."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"I'm here all the time. It never bothers me. I hear it hanging around, making its noise, but it's always in the background. You show up and suddenly it gets all agitated. Starts doing its tapping loud – did you hear how sharp and clear that was?"

"Oh come on Craig – you're letting your mind run away with you."

"And it does it when I'm on the phone to you. It's like, when I'm on the sofa, just watching TV and it makes its noise, does the tapping, it's like it's just reminding me it's there. You know, like it doesn't want me to forget about it. But I start talking to you and suddenly it's banging its fingers down in a mood."

"Just stop it Craig. Seriously, just stop it! You're starting to freak me out."

"But get this: haven't you noticed how cold it is?"

"What?"

"When you came in the flat; it's suddenly gone cold".

"It was cold when I came in."

"It's June – it's 24 degrees outside. Why would it be cold in here?"

"It's not that cold in here," I lied – it was chilly. "Look, I don't want to talk about this. Can't we go out somewhere, get a coffee or something?"

"Not yet, I brought you here to help me with something."

"With what?" I hissed.

"I want to take a look downstairs."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"The backdoor isn't locked properly. The bolt is unlocked; I think I can wriggle the other lock with a credit card or a scraper."

"You want to break in!"

"I climbed out the bedroom window last night and got down there – look."

He took me into his bedroom. Directly under the window was the roof of part of the flat below.

He opened the window: "I just climbed out and dropped down; it's easy."

"You just walked out onto the roof? Are you crazy?"

"It's perfectly safe. I remember the estate agent telling me that the old owners wanted to build a balcony up here, but they weren't given planning permission."

"That doesn't mean the roof is already strong enough!"

"It supported my weight yesterday."

"You're so irresponsible."

"I need you to keep a lookout for me while I try to get the door open."

"Absolutely not, I'm not having anything to do with this."

"Come on, where's your spirit of adventure?"

"This isn't a game Craig. You're breaking into someone's house."

"It's empty."

"It's still a crime. What if someone catches you?"

"We'll just say we thought we smelt gas. Better yet, we could tell them that we'd left a tap on and were concerned there might be water damage downstairs."

"I can't believe you're trying to do this."

"I'd rather you help me, but I'm doing this without you if I have to. I'd rather you were there, that way I can know if the neighbours are coming."

"What do you even expect to find?"

"I don't know. When you investigate you have to rule out the dead-ends first."

"You've read too many detective books."

"Are you coming?"

I thought it was stupid and crazy, but part of me did want to give it a go because I was curious about what was going on. And it was sort of daring breaking into someone's home – stupid though it was. Besides, I was afraid he would get into more trouble, or that something bad would happen to him. It was cold in his flat; something was not right here.

I let him walk out on the roof first – I wasn't going to let both our weights risk making it break. He got to the end and carefully lowered himself down to ground level.

"There's a bench here you can drop yourself on to; it's really easy."

With reluctance I climbed out onto the roof, which thankfully did not groan or creak. I walked to the edge as he suggested and lowered myself down onto a rusty cast-iron bench. The garden was overgrown with thick grass and weeds – no one had been here in quite some time.

It was left, around the side of the house, to the back door. Craig was already there, trying to force the door with a credit card. I didn't like that the old wooden fence panels behind him were coming loose and that there were gaps between them where we could easily be seen.

"This is going to break my card," Craig said.

I looked through the gaps into the garden next door. It was paved over, a depressing grey and tired looking place, with a rusty bike and broken garden furniture – but at least there was no one there.

"Hurry up," I said.

He was trying the paint scraper now, forcing it into the gap between the door and frame. He wiggled it a little, then made a fist with his other hand and struck the top of the scraper's handle. The door opened with a loud creak. "Get in quick," I gasped.

I virtually pushed him inside, slamming the door closed behind us.

What we found was a disappointment. The kitchen and living room had an open corridor between them, with the bathroom sitting in the middle. Then down the hallway were two bedrooms – Craig's place had a much better layout.

But there was nothing remarkable about the place at all. It was empty, nothing on the walls or floor, no left-behind furniture or waste. Just a clean, empty home.

"Well, was this what you were expecting?" I said sharply.

"There's nothing..."

"In an unoccupied house? No kidding."

"No, but there's literally nothing. This place is spotless. There's not a mark or... a scrape or scuff. It all looks brand new. Look at the floor... And walls, no marks, no wear, no dirt..."

I took a step into the kitchen – it all looked pretty sparkling now that he mentioned it. I ran my finger across one of the countertops. There wasn't even any dust.

"It's brand new, completely re-decorated". It was quite warm too; not chilly like upstairs.

He waved his finger in the air. "Something happened here."

"Yeah, they did the place up to sell it."

"But it's not on the market."

"How do you know? Just cos there's no sign outside."

"I checked online, it's not listed anywhere."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I think something happened. Something bad; something bad enough for whoever owns the place to want to do it over completely. To wipe the slate clean. But even now, they're too afraid to put it on the market. Because of what happened."

"You're just making it up. You don't know any of that. Stop writing a story out of this. You don't know any of this–"

"Hey, hey, ghosts and stuff – that's my specialist field. Trust me; I know what I'm talking about."

"It's all rubbish. You're talking rubbish. All this crap about it going cold and it getting aggravated – you don't know any of that. You're just guessing and making it up as you go along. You don't know anything Craig, you don't know a damn thing!"

He was about to answer back angrily – his mouth opened wide – but then we heard a loud creak.

We both looked up to the ceiling – there were footsteps. Short, gentle, creaking footsteps above, in Craig's flat.

We both looked at each other – then we dashed to the doorway. Craig threw it open and slammed it shut behind me. He was up on the roof at an incredible speed, more athletic than I'd ever seen him. It took me longer to pull myself up from the bench and scramble through the window.

He was stood in the hallway looking around. "Nothing," he said. "There's no one here."

I didn't know what to say, I just stood there, in his bedroom doorway, out of breath.

We listened quietly for a moment, looking up and down the hall and across the landing.

"There has to be some logic behind it," he said pointing at me. "Whatever's going on, there has to be some logic behind it."

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

It was quite loud. I couldn't tell where it had come from.

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

"Who's there?" I said carefully. Craig looked at me with surprise.

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap – louder.

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap – louder still.

I walked towards him. "Where's it coming from?" I hissed.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap – becoming a thundering drumbeat.

I was trembling: "Let's get out of here".

Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

Tap-t-t-t-tap-TAP – the bathroom mirror leapt from the wall. It bounced off the edge of the sink and crashed onto the bathroom tiles, smashing into pieces.

The noise stopped. Glass was all over the floor – it hadn't just broken, it had exploded into fragments. Even the frame looked like it was torn apart.

Craig stepped over it, and picked up two of the frame's pieces – they were joined by the picture wire used to hang it. It hadn't snapped, and the hook was still in the wall.

It had literally flown off its own hook.

"We need to get out of here."

"It's all right," he whispered. "I think it's ok now."

"I don't care what you think!" I cried. "I want to get out of here now!"

He paused for breath. "Yes, all right" he said. He went for his keys and we made a hasty exit.

We went to a café a few streets away, wanting to put a fair bit of distance between ourselves and the flat. It was a Greek place that was pretending to be Italian; we just ordered coffee, neither of us felt like eating.

"That settles it then," he said.

"Settles what?"

"It's a poltergeist, not a ghost. Ghosts are benign, this thing reacts. It can be angry and destructive."

He took a sip of coffee. "You're not on your period are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, they can react to changes in the body, especially sexual ones."

"I'm 31, Craig, I'm not going through fucking puberty."

With a line like that, it wasn't surprising that people started to look at us. We should've gone somewhere quieter.

"What are you going to do?" I asked him.

"I don't know." He was scared now. This thing was no longer fun or extraordinary; it was a problem. A problem he really couldn't explain, not with all his books and horror movie trivia.

"I think it's best you don't come over any more," he said with a slight tremble in his voice.

"I think so too. But I'll have to go back over with you now because I've left my bloody handbag there."

We sat drinking for a moment or two in silence.

"Exorcism's probably the best thing."

"Moving is probably the best thing."

"I can't just move. You can't just pull out of a mortgage."

"You could say that the owner concealed information about the place from you."

"And what? Sue them for not saying there's a ghost living there? We've got to get rid of it somehow."

He finished his coffee. "At least we've both seen it. No one can just tell me I'm crazy."

I walked with him back to the flat. He said he'd bring my handbag out to me, but, and I don't know why, I suddenly felt defiant – I would come in and get my handbag. Whatever this thing was, I wanted to show it I was not afraid. Though my fearlessness didn't take me beyond the landing at the top of stairs.

"Where'd you leave it?" he asked.

"On the sofa I think."

He walked into the living room. I stood nervously waiting.

"Are you sure? I can't see it."

"Definitely," I was about to go in there and get it myself, but I heard the floor creak behind me.

I turned and saw it – an old man, grey-skinned and bony, walking into the library. He was stick-thin, bald, with liver spots and totally naked. But not just naked, clammy, almost sticky looking – he had almost no colour at all. Just faded, slimy and grey.

"Craig!" I screamed. Terrified and repulsed, I still ran towards the library after it. But as you might guess, when I got there, there was nothing. Craig thundered across the floor after me, arriving in the library as I went around the bookcases trying to see it.

"What was it?"

"It's here, I saw it. It's an old man. A disgusting old man!"

I didn't stay long after that. I made him promise that he'd call someone, anyone who could help, first thing in the morning, Monday. But I should've known that that was far too sensible a thing for him to do. When I called that evening, he excitedly told me that he'd visited his local electronic store and bought himself a whole bunch of recording equipment.

"Are you crazy?" I yelled.

"Look, I need proof. No one is going to believe me if I go and tell them I've heard bumps in the night and that my mirror has jumped off the wall. But if I record something, then I can be taken seriously and, I dunno, maybe get some proper researchers around."

I almost slammed down the phone.

But then I wondered if I'd been watching too many movies too. It hadn't really done much before, why should it suddenly mind or care if cameras were put up in the house? Life isn't like Paranormal Activity – he could just leave the house if things got bad, couldn't he?

It was all just guesswork; nobody really knew anything.

There seemed to be only one thing that was certain – it didn't like me. All the worst things had happened when I was there. Perhaps if I just stayed away, nothing would happen. I shuddered at the thought of it. To be desired by a disgusting old man from beyond the grave. It made me want to have a shower.

I didn't feel like being in the house alone that night. Milly, my housemate, was out touring Faust with her opera company, so it felt uncomfortably quiet. I put on a series of the Sopranos and started on some red wine to help myself relax.

I fell asleep at some point; I don't know what time. I woke up with a start at around 3:30 am; the TV had turned itself off, but my mobile was still on and it was vibrating its way towards the edge of the coffee table. I picked it up – it was Craig.

"Hello," I groaned.

"I'm coming over!"

"What?"

"It's gone fucking mental!" He was out of breath.

"What?"

"It's gone mental; I think it's going to kill me!"

"Craig, are you running?"

"I'll be there in a minute... I need somewhere to stay. I can't go back there."

He was on my doorstep dripping wet with rain and sweat just minutes later. He could barely talk; he was struggling so hard to catch his breath. I took his coat, but had no dry clothes to give him. He was wearing slippers; he must've just thrown on whatever came to hand. I put his slippers and coat in the dryer. I gave him a towel for his face and hair and sat him next to a fan heater in the kitchen while I put on the kettle.

"It went beserk!" he said, shivering.

"What do you mean, beserk?" I asked with a lump in my throat.

"I set up three cameras; one in the hall, one in my bedroom and one in the living room. Just cameras on tripods, nothing special, set to record for as long as they could."

"You wanted it on video – for fame and glory purposes?"

"I wanted proof! You don't understand; I went online, I looked around. People, nutters, they say stuff like this all the time. No one takes you seriously unless you've got video or the word of an expert; and any expert requires that you get cleared by a psychiatrist first before they'll even consider anything you say to be true. Catching it on tape would've shown anyone that I wasn't lying!"

His eyes were red and his face pale – he looked desperate and terrified.

"I went to sleep. Nothing was happening, I just dozed off. Slept for a couple of hours and then BANG! I don't know what it was, but it was loud, like someone hitting a steel container with a hammer. I jumped out of bed and then it started. Rhythm of six: Tap-t-t-t-tap tap, faster and faster, louder and louder until the floor started to shake. The doors rattled on their hinges. The pictures began to fall to the floor."

"It was insane; I couldn't take it, so I screamed: Stop it! Stop it! Please stop it! And it did. Just for a moment there was no sound. Nothing at all. I walked out into the hall. All the lights were on – you know what I'm like; I never forget stuff like that."

"So I'm seriously freaked out. I'm thinking, what the hell's going on? I looked at the camera, set up on the landing and suddenly it leaps three feet in the air, like someone just kicked it. And then it happens behind me to the one in the bedroom. And then the lights go out – they blow out one by one."

"I run back into my bedroom. God knows why, I swear to you, like a child, I tried to hide under the bed. I don't know why there; I just wanted to take cover. But then everything was quiet again for a moment. Just a moment, before it started up again: tap-t-t-t-tap tap, tap-t-t-t-tap tap."

"It was hurting my head. The sound of it! But then after a moment, I realised something. That it hurt my head because it was in my head. The rhythm of six was in my head, beating away like a headache, throbbing in my mind. It wasn't in the flat any more, it was in my brain. I swear to God it was in my head."

"I believe you..."

"I couldn't tell where it was coming from – because it was in my mind."

"Craig, I believe you – you're doing it now!"

His left hand was on the kitchen table; while he was speaking he'd started to tap against it. Without even thinking, his hand had been tapping away: tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

He lifted his left hand straight away and put it in his right hand to examine it, almost as if it was something foreign.

"I was, wasn't I?" He put both hands over his mouth. "Jesus Christ, it's in me. It's inside of me!"

I went to him and put my hands on his shoulders. "It's all right, it's all right. You can't hear it now can you?"

"No, my head's clear," he was almost in tears.

The kettle had boiled. I walked over to it and tried to think rationally.

"What am I going to do? What am I going to do?"

"You can't go back there. You just can't." I made his tea and brought it over to him. He took it with his hands shivering, like he'd been out in the cold for hours.

"We need to get you a doctor."

"I'm not mad!"

"You're hearing things in your head, never mind the state this has got you in. See a doctor; I don't think you're crazy, but you're not well are you?"

After a moment's silence, he said: "Fine". I don't think he had the will to argue.

I sat with him for half an hour but I was keen to get him to sleep. He needed it and we needed to calm down and think more sensibly about the problem. You have a home you can't go back to, what would you do? Assuming it was a normal problem and not a fucking ghost.

I put him to bed on the sofa, next to a hot chocolate. I took the duvet from Milly's room; she wouldn't like him sleeping in there, but probably wouldn't mind him using the duvet. Despite the stress he seemed to fall asleep quite quickly – far quicker than I did. I remembered going to see him part way through the night, just as the dark was starting to brighten. He was sleeping but not soundly; he was wriggling and shuffling.

As I went to the bathroom I even heard him mutter something, something unintelligible. I wondered if it really was in there with him? Something supernatural, something rotten and cruel.

I watched him for a little while after. He was unsettled, but he didn't seem to be distressed or having a nightmare, at least not that I could tell.

I fell asleep not that long after climbing back into bed. I slept soundly till about ten-thirty, when I shuffled myself out from under the sheets and went to check on Craig.

To my horror, he was gone. The duvet was lying on the floor; his coat and slippers were gone too. I shouted for him, but there was no answer. I tried his mobile – again, no answer.

I suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of dread – he'd gone back, hadn't he? Why? For some of his things, or worse? If this thing was in his head, had it made him go back? Forced him?

I didn't know, but I knew I had to get over there. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys and phone, and made a run for it. The air outside was damp and muggy; I was dripping sweat by the time I reached the end of the road. The distance to his had never seemed so long before, and every part of the journey conspired to make it take longer: roadworks, traffic lights, old people, no one stopping at the zebra crossing – I just ran out and took my chances. I had to get to Craig's.

As I reached his street, I knew something had gone badly wrong. As I ran towards his doorway, I could see it hanging open. I ran into the inside hallway, where I found Craig slumped against the door frame at the bottom of the stairs.

"Craig!" I screamed.

To my relief he heard me; his eyes arose slowly and he tried to shuffle into a seated position.

"What happened?"

"I tried to leave," he said weakly. "I tried to leave and it wouldn't let me!" A tear fell across his cheek. "It's in my heart!"

"We've got to get you out of here."

"No, don't, don't!" he cried. "It's in my heart Laura. I tried to leave and it stopped my heart. And then all I could feel in my chest was the rhythm of six; I couldn't walk, I couldn't breathe!"

"I'm calling an ambulance."

"No, I'll be fine. I just have to get back inside."

"Stay there!"

"He won't hurt me if I go back inside."

I dialled 999 hurriedly, walking outside to get out of the cramped hallway.

"Hello, this is emergency services. What service do you require?"

"Ambulance, now please."

"And what is the nature of the emergency?"

"My friend, his heart's failed or something. He collapsed, and now he can barely breathe, says it's his heart."

"Ok, I'm going to need your name and address?"

"My name is Laura ______. I'm at..." I had to look at the door. "45 _________, Clapham South."

"Ok Laura, and what's the name of your friend?"

"It's Craig, Craig ______. Please hurry, he's – Craig!"

He'd moved. He wasn't at the bottom of the stairs, but had started to crawl his way up again.

"Craig, come back!"

"It's all right," he said, while pulling himself to his feet by gripping the bannister. "I'm going to be ok."

"Get back down here right now." I ran into his flat and up the stairs without thinking – without seeing.

When I reached the top, I threw out my arms to grab him. But something swept me aside; a great arm came from nowhere. I'm not even sure I even really saw it, or whether I just imagined I had.

It struck me in the chest and sent my head back and my feet forward. I went head over heels down the stairs, tumbled all the way down.

My world went spinning; I hit the door as I smacked against the floor at the bottom, pushing it closed. I landed leaning against it, my head just about propped up.

I tried to lift myself up, but I was too dizzy; I felt part of me was still turning.

My vision was distorted, blurred, but I could see Craig; he was on his knees.

"Please!" he wailed. A figure was stood before him, grey and long, arch-backed. Its long-fingered hand grabbed him by the shirt collar and forced him flat on the ground as it bent down over him. With the other hand, it stroked its fingers across his cheek.

I can still remember the shape of its face, grinning, stretched and narrow; its broken and brittle teeth like shards of glass. It wrapped its arms around him in a disgusting embrace and lay down on top of him.

That's when I passed out.

A broken wrist and a sprained ankle – all things considered, I got off lucky. I woke up probably just a few minutes later, as they were pushing me on a gurney into an ambulance. I cried out for Craig, but they didn't want to tell me anything at the time. It was an hour or so later when I learned that he was dead.

I didn't know what to tell the police. Of course they were called; his flat smashed up, all the bulbs broken. I couldn't tell them the truth, the truth was ridiculous. I edited it down to say that last night he had come to mine complaining of words in his head. And that then I had found him at his home in a state. They didn't believe me, but it didn't matter since heart failure is considered a natural death; it's only suspicious in men of his age. Apparently his heart just stopped.

I felt terrible about not telling the truth, especially to his parents. But what good would this story do them? That's why I've put it all down in writing, so that I can tell the truth, just once. Tell it just how it was, without a single lie.

But now I think this will have to be my epitaph too. I can hear him. Hear him in the walls tapping away, playing his little game. You see, I know what he is now – he's a hunter. A man who likes to stalk and torment his prey, before making his move, springing his trap.

It started straight after the funeral, just a little tapping in the distance. Barely noticeable, but noticed. He likes to play games. I'm going to have to try and out-run him. He's not in my head yet. I'm going to leave here and see how fast he can travel, how far he can go.

I feel bad for Milly. Maybe he'll wait here for her. But I don't think so. I think once he's found his mark, I don't think he lets go.

Then I'll be number eight. You see, I know exactly how many he's killed. Because now he makes a rhythm of seven, instead of six.

THE GIRL ON THE BENCH

Me and my friends we all loved Lisa Ward – everyone did. She was a teenage boy's wet dream. She was just incredible; amazing body, and great tits. Proper full-handful tits. Cracking arse too. She was in the year above us, so she was that bit more experienced. And she wore these skirts; they always seemed shorter than everyone else's. And black underwear – you could see it under her school shirt.

She used to have this tight leather jacket too. She was so fit. Christ, even the teachers wanted to fuck her.

She was fit and she knew it. But she wasn't a bitch about it, you know? She didn't look down on you. I think she liked it, liked it when you looked at her. She wouldn't stick her nose up at you like some of them would. She'd sort of smile at you, cos she knew you were looking. I mean, if you dress like that you want them to look, don't you? Fucking sex on legs; no wonder her dad was shouting at her all the time, having a go at her on the front doorstep. Have a daughter like that and you know there are guys who are gonna crawl over broken glass to get their hands on her.

It wasn't just the looks, it's the way she carried herself. She had such attitude. She wasn't just fit-as, she was cool. Real rock chick. Smoked, yeah, but not a lot. She never stunk of fags. She was class. She had everything. She had it all.

There were other girls at school, but only one Lisa.

She went out with this guy, Craig Ashley. We hated his guts, course we did. They were proper all over each other, all the time, whenever you saw them. He was a biker; had his own leather jacket and slicked-back blonde hair. Proper James Dean wannabe. We hated him. But we didn't, not really. He was all-right; he was in the year above Lisa, so I'd known him at school too. And while some of the older kids would have goes at you, he'd be more like your mate. If he saw someone having a go, he'd tell them to lay off and leave you alone.

Loved himself though. Proper pretty boy. He looked like he wanted to be a model, or a rock star, but he was really working in a garage. He was into bikes. He used to ride this old fixed-up Triumph. We'd have probably thought he was cool if he wasn't touching Lisa up.

He used to come up the road on that bike and rev it up as he came so she'd know he was coming.

Forgot to mention that she lived up the end of my road didn't I? God that made me popular. I mean, we tried everything, me and my mates: binoculars, telescope, camcorder, mirrors... but you just couldn't get the right angle up the street to see anything. We'd hang out in front of the house, hoping just to catch a glimpse of her in the window. We never did though; she wasn't stupid. She wasn't going to just undress where we could all see her.

We all dreamed about Lisa Ward. But none of us ever came close to going with her. Except me. You'd think I'd want to boast about something like that wouldn't you? But I've never told anyone about it, ever.

It was fucked up. So unbelievably fucked up.

Her dad and her used to have these fights. And he didn't like Craig. But they never like the boyfriends do they? I don't know about the arguments, who said what, but at some point Craig stopped going to see her at the house. Instead, she'd walk to the park across the road and she'd sit on this bench and wait for him. So he'd come along on his motorbike, go straight off the road and into the park and pick her up.

Sometimes they'd start feeling each other up and disappear into the bushes. I had a good look, but I couldn't see anything that far. This bench – you could see it right from my bedroom window. There were a row of trees blocking the big open area of the park, but there was this gap where I could see right through to the bench and to where she used to meet him. I'd sit in my room and I'd watch her waiting for him. And then, when he'd come swanning along on his bike, right up to her, I'd watch and wish it were me over there and not him.

It went on like this for months; she'd be on the bench, he'd come and pick her up. Sometimes he'd bring her home, sometimes he wouldn't. I think he had a place of his own, but I didn't really know him that well.

Or what happened to him. Sometime around Easter – and this was when I was in year ten – we heard that Craig had been in an accident. Later we found out that he'd died. What we heard at the time was he'd tried to overtake on a country road but had to swerve out the way of some lorry and gone head-over-handlebars at the side of the road and broken his neck. But later the rumour was that he'd been in a bar fight and got stabbed. I dunno. I didn't really know him. My family didn't either; he wasn't part of the neighbourhood. They put a plaque up at the school, that's all I know. 17 years old. We didn't like him, but we were all a bit, you know, upset, maybe. We weren't close but you don't really think about that kind of stuff happening when you're kids, do you?

Of course we all wondered what was going to happen with Lisa. She wasn't at school; soon as it happened she was out of class, and it's GCSE year for her, so that was a big deal.

She just seemed to completely disappear for a while. The guys would ask me if I'd seen her, but I never saw her. Never saw her walk down the street. Never saw her in the window, or at school, or in their front garden. For weeks she was just... gone.

And then one night – it's late, I've been revising, cos I've got exams coming up too – I look up from my desk, about 10 o'clock at night, and I see her. First time in weeks, I see her and she's there on the bench again. Just sitting, like she used to. Foxy as ever; she didn't look any the worse for what had happened.

She just sits there. Doing nothing. Waiting.

I watch her for ages, just sitting with her hands crossed on her lap and her head hanging down. She must've been there for well over an hour. I don't know when she left, I looked away and she was just gone.

I felt sorry for her. I was glad to see her face again though. I didn't think it was so weird at first, because I just assumed she was still upset. But then the next night I was going to bed and just before I closed my curtains, I saw her again. She was sat in exactly the same spot, waiting for him just like she used to.

That's what she was doing: going back there night after night, waiting for him to come to her. Like he was never dead. It was always late, after dark. Wasn't every night, but it was most nights. Same spot every time, same position: head down, never looking up. I'd sit and watch her some nights. Sometimes I thought about going out to her, but of course I never had the guts to actually do it. But after a few weeks, it was clear she was going nuts.

People about the neighbourhood started to talk. People never saw her now, unless she was on the bench. She never left the house any other time. And she never went to school either. It was her GCSEs but she never went to any of them.

The girls at school used to gossip about her, but none of them knew anything. Not everyone had a mobile back then, or email. You couldn't just get hold of people like you can now. No one seemed to know anything about what was going on with her. It was like she'd dropped off the face of the earth. Except for at night, when she'd go out to that bench... and sit... and wait...

Months went by. I did my revising, night after night. And I'd turn off the lights and she'd still be there. I did all my exams. The year ended. And she was still out there, out on the bench, waiting.

Rumour at school was that she'd just dropped out; hadn't even arranged to do re-sits. She'd just given up. Seeing her there, outside in the park, it almost became normal. Just what you expected. Those odd nights when she wasn't there – they were the strange ones.

Then this one night – it was just after the holidays started – my mate Smithy: his brother was in a band, and they were having a gig above this pub, The Red Lion. We weren't that bothered about seeing his band – we'd seen them practice in their garage. But it was a private do, so Smithy thought we could get some drink on the quiet.

So this whole bunch of us went down there and got smashed, proper smashed. We'd all had a bit to drink before, even got a bit merry. But they were just serving anyone there; they didn't give a fuck. And we got wasted. My mate Daz chucked-up in the car park; Smithy's brother had to carry him home.

Me, I'd had a pretty good evening. I'd got pretty confident on a few pints of lager, got off with this girl, one of Smithy's brother's mates or something. I punched above my weight and got off with an older girl. I felt like a million quid, I can tell you. Cloud bloody nine.

I wasn't sick or anything, but I probably wasn't far off. I could walk back to mine from The Lion. Not too far. So I'm walking there and I take the shortcut across the park, which I would always do. And as I'm going, I spot her there, Lisa, out on the bench, as usual.

This has been going on for ages now; months I've been watching her out there. And I see her and I think, fuck it, I'm going to go talk to her.

I'd never have done it if I wasn't drunk. By this time she's lost some of her allure. I mean, sure, she's still drop-dead gorgeous, but she's also a nutter now. I wasn't just intimidated by her for being so hot; I was a bit scared of her now for being a bit mental. But, I've had a few, I've already won one contest that night, so I just decide to go for it and talk to her.

I just walk up to her and go "Y'all right darling?" – in a funny way. She knows me, even if she's never really paid me much attention.

She raises her head just a little, looks at me through her drooping hair. She doesn't say anything. So I walk over and sit right down beside her. Drunk and stupid, I just say, "So, how've you been?"

She still doesn't answer. So I just keep on talking.

"Last week of exams this week. So glad to get those over with." Still can't find a conversation starter. It's silent for a moment.

"What do you come out here for?" I blurt out. "Every night you're out here; why d'you do it?"

"Why shouldn't I?" she says, almost in a whisper.

This makes me a bit more nervous, but I still go on. "You're, you know, a good-looking lass. You've got your whole life ahead of you. You don't want to go and throw it all away on one..."

She turned her head towards me. I get the first good look at her face. I thought she was going to look a bit wrecked, all teary-eyed, mascara running down her face, like she'd been crying. But when she looked at me, she was totally made-up. She had all her stuff on like she was going out.

She looked right at me with her big chestnut eyes and froze me on the spot. Completely took the wind out of my sails. My confidence was just gone, like that.

She stared at me fiercely and then said "Go on, what were you saying?"

She had my tongue tied in knots.

"You were saying how I shouldn't waste my life all on one man."

I sort of babbled: "Well, I just meant."

"Should I get another man?"

Suddenly her hand was on my knee; she was walking her fingers up my leg. Almost made me jump.

"You up to the challenge? Hmm? Stud..."

She was taking the piss. She was going to wind me up and then brush me off. Give me a slap and walk off.

I was just about to bail; I was out of my depth. But she knew, noticed somehow, and she put her hand up my back, under my coat, and hissed in my ear "Don't be afraid." Then she moved in and put her tongue down my throat.

Fuck me, that was some kiss. It wasn't my first time, but I can't remember any of the other times now. She was proper going for it. I was trembling, but I was loving it. Got really into it. I put my hands on her, started to touch her.

A moment later she pulled away. She stood up and said, "Come with me". She pulled me up by my belt and dragged me into the trees. She ran ahead and I ran after her; we pushed our way through tree branches and bushes and weeds.

We eventually found this clearing. She stopped and let me run into her, so we both fell down. She locked her legs around mine and started to kiss me. She pulled off my jacket and started to undo my shirt. I did the same to her, took off her leather jacket and her top, clumsily and slowly. Not like her; she does it fast, like lightning, swift and smooth.

We're there rolling in the grass, together. Naked from the waist up and I'm feeling her all over, kissing her shoulders, licking her tits. She slips her hands down my trousers and I almost blow my load right there and then. But I keep it together, stay focused. She unbuttons the top of her trousers. I get up onto my knees and undo my belt. As she strips off, I undo my trousers and pull them down till they're round my ankles.

She's in front of me now – stark naked. And I'm kneeling before her in my boxers. She's there, glowing in the moonlight, most sexy, beautiful, dangerous thing I've ever seen. And she's looking right at me, gagging for it.

And all I can think of is that I don't have a condom. Fucking sex education has kicked in and I don't have any contraception.

"What's the matter?" she says, staring at me.

"I don't have a condom," I say back.

She glares at me with... cold, fire, anger. And she says to me "Just do it, you coward."

I know it was wrong, but I just couldn't say no. Without hesitating, I pulled down my boxers, and shuffled forward. I'm about to put it in, but I feel something move behind me. I don't notice it; try to ignore it. But as I look into her eyes, I see her look past me.

Something flashes past my eyes and then tightens around my throat. It forces all the air out of me – it was my belt. Someone had my belt; had it around my neck and they were choking me.

I couldn't scream. I could barely even breathe. They were dragging me backwards. I was forced onto my feet, but I couldn't put them flat. I was being pulled back on my heels. I couldn't turn my head. I couldn't see who was doing it – they made no sound.

I fell on my back. They dragged me through the grass like I was nothing, like I was no effort. Just before I blacked out, I looked at her, saw her. She was still on the ground, but leaning up and looking at me. And smiling...

I passed out. But I wasn't out for very long.

I can't have been out for more than a minute. I wake up in a flash and she's still there in front of me, lying on the grass naked. Except now she's moving about.

I can't move my head. The belt is still round my neck and it's tying me to a tree. I'm sat leaning back against it, legs out in front of me. Trousers still around my ankles. The belt is tied so tight the back of my head is flat up against the tree. I can't move my neck. I can barely look upward.

But I can see her: she's there, moving about in the grass – writhing and moaning. Not miserable moaning, I mean sex moaning. She's naked in the moonlight and getting off.

She's not touching herself up; her hands are behind her head. And the way she's moving... she's getting fucked. She's moving in the grass likes someone's thrusting it in.

But there's no one there. She's getting fucked and there's no one there.

I try to move, but I can't. As soon as I try to lift my head the belt digs in and cuts off the air. I gasp and cough, and then I hear this voice.

The voice just says "Ssshhh."

It's then I realise – I'm not the only one watching.

There are people, people everywhere. Just standing, staring.

Ordinary people: men, women, all shapes and sizes. Some fat, some thin – there's even one there with a fucking walking stick.

They're all watching this girl get it on with a ghost. They've all got, like, hoods or bags or masks over their faces. You can't see who they are, but there's loads of them; I couldn't tell you how many – they're spread out. But spread as far back as I can see. And they just stand silently watching...

But she, she's not quiet. She's moving her head from side to side making a noise like a porn star putting it on. She's throwing her arms around, rubbing her tits, saying "God, yes! Yes!"

Christ almighty, I was so scared. I'm shaking so hard I'm starting to choke myself against the belt. I got my arms up and dug my fingers under it best I could. I try to stop myself gagging and try to pull. I pull really hard, my face going blue and my eyes watering.

Eventually the buckle breaks. I throw my head forward and I'm gasping for air. She's getting, louder and louder now. I don't waste any time; I get up and try to run. I do it so quickly I fall over my trousers, which are still round my ankles, and fall on my face in the grass. I get up again, quick, holding up my trousers. I ran like fuck out those woods.

If anyone saw me leave, I don't think they came after me. Probably too busy watching. As I'm leaving the woods, she comes. Climaxes – but with a scream. I swear, a real scream of fucking terror, not pleasure. It was a cry of pain, I'm sure. I sometimes still wake up at night sweating when I think of that night and that scream.

I ran back home, let myself in, bolted the backdoor and made sure all the other doors were locked. I then went to the front window, stuck my head through the curtains and looked out to see if anyone had come after me – they hadn't.

In the morning my parents found me with my head flat against the window ledge asleep. I had a real bad time trying to explain what had happened. I just pretended it was because I was drunk. I had been drinking and it was easier to admit to being pissed than to seeing whatever the fuck it was that I saw out there.

They didn't seem to mind. I think your parents just expect you to start some time. And the hangover gave me an excuse to stay inside all day. I didn't want to go out. I didn't know what was out there. Who were those people? Were they my neighbours? Did I know some of them? Christ, every time I saw a man with a stick I thought about pissing my pants.

I stayed away from the park after dark after that. Never took a shortcut through; never even went near it at night.

I'll always remember the night after, when tired, wrecked, feeling sick, I went to bed. But before I went, I just pulled apart the curtains a little, and I looked out to that bench. She was there, but this time, when I looked out, she saw me. She raised her head and looked right at me.

I let go of the curtains and dropped to the floor. I never dared look out of those curtains again; once it was dark, that was it. I didn't want to see into those eyes. I didn't want to look at that girl again.

And I didn't. At some point her family just moved. A For Sale sign appeared in their front garden one day and they were just gone. By that time it was final year and most of my friends were chasing other girls. But I still couldn't get Lisa out of my head. It was years before I went near another girl. I'd get close to doing it, but it would bring me out in a sweat. Like a full-on dripping-wet sweat.

I've never told anyone this before. It still brings me out in a sweat, sometimes. God knows what happened to that girl...

BLIND

Me and Kayla practically grew up together. We went to high school together, both native Aussies in a strange, and bloody cold, land. She's one of the nicest people you can ever meet Kayla. Seriously, she's so nice. Too nice, that's why she was such an easy target.

I didn't know Richard before I went travelling. I'd met him once or twice when I'd gone to see Kayla at work, and he seemed ok; not bad looking, friendly. It was only after I went away that I started to hear stories. Shila hated him and didn't mind saying it. The rest of the gang didn't like him either. But Kayla never said anything bad, never said anything was wrong when she emailed or Skyped. Although she's like that; she probably wouldn't.

And when I got off the plane and I was over an hour waiting at stupid Heathrow passport control, he seemed fine about it. He was chatting with me, asking me about the flight, my trip, what my plans were. He seemed fine. But I did notice Kayla was looking a bit stressed, and a bit pale. Thin too, but she's always been skinny. Lucky cow.

They said they'd had a crisis at home, that their boiler had started to leak and there was a bit of damage. So I thought that was probably why she was rattled. And in the car on the way back to theirs (or should I say his) there was a little bit of tension between them; stuff about shopping and who agreed to do what, where, when. Normal couple stuff; me and my boyfriend, we do the same. Shila and Emily made it sound like I was entering a bloody tiger's cage when I told them I was going to stay with them. But at the time I thought they must have been seriously over-reacting.

Shows how much I know.

I had dinner with the two of them; he did the cooking. That was fine, although I couldn't have a shower cos there was no hot water, which was a pain. Then we went out in the evening to get together with the whole gang, like old times.

He came along, which I thought was a bit weird; I thought it was going to be a girls' night out. He was the only guy there. And of course it was all girl talk. He kept trying to butt in. Like, take over the conversation. We'd be talking about one thing, and then suddenly he'd start talking about something he was doing, trying to find the most tenuous link to what we're talking about. But he couldn't keep control of what was going on that way. So when that failed, he took the first chance to move into Kayla's seat when she went to the john. So when she came back, he could cut her off and just talk to her. She was sat on the end, so she had to talk over him if she wanted to talk to us.

I don't know how much of this I noticed at the time; I still thought he was ok. It was when I went out for a cigarette with Shila that she started to tell me stories. She told me he hardly ever let her come out, and almost never on her own; he always insisted on tagging along. And she came out less and less because he only wanted to do things he wanted to do and if he didn't get his way when they were out he'd be a pain in the ass and snap at her and sometimes the other girls if he didn't like what was going on.

They hadn't actually seen Kayla in ages. A few months ago they'd got her to come out by herself and they'd decided they were going to make sure she had a good time.

He was texting her all night, so she was always on her phone. But they got her drunk, so she stopped answering. They stayed out really late and Emily missed her last train, so Kayla said she could stay at Richard's place – it was always Richard's home, never their home.

So when they got there, Richard is still awake and he's absolutely livid. Why didn't she call? Anything could've happened to her. He doesn't trust her friends to look after her. He's worried sick...

Emily's a bit of a shrinking violet too, but even she had a massive go at Richard for being so bad to Kayla. He was really vile to her; made her cry, spoke to her like she was a child. This was the first time she'd gone out with them since, and that was months ago.

I still thought he seemed ok, but he soon showed his real colours.

When I got back inside, I heard him ask Kayla how long they were going to stay out. I heard Kayla say she wasn't sure. When I sat down I watched them at the bar for a while and he seemed to be getting a bit annoyed with her.

This was the first time I'd sat down with my friends for a year and a half; I really wanted to have a proper night out. But suddenly Kayla says they're gonna leave at half-ten. I mean, seriously, half-ten – that's not a night out, that's like when you're grounded.

Kayla said Richard had to be up early. I asked her why she couldn't stay out and she said she should go back with Richard so she wouldn't wake him later. And of course she didn't say it out loud exactly but it was implied that I should go back with them too.

So at ten-thirty on the dot, he was gathering up his coat and waiting for her and me. And we were saying our goodbyes and I was talking to the guys and making plans to catch up with them and this went on for a few minutes. Richard just stood in the doorway waiting. And then, while I was still saying goodbyes, I saw her look back at him. He made this face at her, saying, like, "What the fuck?" So that was supposed to be her signal to get going, and she goes after him and he slams his way through the pub door and doesn't even say goodbye to the girls.

So we're walking back to his and he's marching off and it's cold. I said we should get a taxi but he just ignores me. I've been getting tanned on the other side of the planet – I'm freezing my arse off.

I was dragging behind them, letting them argue and staying out of it.

"You know I've got to work early tomorrow," he snapped.

"I'm sorry. We were just saying goodbye."

"Taking as long as you could about it.

"I couldn't just walk off without saying goodbye."

"I'm already stressed with this leak stuff on top of all the shit at work. I don't need this."

"We were just talking. We've not been together in ages, and Annie's just got back."

"But she can talk to them any time she likes now. Perhaps they can take her out to get hammered too."

I was only walking three or four steps behind them and they were talking like I wasn't there. I had to bite my tongue. I get pretty gobby after a few, but I didn't want to get stuck in the middle of that.

When we got back, he went to bed quietly. Didn't even say goodnight. I asked Kayla "Is he all right?"

"He's just in a mood because of work," she said. I found out later there was a job opening for deputy manager at the branch of B&Q where he worked, but he had issues with some of the other guys there, so he was stressing out about whether they'd have it in for him.

She was always making excuses for him.

The next morning I was feeling pretty drowsy – a mix of the alcohol and the jet lag. Kayla was really sweet; she made me breakfast. She seemed much more relaxed now that he wasn't there.

While she was in the kitchen, I got a really good look around their place – it was a two-bedroom bungalow – and I started thinking to myself, this place couldn't be any less like Kayla. You know, I grew up with that girl. She was an artist, a really creative person. And not a tidy person; she used to be the most untidy, disorganised and lost-in-her-head girl I knew.

But this place, it looked like it had come out of an IKEA showroom. It was just so, ordinary, kinda boring... sterile! That's the word. It just didn't feel like Kayla at all.

Emily told me that Richard made her pay rent for the place. It was his home and not hers, even though they shared it together. He'd inherited it from his aunt, so it wasn't like he was even paying off a mortgage. But he still made her pay to stay there. Seriously unbelievable.

He'd set us a job that day. The plumber was coming over to fix the leak in the boiler. So we had to clear the attic out so he could get up there. I suppose that wasn't such a big deal.

There was all the usual crap up there. He hadn't cleaned it out since his aunt had lived there, so there was some seriously dusty old stuff to get rid of. I was dragging stuff to the hatch and Kayla was carrying it down the ladder. It was just old junk – broken furniture, old wallpaper roles and mouldy duvets.

Underneath it all though was this box. It was taped up so I had to use some scissors to get into it. I got a surprise when I opened it up – there was a head in there.

Not a real head, obviously. It was a bust, a phrenology head. You know, that dumb old science about different bumps on your head meaning something about who you are and why you behave the way you behave. I had a quick look at it and wondered whether Richard had a big bump on the section of the head marked 'dick'.

Kayla came up and looked at it. She said her Dad used to have one of these, and that's when I realised where I'd seen one before. There was one at her folks' house growing up; I remembered it.

It was her Dad's and she said he'd taken it back to Aus when her folks split. He'd died a few years ago, so she never knew what had happened to it after that.

We searched the box and it was mostly full of old paperbacks and cookbooks. But there was a photo album at the bottom.

It was half full with old family photos. Kayla figured it must've belonged to Richard's aunt. But she was surprised because there were family photos in there, and as far as she knew Richard's aunt had died alone, because otherwise why would the house get passed down to him?

But this was a young family. Cute new family: mum, dad and a little blonde girl; really pretty, really smiley. There were tons of pictures of her playing, right from being a baby to building sandcastles as a toddler, right up to her going to school.

"It must be from his aunt, look that's Richard there,"Kayla pointed out to me.

There was a photo of a birthday party, with the little girl sitting waiting to blow the candles out on her cake. The boy sat next to her was obviously Richard – you could easily recognise the scowl.

"He's never mentioned having a cousin to me before," she said slowly. And it turned out there was a good reason why.

We finished clearing the stuff out and squeezed as much as possible into the bin, but kept the books and the album and the head.

Kayla liked the head. It reminded her of her father and it was a bit cool. She wanted to keep it, and I said she should. It was as if she never even thought that she could just have it in the house; she'd have to get permission.

"Go quite nice there wouldn't it?" I said pointing to this little table with just the telephone and nothing else on it except a note pad. Kayla went and put it there. She wasn't sure, but she looked at it and said, "Yeah, it does look nice."

A little act of defiance. There was hope for the girl yet.

We had a nice chat in the afternoon; had a goss about friends and talked about what my plans were for the future. Everything was really nice until the plumber found a second leak and said he was going to have to call someone to bring him some parts or something. He'd still get it done that day, but it was going to cost more.

From that point on Kayla was all nervous and stressed. She said she was worried about the cost, but she was really worried about what Richard's reaction was going to be. I tried to tell her it would be ok, but she was all on edge for the rest of the day

Shila had a spare room she was renting, but she'd said her tenant might be moving soon. I was hoping they would; this was already such a tense place. It had such a bad atmosphere. Poor Kayla, I don't know how she could stand it.

He came home around seven. I was prepared for a scene, and was anxious too when he came in through the door. He shouted that he was home, he walked to the living room and then he froze solid.

He was staring at the head. Right at it, not moving at all. His mouth was hung open; he was literally frozen in his tracks.

"Hey," said Kayla coming from the kitchen.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he said, "Where did you get that from?"

"We found it in the attic," I said.

"It was in a box of your aunt's stuff."

He still didn't seem to know what to say.

"Don't you like it?" I asked.

He said after a moment, "It just surprised me, that's all.'

That seemed to leave him pretty subdued. Even when Kayla told him about how much the repairs were going to cost, he didn't seem to take it very badly (she still had to pay half though). He was really distracted.

He definitely didn't like the head. He let me and Kay talk at dinner without saying much, until he said: "I'm not sure the head goes there, in the living room".

"I like it," I said quickly.

He stared at me really sharply, like I'd just trod on his toe. But he didn't snap at me. He wasn't going to bully a stranger; it was just ok to bully his girlfriend.

"I think it looks nice there on the table," said Kayla. "Brings character to the room."

"Good place to rest your hats," I joked.

"What I'm saying is I'm not sure I like it."

"Why not?"

He took a moment to answer and said: "I don't like the way it stares".

Both me and Kayla laughed at that; and that didn't go down well with him. He spent the rest of the meal scowling and sulking. I made sure the conversation kept going; I wasn't going to let him spoil our evening.

We watched a movie that night. Can't remember what it was, but I kept seeing him looking across at the head, which was close to where I was sitting. I thought at first he was staring at me, which made me feel pretty uncomfortable. I didn't like the idea of him eyeing me up.

When we went to bed I overheard him asking Kayla whether I'd started looking for work yet. I'd only just got there for Christ's sake. And already he was asking for rent, or more likely how long he'd have to put up with me.

Problem was that the next day Kayla was at work. Kayla was a legal secretary. I still don't know how she got into that, but she was doing really well. She's so smart; she's pretty good at anything she turns her hand to.

But it was his day off, so I was stuck at home with him. He was polite, I suppose, but he wasn't going to spend his day with me. It was up to me what I was doing; he was going to do his own thing. I found out later he had his job application to do. I mean, if he'd just said he needed peace and quiet, he could've just said that. But he didn't; he just kind of ignored me.

I was sat with him all day without much to do. So I did actually start to look at jobs and stuff. I wasn't planning to do that yet, but I was going to be really bored otherwise. He'd camped out in the living room, so it wasn't like I could watch the TV or anything.

It was pretty awkward. I thought about going for a walk or heading into town just to get away. I text a couple of friends, but they were all at work.

We got to lunchtime, and he must've decided to have a break because suddenly from nowhere he said he was going to make a sandwich and asked if I wanted one. I was like "Ok, sure." I wasn't expecting him to be nice.

He made us both a BLT and suddenly we were talking and having a chat. He was asking me about my travels about the places I visited. We were having a proper conversation. He was a human being again.

I remember he told me this really funny story about eating in this hotel in India. He was being served by this guy who looked just like Christopher Lee, but more Indian. But he'd already got the 'Delhi belly' so his stomach was already turning over. So whenever he ate it sounded like a bathtub emptying.

"This guy thought it was something I'd maybe eaten at his place. And he was really scared because my stomach was rumbling so loud people at the next table could hear it. So he was afraid other people would be afraid to eat there. So he was like 'I'm so sorry, are you ok?' But he also wanted us out really quickly. So the second we finished he had the dishes away and said 'No, no, it's on the house. I can see you are a little sick, it is no problem'.

"And this guy looks just like Christopher Lee, so he looks really intense and scary, so we weren't going to argue. But we still left a tip, just to be nice."

He was really funny. I suppose I could see why Kayla would fall for him. When he was being nice, he was charming. And he was good-looking, kinda fit basically.

We kept on talking and I started to talk about my brother who was thinking about travelling to America, but he was having visa issues.

While we were talking about siblings I suddenly thought about the mysterious photo album from yesterday.

"Did Kayla show you the photo album we found in the attic?"

It was like somebody had thrown a switch in him. Within a flash, he was all different – uncomfortable, irritated, offish.

"Yeah, she did," he said, shuffling in his seat and looking away from me.

"Was that your aunt's family?"

"What there was of it, yeah."

"Did something bad happen to them?" I could see he was upset, so I tried to be sympathetic.

"They died," he said. "Well, Sophie was drowned in the bath tub, probably by Uncle Bob."

"God," I said.

"My aunt came home and found the house smashed up and Sophie face down, floating in the tub. Bob disappeared at the same time. No one ever saw him again after that day."

"Holy shit!"

"She was disabled, blind. He wanted rid of her and just drowned her. No one knows why. I heard he was planning on leaving Auntie for another woman, but I dunno. Why not just go? Why do that to Sophie? She was just a kid."

"God, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah." he mumbled. He took our plates out and then I lost him for the rest of the afternoon. He went back to working on his application and didn't say a word.

I was helping Kayla do the washing up later and was asking her about it.

"Did you know?" I asked her.

"No, he never said before."

"No wonder, it's really horrible."

"He wasn't very old at the time. He doesn't remember that much. He doesn't hear much from that side of his family very often. Not these days anyway."

"Do you think that's why he didn't like the head? Stirred up some bad memories for him?"

"Maybe, I don't know what goes on in his head," she said.

Neither of us said anything for like a few seconds. Then I said, "He gets a bit intense doesn't he?"

"Sometimes," Kayla said.

It all went a bit quiet again after that.

"I think it all might be a bit much for me," I said slowly. I watched Kayla as I said it, but she didn't say anything back. She kept on washing up as if I'd said nothing.

"If it was me I think that..."

Something slammed down on the draining board – it made me jump bad.

Richard had brought a dirty mug into the kitchen and snuck up behind me without me noticing.

"Having a good chat are you?" he hissed. He turned around and went straight out.

Kayla rolled her eyes and sighed before going after him. I just stood there thinking, fuuuck!

We ate dinner in dead silence that evening.

Yes, we were talking about him and I get it that no one likes to hear people saying bad shit about them. But it's not like I was saying much. I didn't really say anything too bad; I just said he was a bit intense. He just flew off the handle. And he did this all the time, just flew off the handle about absolutely anything.

I tried making conversation that night; I really tried to change the atmosphere. Kayla would answer me, but the conversation would never get very far, because he just said nothing. Not a word.

I got out of there and went straight to my room that night. As soon as I was gone they started rowing. I thought, fuck, what am I going to do? This was turning into a nightmare. This prick had me on edge now. He was pretty scary when he went off on one. He was a big guy and he would go insane.

I'd just have to try and get out of there as soon as I could. Find myself a new place, get a job. The sooner, the better. I was hoping to relax for a bit first, but it wasn't like I was going to relax much in this place. How could Kayla put up with it?

But things started to get really weird. I sort of fell asleep early while I was reading. I woke up quite late and had to go to the toilet. And when I left the room I got such a fright. Richard was just standing there in the hall. In the dark.

He was looking into the living room. He was looking right at the head. Staring at it. He didn't even notice I was there. Not at first.

After staring at him for a few seconds, I just said, "Are you all right?" He didn't even answer me. He just turned around and went back into his bedroom.

A fucking sleepwalker too. Just when I thought I couldn't have liked him less.

I had lunch with Shila the next day. Gave her an update on all the dramatics. She couldn't wait to have a bitch about Richard. She told me he checked Kayla's emails and phone messages all the time, so they had to be really careful what they said in them.

"He's never been violent has he?" I asked.

"There was this one time when I called round for Kayla and she had a black eye".

"Holy shit!"

"Kayla swore that she fell off her bike and hit herself on a fence post. I don't know if I believe her, but Mo" – that's Shila's husband – "he was threatening to go over there and hit him. It's never happened since so maybe she did just have an accident with her bike."

She said I could stay on her sofa if her tenant wasn't going to leave. I said I might take her up on the offer.

I told her all about the head and the photos and Richard's missing uncle and dead cousin. Shila said being a prick must run in the family. That did make me laugh.

I spent the evening having a long Skype conversation with my mum and only had a sandwich for tea, so I didn't really talk to either of them.

But that next night, I heard him whispering. The living room is right next to the room I was sleeping in. And I could hear his voice. I thought maybe he was talking to Kayla, but it was late. I didn't know why he would be whispering to her in the living room.

I couldn't really hear what he was saying, he was just kind of muttering. But he started to get louder. Then, I'm sure he said, "Just leave me alone". And then I heard his bedroom door close pretty hard. Not slammed, but you know, you could tell he wasn't happy about something.

I could barely sleep that night. I thought, fuck, this guy really is off his head.

I was spending time with Kayla the next day and thought I had to ask her about this. So I said to her, "Does he sleepwalk a lot?" But she didn't know what I was talking about.

I said I'd heard him wandering and talking in the night. But she didn't know anything about it.

Things were quiet between us, when she said "Richard was asking me again about how long you were thinking of staying?" I noticed the use of the word 'again'. Not that she'd ever brought it up with me, but obviously it had been mentioned a few times between them.

She was really awkward, the way she said it; but it got my back up right away because she was doing his dirty work. By this point I'd really just had enough of this prick.

"I hadn't thought about it."

"Richard just wanted to know that's all."

"Getting in the way am I?" I said bitterly. I shouldn't have had a go at Kayla, but I'd had enough of this.

"No, it's not that. He just wants to know."

"He did say I could stay as long as I needed to."

"I think he just wants to know what your plans are."

"But he couldn't ask me himself. He had to get you to do it?"

"What's wrong with you? I'm just asking."

"Why do you put up with this shit from him?" I just lost it. "Why'd you let him treat you like this?"

She was shocked for a second, and then I saw her start to cry and I was so sorry, straight away. But she got up and she just ran into the bedroom.

I thought, fuuuuck. I decided I'd wait a couple of minutes before going in after her. She was in there, head down on the bed, still shaking and crying.

I said to her "Kay, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to have a go."

She didn't say anything for a minute, but then she said, "He didn't use to be like this."

I sat on the bed and I hugged her. Let her cry out a bit longer.

"He used to be really sweet," she said. "He still is sometimes".

"He can still be nice, sometimes," I said. I couldn't stand his guts, but I couldn't just say I hated him.

"But he gets so stressed out. It's because of his work".

"That's no excuse for taking it out on you."

"He doesn't mean to. He does say sorry when he's done it."

"Sweetie, that's no excuse".

She cried a little longer.

"You can't let him do this to you. Look what a state he's got you in."

"But I love him. I really love him and care about him."

"I know sweetie," I said, thinking she'd lost her mind.

"He's all I've got."

"That's bullshit."

"I don't have anything else. I don't have anyone else."

"That's crap. You're a smart, beautiful, amazing person, Kay. Anyone would be lucky to have you and you don't deserve this. Look at me. You do not deserve this."

Her phone rang. It was his ring tone. She got up in a flash and went to answer. Turned out she was supposed to pick him up from work, but she'd forgot.

I tried to keep her talking, but she'd been summoned. I said she wasn't in the right state to drive, and she shouldn't be getting up at his beck and call. But she suddenly turns on me – seriously – and gets angry with me.

"You're just like the others. You all hate him. I don't know why. I don't know why you can't leave him alone, it only makes him worse."

"Kayla, he treats you like shit."

"I can't take this now. Just leave me alone."

And then she just left. She's still crying, she still has snot coming out her nose. But she went because his highness demanded it.

She was gone ages, which was fine with me. I wandered round the house getting angrier and angrier. What kind of fucked up mental gymnastics was this guy pulling on her? Why didn't she get it?

I hadn't even mentioned to her about the head, about him talking to it. I looked at it on the little table. It had a tea towel over it for some reason. I took it off. It was there with its blank, peaceful stare. As I looked at it, I wondered if it knew something I didn't. Richard had some problem with it. That's probably how the tea towel ended up there; he didn't like it being there and looking at him.

I thought about leaving it in his bed. Probably wouldn't help anything, but it would sure shit him up a lot. And make me smile.

She was away so long it got me worrying. He obviously had her wrapped around his little finger. He was probably with her now. Talking her out of it. Making excuses. Telling her that he loved her and he needed her and that it was all us lot trying to tear them apart.

I holed up in my bedroom until they got back later. She'd taken over two hours to pick him up. I didn't say anything when they got back and they didn't say anything either. No hello or hi, nothing.

I didn't know when to go out of my room. I didn't want go out and catch them. It was dead silent for hours. I didn't hear anything. I was so tense. It was so uncomfortable. I waited in that room for so long but eventually, I just had to take a piss. So I went out and I went to the bathroom and then I thought about getting some food. I walked into the kitchen without knowing he was there.

"Hey," he said, finishing some washing up.

"Hi," I answered. He seemed ok. Not angry. Kinda normal.

"I didn't know if you needed dinner, so I made you a sandwich."

"Ok, thank you," I said, as if he was setting a trap. But it looked fine. If he'd poisoned me, I couldn't tell.

"You working tonight?"

"Err, yeah," I said. Made up some bullshit about applying for a bar job. He said that was good and left me to it.

I stayed in my room watching episodes of Entourage on my tablet. Then quite late in the night there's a knock on my door and it's Kayla.

She comes in and says, "Look, me and Richard have been talking and we think it's best if you try and find your own place sooner rather than later."

"O-kay," I say.

"It's all a bit stressed right now and we're all getting in each other's hair and we think it'll just be better for all of us if we just all have a bit more space."

"Stressful time – Kayla he's applying for a job. Normal people have shit happen at work all the time."

"Look, I know you don't like him. And that's fine. He's having some issues right now. That's why it's better if you move on as soon as possible so we can all stay friends and get on. Ok?"

I didn't even know what to say, I just said "Fine Kay, whatever you want".

She said sorry and waited there for me to say something else but I just put my headphones in and kept watching my tablet.

I text Shila a few minutes later saying I might need her sofa after all. All my other friends didn't have their own places, so a sofa was the best I was going to get.

I fell asleep watching more TV and woke up after a few hours when the battery ran down. I start to get ready for bed when I hear the whispering again. Richard's back talking to the head in the living room.

I wonder if I can record it, but I'm not sure where I've left my phone and I don't want to make much noise searching for it. I creep up to the door and open it just a little. He's whispering but I can hear him.

He's talking to the head! And he's saying stuff like, "I could've got really angry, but I didn't".

Then he waits a moment and says, "I tried really hard, and I didn't get angry at all, like I promised. Not today, I was good."

Another moment goes by, and he says.

"It was really hard. It was, but I didn't get angry. I promised I'd try harder and I did try hard. You've got to stop going on at me. I'm doing my best. I'm doing my best."

They're having a conversation. The head is talking to him. Or he thinks the head's talking to him. At this point, I just thought he was crazy.

"It'll be easier when she's gone. Much easier. That was the best thing to do, just ask her to go. Best thing for everyone.

"You don't have to keep on at me. I told you I'm trying. Yes I did promise. I'm going to be nice. Going to be nice from now on. Now will you leave me alone?"

A few seconds later he gets up and goes quietly back to his bedroom.

I sat by my door for ages before I dared to sneak out. I crept out into the hallway and looked into the living room. The head was staring right back out at me. It was just the same, no different than before.

But now when I looked at its blank stare, it seemed smug, pleased with itself. I started to not like it.

It hadn't changed. It was just so blank; you could read anything in its expression. It was creepy. What the fuck was going on with Richard? What was I supposed to do about it? If Kayla couldn't see what he was like, how was I supposed to show her?

And how was I supposed to tell her about this? She'd think I was the one who was crazy?

Then that next day. Jesus – that's when it totally went to shit.

I got up late and overslept. And I had no idea that Richard's mum was over. Christ, that made a lot of sense of things – she was a total bitch.

I came out of my room in just my nighty and she's standing in the hall. She was dressed all in black and peered down her glasses at me as if I were someone who'd just brought her coffee when she asked for tea.

"You must be Annie?"

"Err, yeah." I said back to her.

I went straight into the bathroom and swore at those two for not even telling me.

I washed and then planned to go back and hide in my room, but just as I was walking into the hallway I heard her say, "Where did you find this old thing?"

She was talking about the head! I glimpsed her lifting a scarf off the top of it. I wanted to hear this. So I went back into my room and really quickly put some clothes on and got back out there.

They'd stopped by then of course. She was asking Kayla about her job while Richard was sulking in the corner with his laptop.

Richard resented that Kayla was doing her law thing while he was working for a DIY store. That was just his part time job at university but now he did it full time while Kayla had moved on to bigger and better things.

Kayla went off to get us all some coffee and Richard's mum, Margot, started talking to me: "So you've been travelling?"

I began to tell her about all the places I'd visited. She'd been to many of them herself and wasn't short on opinions about where she liked and didn't. She liked Germany, couldn't stand the Italians, and thought Brussels was the most boring place on earth. Something we both agreed on.

"So what are you going to do now?" she asked. I noticed Richard glance up from his laptop.

"Oh, I'm not sure really. I might go back to uni and do my MA, might just do some part-time work. I haven't really made my mind up."

"Well Richard could always get you a little job at his DIY shop, couldn't you Richard?"

Richard pretended not to hear her.

"Kay tells me you've applied to be the manager there."

"Assistant Manager," he said with hostility.

"Well, if it's what you want dear."

Kayla came back with the coffee and it was all dead silent again. Someone had to say something to break through the tension. And I saw the head, looked at Richard to check he had no offensive weapons he could throw at me, and said "You remembered the head then? Me and Kayla found it in the attic."

Richard's eyes darted upward.

"Yes, I haven't seen that thing in years. Belonged to my sister. Never liked it myself."

"Did Kayla show you the photo album?" I could feel Richard twitch on the other side of the room. But I had to know what this was all about and it definitely had something to do with his dead cousin.

Margot took the photo album and stared at it.

"My goodness there we all are," she said flicking through them. "I haven't seen these in years. I didn't know there were any other photographs. Felicity stopped keeping them, after the accident.

"Oh my, little Sophie, she was so beautiful, wasn't she Richard?" He said nothing. "She really was the most beautiful little girl. Photographers loved her. They loved to take her picture. She was in magazines. She earned Felicity and Bob quite a bit of money before..."

She closed the photo album. "Oh, such a tragedy."

Richard got up and left the room in one of his huffs.

"He still doesn't like to talk about it," she said in a hushed tone. "He was there, he saw it all."

"What happened?" Finally I was getting somewhere.

"They were playing hide and seek. Richard and her, and one of Bob's little nephews. What was his name Richard, your second cousin?"

No answer came from the hall, so she just went on. "Well little Sophie, she tried to squeeze herself down behind the toilet, goodness knows how she thought she'd fit. In fact she didn't, she got herself stuck.

"But Felicity, she had been cleaning the toilet that day. And she had left the bleach on the shelf above the sink, and as she was wriggling about it fell over and the cap wasn't on properly and the bleach, it poured straight down on her eyes and over her face and she couldn't move when it landed all over her.

"Poor thing started to scream and Richard found her and we struggled to get her out and to wipe it all off because, well you've seen the bathroom you can see how little space there is between the sink and the toilet.

"The damage was done. She lost most of her vision. She could hardly see and it scarred her face and it was horrible. The poor, poor thing."

Richard came back in and threw himself back into his armchair. He didn't look at us; he just looked out the window.

"Felicity was distraught, and so was I. But the worst thing was that she actually blamed Richard. She said it was Richard that poured the bleach on her. Well, can you imagine?"

And you know what – I could. I tried to not look over at him. I did try to look at Kayla, see what her reaction was, but I couldn't tell what she was thinking. Did she know already?

"But Richard was hiding in the bedroom at the time, he was the one who found her first. It might've been worse if he hadn't found her."

"Do we have to talk about this," Richard snapped. "Aren't we supposed to be going for lunch?"

"It wasn't your fault dear," Margot was completely oblivious to his moods. She was probably used to ignoring them. "It was Felicity's fault, she should have been more careful. You can't leave things like that lying around with children in the house.

"Of course things were never the same with me and Felicity after that. I tried to forgive her for blaming Richard. Tried to talk to her many times. Especially after that animal Bob went berserk and killed her, drowned poor Sophie. I told her she should never have married him, but she never did listen.

"You'd think after she'd lost everything she'd want to get help from her sister. But that was always Felicity; headstrong and stubborn."

"Why did he do it?" I asked. "Why would he kill her?"

"Sophie had so many emotional problems afterwards and he just couldn't take it. The poor girl was distraught and he was weak and stupid and he just couldn't handle it."

"We're going to lose our table if we don't leave soon," Richard snapped.

"Of course dear," Margot said. She got up and went to fetch her handbag.

I was so shocked. Here was this totally fucked up story and here was this woman talking about it like it was something she'd seen on the TV. You wouldn't have known she was talking about her own sister and brother-in-law – and niece – who got murdered. She was so matter-of-fact it was sick.

"Honestly Richard," she said. "You're telling me to get a move on and you're not even ready."

Richard was searching for his shoes and Kayla was after her coat.

"Are you coming with us Annie?"

You could've heard a pin drop at that moment.

Me, Richard, Kayla – we all looked at each other. It was soooo awkward. I didn't want to go. God no. Wild dogs couldn't have dragged me.

"I think Annie's busy today aren't you?" said Richard, dropping his hint.

"I thought you said you had nothing to do?" Margot said. And it was true, and I'd told her without realising she'd use it against me.

"Well, not much..." I was going to say I needed to look for jobs, but she cut in too quick and said:

"Well come along then. I'm paying, you don't need to worry about the money and the food is very good."

And she went out of the room and I just didn't know what to say or how to refuse. I just ended up saying, "I'll need a moment to get ready."

It was horrible, the whole thing was just horrible. And I was sat next to Richard, and I just daren't look over at him for the whole lunch. Who was this guy? Did he burn out his own cousin's eyes with bleach? Could that be who this guy was? Could he be that much of a monster?

If Kayla was thinking what I was thinking, she didn't let it show. He must've hit her that one time, I was sure of it now.

But the whole lunch just got worse and worse. Margot was talking to Kayla about her job. She spent the whole time just going on and on about it. She was doing it to get under Richard's skin, it was so obvious, to rub it in. Her precious boy was too good to be working for B&Q.

I bet she was the kind of woman who never let anything shift her stiff upper lip. She knew what she was doing to him. Just tweaking him for not having such a good job.

And then he got brought the wrong main course. I thought he was going to explode. But his mother told him not to make a fuss when he snapped at the waiter.

I wish I knew how to take the wind out of his sails like that. He sat there like a pressure cooker. His eyes open wide like a bull about to charge. I kept having to go to the toilet just to get away from them, to take a breather, just to try and calm myself down.

It was a nightmare. Like waiting for a bomb to go off. I could feel the tension from my teeth down to my toes. I don't know what Kayla must have been thinking.

It seemed to drag on forever. Margot ignoring the foul atmosphere as if she didn't know it was there. She just talked and talked and talked. She drove us all back to the house, everything quiet unless she was talking.

And when we got back...

We all walked inside in silence. Richard leading the pack. And then as soon as the front door closed, he was up in arms:

"Well that was a fucking nice wasn't it? You enjoy that, did you? Talking about your job, how wonderful it is, how great your fucking job is."

"She was just asking me Richard."

"And you couldn't wait to rub it in. You loved it!"

"You need to calm down," I interrupted. I could feel my heart beat as I said it. After what I'd heard today, I didn't know what this guy was capable of.

"Why are you still here? At least I have a job!"

"No one here cares about your job."

"Oh fuck off, who even asked you?"

"If you want to get another job, get one. How many times have we got to have this argument?" Kayla started to cry.

"Well... she goes first!"

"What have I got to do with anything?" I shouted.

"I can't take it. All you fucking women. Always fucking having a go. Always on my back. Why you can't you leave me alone?"

He turned around to storm into the living room and there it was – the head, staring right at him.

"And I've fucking had enough of you too!" he yelled at it. He went for the head; he picked it up and spun around to smash it against the wall.

"Richard don't!"

Kayla came up behind him. He swung the head round... and hit her in the face with it.

It made a horrible thud sound. Kayla fell down hard.

The head landed miraculously without breaking.

It was all silent for a minute. No one could quite believe what had happened.

I stared at Richard, Richard stared at Kayla. Kayla was on her knees, clutching the side of her head.

He hadn't meant to hit her – not that time at least. But he didn't say, "Are you all right?" or "I'm so sorry." No. What he said was unforgiveable.

"Don't look at me like that. Serves you right for getting in my way, like you always do."

Kayla was shaking; she was terrified.

"You get the hell away from her!" He wasn't getting away with this. No fucking way.

"I told you to get out!"

He came towards me – "Don't you dare fucking touch me," I shouted, backing off.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"Not without Kayla. She's coming with me."

"Fine, both of you fuck off. I don't need you. I don't want you. All you do is fuck me around."

Kayla was shell-shocked. She couldn't believe it. I helped her up off the floor.

We didn't stop for anything. I just took her straight out of there. Left all my things behind.

I only took one thing – and I don't even remember taking it. As I practically pulled Kayla out of there, at some point, and I don't even know when, I picked up the head. I found that I had it under my arm as we walked to Shila's, squeezing its neck under my arm.

Kayla kept breaking into tears. At one point she tried to go back to him. I told her she was out of her mind and made her come with me.

I managed to drag her to Shila's. I managed to call her and Mo before we got there. I was just glad to give her to someone else. I hate to say it, but I wanted to slap that girl too. What was wrong with her?

She wanted to go back to him. Said he needed her. That we didn't understand him like she did.

I told her I fucking understood him all too well. That she was the one who ought to get her head straight.

Shila glared at me, which really got at me. She hated him more than I did. But she said later I was coming on too strong.

This guy just smacked a porcelain head against her face – and she thought I was coming on too strong!

Part of Kayla knew we were right. Somewhere in her head she knew that she couldn't go on like this. That he'd no right to do these things to her.

Me and Shila went into the kitchen to strategise and said that we just had to keep them apart. If we could keep them separated, then maybe we could get through to her and get her to end it.

We did a lousy job. Part way into the afternoon Kayla went up to the toilet and she was gone for ages. It was a while before me and Shila realised that she had her mobile with her.

She'd locked herself into the bathroom and she was talking with him on the phone. I could barely tell what she was saying, she was crying so hard. We banged on the door but she ignored us. Her voice started to get louder; she was getting hysterical. She was apologising for something, but also saying it wasn't her fault. Asking him why he was being like this to her. She just wanted to help him – all that kind of shit.

The phone call stopped and she was crying for ages. Shila kept banging on the door. She was starting to worry she might hurt herself. I thought that was a bit much at first, but she started to get me worried to.

When Shila threatened to get Mo to kick the door in she eventually opened up and came out.

Richard hadn't got the job at B&Q – they'd called him that afternoon. Apparently that was her fault too, because she'd invited me over and I'd ruined it for him.

"That's such bullshit," I shouted.

"Leave him alone. He really wanted that job. If you weren't here none of this would've ever happened."

"Because of me!" I completely lost patience with that girl. "You're as crazy as he is. Do you know what he does when you're not there? When he thinks we're not looking!"

"Not now!" snapped Shila.

"What does he do?" Kayla asked.

I didn't say it. Me and Shila had agreed that I wasn't going to talk about the head and what I'd heard him say to it. She wouldn't believe me anyway. And she wasn't in the right state of mind to hear it.

Shila was annoyed with me too now. She took Kayla into her room. I went back downstairs to try and calm down. And guess what was waiting for me? I got into the living room and it was there, staring right at me again.

"Well, what do you think we should do?" I said to the head, wondering if it'd talk back to me. "This is your fault too. Both of us, we totally ruined his life, stopped him from getting his dream job."

The head decided not to confide in me. I pointed it to face the wall, because I was starting not to like the way it looked at me either.

That was one long evening...

Shila was with Kayla for hours and Mo was off on his evening shift. So I was just hanging around in someone else's house again. I asked Shila, when she went to get a drink, if she wanted me to take over. She said it was best to let her handle it. I wasn't sure if that was because Kayla hated me right now or whether it was because of my temper. I just let her go. I was worried about Kay, but honestly, I didn't really want to spend the evening with her crying on my shoulder.

It was dark by the time Shila came down and said Kayla was in bed sleeping, exhausted emotionally. We had a few drinks, but neither of us felt much like talking. We couldn't let her go back to him. We had to keep them apart.

We made a pact to go to Richard's tomorrow. All my stuff was there. Kayla's too. We were going to go without her. Leave without telling her if we had to.

I agreed. We watched a bit of television and then all went to bed.

I slept on the sofa in a sleeping bag. I didn't sleep well.

All night I felt freezing. It was spring, so the weather was ok. It was warm in the house. But I was freezing. Even in the sleeping bag, all night, I remember being absolutely freezing.

I dreamt I was outdoors. I was walking through the woods. Did I know this place? I did, but I couldn't quite remember. It was a beautiful sunny day, which made no sense because I was so cold.

I finally worked out where I was. I didn't know Shila's part of town well, but I'd been on walks there before. It was quiet; there was no one around. I was in a forest, walking along a path. I was barefoot. I came out of the woods and found myself by a river. It was wide with a little island in the middle. You could pay to take a boat out there, if the current wasn't strong; people would have picnics on the island.

But there was no one out today and no boats in sight. It was a beautiful day, and the park was empty. And as I walked along the river it was completely quiet. Until a rock skipped across the water, only just making a sound.

Someone was skimming stones. There was a little girl standing on a jetty. I walked to her slowly. I stood next to her and she turned to me. It was Sophie, and she smiled at me – her eyes were blank, white and empty. I felt frightened, I don't know why. She reached out and took my hand.

We stood there in silence until a shadow came over us. A man had walked on to the jetty. He wore a suit, but he was a total mess. His shirt was out of his trousers, his tie above his collar. He had a suitcase with him.

We all looked across the lake. He never said a word or even looked at us. He threw his suitcase in the water. Slowly, his other hand rose. There was a jagged rock in it. He stretched out his arm, then hit himself in head with it.

I screamed. He staggered around, he bent forward, but somehow stayed on his feet.

Sophie's grip tightened around my hand. "Again!" she shouted.

Half standing, he hit himself right across the temple. He fell down on the jetty and rolled into river.

I woke up with a start; almost jumped off the sofa. I was shocked and shaking and fucking cold, still.

I tried to calm myself down. It was really early. But I couldn't get back to sleep.

I went right upstairs to take a shower. I had to warm up. I wondered if I was sick, like I'd caught a fever or something. That hot water felt really good.

I noticed that the water at the bottom of the shower was really dirty. I thought for a second it was the water that was dirty, but it wasn't – it was my feet. My feet were filthy. There was dirt all over them.

I didn't get it at the time. I thought maybe there was filth in my shoes, or in the socks I was wearing the day before. And maybe I didn't want to connect it to the dream I'd had.

Shila heard me in the shower and got up too. She thought it was best to go to Richard's before Kayla was up, so she wouldn't insist on coming with us.

Just as I was getting ready I noticed the head was gone. It wasn't on the sideboard where I'd left it. I asked Shila if she'd moved it. She didn't know. She said maybe Mo had moved it when he got back last night. I didn't want to dwell on it. I could only deal with one fucked-up thing at a time.

We drove over to Richard's and left the car quietly. We had Kayla's keys, but we knocked on the door first. There was no answer.

We unlocked the door slowly and went in. I noticed straight away that there was something wrong. The place looked like it had been ransacked. That someone had gone around and trashed it up.

There were broken shards of pottery in the hall. I went to see what they were, and as I went to pick them up, I could see around the corner towards the bathroom.

The head was there. It was half smashed. Now only one side of the head was left. It was placed in the hall and was staring with its one remaining eye into the bathroom.

It was me – I'd taken it back during the night. I must've done. That's why I was so cold and why my feet were filthy. I'd walked it across town in my knickers and t-shirt. Sleepwalked it. I didn't remember a thing, but that must've been what happened.

And when I went to look at the head, I found Richard. He was in the bathroom, down on his knees, head on the floor, forehead resting on his hands. He was crouched down with his head between the sink and the toilet. Just where they must've found his cousin.

He was breathing heavily. And trembling. And sobbing.

Me and Shila were dumbstruck. "Richard," I said to him quietly.

"She made me do it," he said. His voice was croaky and dry. "She made me do it because I was bad. I had to be punished."

"Made you do what?"

"She said she was giving me one last chance. One last chance to be good. And I promised. And you must never break a promise. She said she'd forgive me if I was good. But I couldn't be good because I'm bad. I'm a naughty boy who does terrible things."

"What did you do Richard?" I was trembling now. Shila as well.

"I did it to her. You know I did. They all liked her better than me. Everyone did. She came along and nobody cared about me anymore. They loved her. They ignored me. They loved her. They didn't love me.

"So I ruined her lovely face," he said with a little laugh. "I saw her stuck just here and I poured the bleach all over her when she couldn't move. She didn't look so pretty after that.

"I said sorry, I said sorry so many times, but she never believed me. Never believed me. She used to stare at me with those empty eyes and I couldn't stand it.

"I promised to be good. I promised. She said she'd punish me, like she punished Uncle Bob. But I couldn't be good. I'm bad, so bad. I'm rotten inside."

"Oh my gosh, Annie!" Shila pointed to something on the floor.

It was a large jagged piece of pottery. It had blood all over it.

"She made me do it," Richard cried. "I didn't want to but she made me. She warned me what would happen, but I couldn't behave. I couldn't be good. I'm so bad, so rotten."

He crawled backward and turned himself over. He sat up and looked at us.

Shila screamed. He held out his hands. There was a white

splodge drenched in blood in each of them. That was all that was left of his eyes.

Blood ran down both his cheeks, from where they used to be. He eyelids were red and swollen and twitching.

"I had it coming," he cried. "There's no secret anymore. Now everyone can see that I'm a monster."

THE WIFE

I've known Greg my whole life. We lost touch after college, when I went to work in Manchester, but when I was back visiting Mum and Dad I'd see him around, bump into him down the pub and so on.

I don't want to speak ill, but he was always a wuss. He was a wimp when he was a kid and he was wimp when he grew up. He was a nice guy, don't get me wrong. I liked Greg. But we weren't close at school, because you just wouldn't hang around with a square like him. Always had a note from his mum to get out of games. You know the type of kid.

Later, when you're grown up, it's different and even though he was still kind of the same, we became mates. He was easy to get on with. When I moved back he'd started hanging around with some of my old friends and I got to know him too.

But Greg had a problem, and that was his missus. I'd heard he was with someone and when I bumped into him just before I moved back he said he was engaged. Then a few months later I bumped into him again and she was there. I thought she was pregnant. Later when I was talking to my mate Ed, who we both went to school with, he said she was just a big girl. Each to their own; she was sort of pretty in her way.

Didn't get invited to the wedding, no surprise there, we weren't mates then. But next time I saw her, she was big. And I do mean big.

Ed had mentioned it, but I didn't believe him. I thought he was talking it up, for a laugh. But she'd piled on the pounds. The kind of girl they'd put on a scooter these days. Or a forklift.

Joking aside, she wasn't a well woman, and not nice either.

First time I met her she barely said a word. As shy a thing as you could imagine. You wouldn't have thought she'd be any trouble. But it quickly became obvious that he was completely under her fat thumb. He was taking her orders.

She didn't go to work. She stayed at home. Now that'd be ok if she was looking after kids but they didn't have any. Can't remember what job she used to have, but she didn't work any more. She was ill but we never found out what from. There was always things wrong with her: her back, her legs; she was depressed, she was stressed; it was one thing after another.

She didn't go out much. And it was Greg's job to look after her, to provide for her, to be at her beck and call all day long.

If he was out, she'd call him and summon him home. He could be out with us having a drink and she'd call him up and he'd have to run off home to her. Otherwise, he'd have to be back before 10. He had a home time. 37 years old and he had a home time.

It was just something you got used to. We never really talked about it, not while Greg was there anyway. When he went off home you knew why and you said goodbye like it was normal. We knew why he was going, and he knew that we knew, and was probably glad we didn't bring it up.

Wasn't really our business to say anything. We all felt sorry for him. It was pathetic, but that's how it was. His choices. He never really had a backbone.

The only time I ever saw him stand up for himself was, ironically, when someone had a go at her.

We, sometimes, would make... occasional... fat jokes... about her.

One time Ed said one, drunk, and forgot Greg was there. He said she was so big she had her own postcode. Greg was livid and started going on about how she was unwell and needed looking after and how the council wouldn't help and how the NHS were useless.

He was defending her. She was running his life and making him miserable and he was defending her. It was ridiculous. It made no sense.

She hated us. She never had us over. We had Greg over, but she never came. Not to a barbecue or for dinner or anything. If we saw them together in the street, she'd basically ignore us. She'd check her phone or do something else, like carry on shopping. She was just rude.

He used to cancel on us a lot because of her. Sometimes, if we were expecting him at the pub, or we'd invited him out somewhere, he might cancel last minute. There'd be no excuse, just a "Sorry guys, can't make it tonight" text. We knew why, but he wouldn't admit it.

The one time I lost it with him was when we were going to see The Levellers. He said he was definitely up for it. So I said I'd get him a ticket. I joked – but not really joking – about whether he'd pull out. I knew it wouldn't finish before 10pm.

I text him during the week and he said he was looking forward to it. But on the night, nothing. He was a no-show. I didn't actually think he'd drop out. Not when he's spent £25 on a ticket.

It was just sad. A man who couldn't leave the house because his wife said so. He didn't show his face for a few weeks after. Still made him pay for the ticket though.

Then, one day, she died. Totally out of the blue, no warning signs. She dropped dead. And dropped is the word – she fell down the stairs and broke her neck.

Her funeral... That was something. Didn't know they made coffins that big. Those were some hefty pallbearers. It's amazing we got through that one. We had a few drinks and none of us made a joke all day. Wasn't easy.

He was really upset. And we did our best. We could see he was broken up. But we were thinking, he's finally free! He can move on and meet someone nice. He didn't have to put up with her any more.

It seemed like it was a new beginning for him. We had to still pretend we were sorry she was gone. But we were also trying to be positive. Sneak in the odd silver lining. Like the fact he could stay out late, if he wanted to.

But he didn't ever want to. He still kept going at 10. And we didn't say anything about it, just as we didn't before. Force of habit we thought. But as the weeks went on, the old habit didn't go away.

So one night Alf says to him, "Greg, you don't have to go early. Stay, live a little."

This was a Friday. He didn't have to get up for work. So we twisted his arm, said we'd get a curry. Why not come along?

He didn't really want to. We seemed to talk him into it, but he was checking his phone as it got close to 10. He waits until we're on the quiz machine then slips out and heads off. It was weird. You'd think he'd be trying to make the best of it.

We were trying to keep an eye out for him. We wanted to make sure he didn't, I dunno, top himself, or do something stupid. We used to call on him a lot and invite him around to our places. But sometimes, he might still cancel on you last minute, and with no real excuse. He'd have a headache or stomach ache or something that obviously wasn't true.

We were talking, me and Ed, and Ed said he'd called on Greg and found out he still had all her things there. He hadn't got rid of any of her stuff.

We talked to him about it later and we offered to help him sort the stuff out. He says he should, but he hasn't got around to it. We push him a little, force him to name a date. It's not good to be stuck in the past. He needs to move on.

We go to his the next Saturday. When we show up he's uncomfortable and fidgety, and then, when he's making us a cuppa, he just breaks down. Says he's not ready yet. He can't do it today. It's too much for him.

So we take him out and give him a few drinks, play some snooker; we try to take his mind off it. And he's ok, for a while. But we say to him, it can't wait forever. We're gonna come by next Saturday. He needs to be ready for it.

He just nods. Doesn't say much, but agrees to it.

By next Saturday, Ed has a cold and leaves it to me. Cheers mate.

I go over and Greg's nervous and fidgety again. But this time, rather than try to put it off, he says he'd rather do it himself. She wouldn't like it if other people were touching her things.

I know what he's doing. So I tell him he can't put it off.

I've got better things to do with my Saturdays. We're doing this today.

To show him I'm serious. I get out of my chair and head for the stairs. He grabs me and shouts: "No you can't. You can't go up there!"

He's frantic. He's desperate. He's trying to block my way and I'm just about to say something to him. But then I hear the floor creak above us.

"You've got someone up there?" I say to him. And he looks away from me, embarrassed.

"That's great Greg. You don't need to be shy about that. It's great you've found someone."

"No. You don't understand," he shouts. He's sweating. He's trembling. Then he whispers, "She's not dead."

The second he says it, he puts both hands over his mouth and backs off. Like not even he can believe what he's just said.

I think he's cracked. "What are you talking about?"

"You need to leave," he says. "I'll be fine. But you need to go."

"Greg. I'm not going."

"Please. Just leave. I don't know what I'm saying. I'll be fine. I just need you to go."

I look upstairs. I did hear the floor creak. But that could just be the house. Hell, it must be.

"Greg, your wife's dead. You know that, right? We had the funeral, remember?"

"I remember," he says. Tears fall down his face. "She died. But..." He looks up the stairs, like he's looking up at her, looking for her advice.

"She's not there Greg." I decide I'm going up there. "I'll show you."

"No, wait!" he shouts.

They only have a small terraced house. There's just two bedrooms upstairs. One just stores old boxes and junk. Then there's the bedroom. I go inside and it's empty.

"Greg, there's no one here."

He stands in the doorway, tears in his eyes.

I open the wardrobes and look under the bed. "Nothing in here... nothing down here... There's no one here, is there?"

He doesn't say anything. I say it right to his face "There's no one here. I want you say it."

"No", he whispers.

"No. That's right."

And that's when I hear the toilet flush.

Suddenly all my hairs are standing on end.

"Greg... who's that?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Greg, tell me. Who is that?"

"You should go. She won't want to find you in here."

I hear the lock on the bathroom door snap back. I feel a kind of shot go up my spine. The bathroom door creaks open. There's the sound of footsteps on the carpet.

Greg and me, we start backing into the corner of the room. We can hear her cross the landing. We're practically holding each other, waiting for the horror to come through the door.

It's half closed. It starts to open.

Greg screams: "I'm sorry – I told him not to come up here. He..."

The door opens all the way. But there's no one there. The sound stops.

I feel my heart beating like the clappers. I'm trembling, but Greg is shaking so hard he looks like he's going to fall to bits.

He grabs me. "Why'd you have to come up here?" He's shaking me. "Why'd you come up here?"

I try to push him off. I shove him so hard he falls down against the bed. He's crying.

I go to pick him up. "I'm getting you out of here."

"I can't leave" he whines. But I'm not having any of it and he doesn't put up much of a fight.

I drive him back to mine. He spends the afternoon sitting in my living room, staring straight ahead like a man in shock. I don't say much to him. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. I think about calling Ed or someone else. Maybe a doctor. Maybe Greg's parents.

I can't add it up. Greg might be losing it, but me? I heard that noise too. And you can't catch madness. There had to be some proper explanation. But I couldn't think of one.

So I put the telly on, make him a drink, and say, "You can stay here as long as you want. You don't have to go back to that house."

He says sharply, "But she needs me!"

"No she doesn't. She's dead. She doesn't need you anymore. You've got to move on son."

He twitches. And, in a tiny, quiet voice, he says: "It's not that..." He's struggling to say something. He looks around, as if she might be listening, hiding just out of sight.

"I want to move on. But she... she won't let me." He starts to cry again. "She's angry. I let her down."

"No offence Greg. But if it was me, I don't think I could've put up with everything you put up with from that woman."

"I pushed her."

You should have seen his face.

You should've seen my face.

"She was struggling up the stairs and I pushed her. I just knew that I could. I watched her fall. I didn't know if she'd get back up again. But I hoped she wouldn't."

He breaks down, weeping, struggling to speak.

"I was supposed to be taking care of her."

What do you say to someone who says all that?

I hid in the kitchen for a few minutes.

Jesus. Greg was a murderer. Greg, of all people. He'd really done it.

He could go to prison for this. But I couldn't give him up. Not Greg. If there was anyone who didn't deserve it, it was him. He might've done it, but he was pushed. Pushed into pushing her. I wasn't going to grass him up. Not for this.

"Greg listen to me," I said. "It doesn't matter what's happened. Everything's gonna be ok. You can stay with me. You don't have to go back to that house. I don't know what's going on, or what you think is happening there. But it's time to let it go."

"I can't leave her," he cried.

"She's dead Greg. She's not there. How could she be?"

He didn't look very convinced.

"She's dead, isn't she? Say it with me Greg. Melinda is dead."

He couldn't. He burst into tears again. I put my hand on his shoulder. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know how to deal with this.

That was the longest day. I let him cry it out and then made us some dinner and we watched more TV. He didn't say much. He barely moved from his spot on the sofa. I kept having to tell him to eat or drink something.

I put the football on and that kept us going. Then, late in the evening, we're watching the highlights and he gets up to go to the loo. He's gone a while. A really long while.

I start to wonder how long it's been. I check my watch. It's 9:50pm. Almost 10 o'clock.

His home time.

I rush to the hall and see his coat and shoes are gone.

I should've known. I should've guessed he'd make a run for it.

I get in my car. How much of a head start does he have? I reckon he's been gone about 20 minutes, give or take. If he's walked it or run, he's probably not there yet. Unless he's taken a taxi.

I drive up and the lights are on – he's beaten me. I knock on the door, really knock hard. "Greg! You've got to let me in."

There's no answer. Maybe I should call the police. If he's as crazy as I think, he could hurt himself. And just when I'm thinking that, I hear screaming. Greg is screaming.

I decide I'm gonna force the door. I force it with my shoulder. And it fucking hurts like hell.

He's in the kitchen. He's burning his hand in a George Foreman grill. He's pressing the lid down with his right hand and burning the left one inside. There was smoke coming off his hand. His own hand!

I grab him and pull him away. We fly from one side of the kitchen to the other. Pans and plates fall down on us as we crash into the cupboards.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He's screaming in agony. His hand is red and pink and black. The grill is on the floor, lying open, burnt skin still sizzling on it.

He's hysterical, screaming, howling. I don't know what to do. He's scaring me now. I'm shit scared. I don't want to touch his hand. I don't want to do anything that might make it worse.

I get out my phone to call an ambulance. I start to dial.

I turned my back on him for like two seconds. Just when my phone starts to ring, I hear him walking on broken plates.

He brains me with a frying pan. I drop my phone. I fall forwards. My phone slides into the hallway. I try to crawl after it but don't get far. He cries out. I brace myself.

The second hit knocks me out.

Some time later I wake up and I'm in the hall. I'm dizzy. My head is ringing. Just lifting my head is so painful. The room's spinning. And the smell... It smelt horrible.

I feel like I'm going to be sick. I can barely make it onto my hands and knees. It smells like rotten eggs.

It was gas! The place stunk of gas!

I got onto my feet, but I couldn't walk straight. I had no balance. I was falling from one side of the hall to the other. I had to get to the kitchen.

The door was stuck. There was something jammed underneath – old towels. I managed to shove it open. All the gas rushed out. It made me choke.

Greg was lying flat. The cooker's open and all the hobs were turned on. I turned them off and got the windows open.

I didn't know how long I'd been out. But I could tell by the look of Greg that I'd been out too long. All the colour was gone from his face. He'd been sick on the floor. He was already cold.

I managed to call 999 before I passed out again. I don't remember what happened when they arrived. I had to be taken to hospital. It was all too much, you know.

I got treated for concussion. But it was too late for Greg.

Poor bloke. It's not easy to poison yourself with gas these days. Natural gas isn't poisonous. It took him ages to suffocate and die in there. Fucking hours.

I tried, you know. I really tried to help him.

He left a note. He had it scrunched up in his hand, the one he hadn't almost burnt off.

All it said was 'Sorry'.

I don't know whether he was saying sorry to me, or to someone else.

And that's the worst part of it. I don't know, when he decided to kill himself, whether it was because he wanted to get away from her, or because, in his twisted head, he thought he had to be with her. That he needed to kill himself so he could go wherever he thought she was. Because he thought he had to. So they could be together.

I hope not. I really hope not. I want to believe he's found peace. I really want to believe that.

IN A BOX

Here goes...

It was five or six years ago. We'd moved into this new house in Letchworth – me and Peter, and Benjamin. He was such a happy boy; so bright and so sweet. He had these big, wide open eyes, bright blue eyes, and this cheeky, enigmatic little smile.

He was only about three or four when we moved. Those were the happiest times of my life. After the difficult first few years of looking after him and struggling with money and work, everything was finally coming together. We were stable, we could afford things – the house, the car – Benjamin didn't need quite as much looking after. Things were so much easier.

You see, I'd been determined to keep up with my work after I gave birth. I wanted to do it, but also because we thought we'd struggle without the money. It was hard to work while Benjamin was little. But then Peter started to become more known, and his income helped to keep us afloat.

But then he recorded that album. It did so well. It changed his life; it changed all our lives. Suddenly we weren't always living on the bread line. We could afford to enjoy life more. We could afford to go away. We could afford a mortgage.

Everything was so perfect, for a time. Benjamin had been such a handful growing up; he was always so hyperactive – he got that from Peter; he could never stay still either. It had been such a struggle getting it all balanced before. When Peter had his breakthrough it was when we were getting Benjamin ready to start school. We moved closer to the school we wanted for him, we could afford the fees and I could spend more time working. But more than that, I went back to painting; painting just for me. Just enjoying painting without any deadlines or clients or commissions. We all had our space, things were just... right.

Peter's career was going so well that anything seemed possible. We had holidays in the south of France, Italy, and Florida for Disney World for Ben. But success meant more work. Peter became very much in demand. Which was good, for a while...

The hours were long. You know what artists can be like; musicians even worse. Drunks, crack-addicts, hooligans, even schizophrenics. He was selective at first, but sometimes he was pressured into working with people he didn't want to. It's the freelancer's curse: no matter how hard you work, you're always terrified it could dry up at any time.

The late nights and hours were only half the problem. A lot of these kid bands they liked to imitate; they liked to 'pay tribute' to those who came before. Or copy, if you like. So they wanted to record abroad, at the Berlin studios were Bowie and Eno did Low, at Sun Studios where Elvis, Dylan, Cash and Carl Perkins played. And he wanted to go too; why wouldn't he want to work at some of the most iconic studios in the world? Never mind us...

I kept getting stuck alone doing all the work myself. He'd come to me and say "Come on, it's where Bowie did Heroes." So I'd have to go along with it and pretend it was ok for him to leave me alone with Benjamin. He'd be gone for months, maybe coming home a couple of times if he could squeeze it in. Of course, I could afford to get some help for Benjamin, but I didn't want to do that. I felt ashamed to hire a nanny; stupid, really, but I did.

Our parents lived too far away. His mother, Ellen, was very good and would come down from time to time, but my parents were old and my father needed lots of looking after.

And I started to resent his success. I admit that; his career had gone stratospheric and mine hadn't. I didn't care about the design work; I did ok with that, had some good clients. But it was my art I loved and I could never get any interest in my work. In some ways it was better when I wasn't doing it. When I didn't have time, I didn't have time. When I had some time, but not enough time, that's when I became frustrated. It's like I could never focus, never give it the time I needed. There was always something else to do; it's no small job looking after a house and looking after a child at the same time. Not that Benjamin was really much trouble; that was the strange thing, he got to a certain age and he was suddenly no trouble at all.

My God, I was so selfish. Sometimes I'd lash out, get angry and lash out. Poor Benjamin; it wasn't his fault, he was just a child. But it wasn't just that; even though we'd been in Letchworth for a few years I had no friends there, nowhere to go. We had friends in London, but it's not just a short commute. There was hardly enough time for me to go during the day and be back to get Benjamin from school and then of course I had to look after him on weekends too. I felt so isolated. Sometimes friends visited, but not often, they had lives of their own. And I never made a fuss, I felt embarrassed to really tell them how I felt.

We started to row a lot, me and Peter. We would have slanging matches over the phone. And I got so stupid, started to get paranoid about the people he was hanging around with. I didn't really think he'd have an affair or start taking stuff. I was just jealous and afraid that he was leaving me behind.

It all came to a head after he'd been in Jamaica with a band for months. I don't even remember who they were, their success was so short-lived. But at that time they were such a big deal. But they were always fighting and falling out. He wanted to can it, but the record label put so much pressure on him to bring them back something. He managed in the end – I don't think it ever got released.

When he got back he was barely through the door before we started to fight. Things had started to change. While he was away things weren't as they used to be.

Benjamin had gotten into a fight at school. His school was so damn liberal; kids get in fights all the time but they wanted to make a big deal about it. I had to talk to the headmistress. They wanted to talk to both of us. When only I turned up, well, they made such a big deal about that. Benjamin was too introverted; he didn't mix with the other boys, just played by himself. I got angry with them, told them there was nothing wrong at home. But there was something wrong, even if I couldn't explain it.

I couldn't even get Ben to talk about the fight; he said the boys had said bad things, but that's all he'd say. I couldn't make the connection; my Benjamin, quiet, introverted – that wasn't the boy I'd raised. That wasn't who he was.

But he wasn't the handful he used to be. He was quiet; he did play by himself and didn't make a fuss. I had the goodest, best behaved boy in the world – he was no trouble at all any more. Sure, he did normal things like sulk if I made him eat things he didn't like, or if we were in a shop he'd ask for toys or sweets or something and throw a tantrum if he didn't get what he wanted. But at home, when we were alone, he was quiet as a mouse. I'd be in the living room, painting all day, and I'd forget he was there. I'd just paint for hours and he'd be... somewhere. It sounds terrible; I hate to say it, but he just didn't seem to want me or need me.

He wasn't noisy, he wasn't loud, he never broke anything. It never occurred to me how strange that was. And then that became a problem – I got stressed because my son was too well behaved. It sounds crazy but I started to feel so distant from him.

We had a showdown, me and Peter; what was more important, his family or his career? He got so angry, as angry as I'd ever seen him. I made him feel guilty and he hated me for it, lashed out. He didn't understand that I was... I was falling apart. This wasn't what I wanted. I wanted us to be together, as a family. That's what it was all for, that's what we'd got married for.

The money wasn't that important. He kept telling me he was doing it for us. But he was doing it for him, for his ego. He liked the limelight, I know he did. He was getting the jet-setting lifestyle he'd always wanted and we were holding him back!

I couldn't make him see how much it was affecting me. He thought it was all rubbish this stuff about Benjamin. He was so damn arrogant; nothing could be wrong with his son – that stung his pride and he was furious. He knew I was jealous, but he didn't know I was holding something back...

I couldn't tell him just how much him being away was really starting to affect me. It was more than just the stress of him not being around, it was something else. I had started... I was beginning to think that something was watching me in the house. That something was following me.

It sounded crazy, and I thought it was. Once I started to notice how quiet it was, how quiet Benjamin was, it started to upset me. I couldn't stand the quiet; I used to put the radio or the television on in any room, just to drown out the silence.

I'd have to work hard to bring Ben out of his own little world, tell him we were going to the park or that we should play a game. Sure, he'd get excited then, start getting involved, but as soon as we stopped, soon as we got home or I'd get distracted from the game, he was gone again. He'd draw, he'd read, play with his building blocks or more often than not just silently wander off.

Sometimes I'd ask him, I'd say "What you thinking about sweetie?" – but he wouldn't answer, he'd just smile enigmatically, or just say "Nothing". Sometimes I felt like getting so angry, but I couldn't, not when he looked at me so sweetly.

One time, do you know what he said? I asked him why he was so quiet, and he said: "Silence is golden." I should've known then that something was wrong, really wrong, but I just couldn't bring myself to face it. I mean, what kind of five-year-old says that?

I became obsessive about noise; there had to be sound everywhere. But I couldn't fill the void; God, it was only a three bedroom terraced house, it wasn't huge, but it started somehow to feel cavernous, huge, empty, vast. And in that atmosphere, in those moments of silence, that's when I started to get the sensation I was being watched.

It could happen at any time, usually when I went out into the hall or onto the landing. I'd just be moving from one room to another, going from the kitchen to the living room, or up the stairs, and I'd get this feeling someone was watching me. I'd just get this sensation I wasn't alone. This, I don't know, shiver – this feeling. I'd turn, and I'd see nothing. And whenever I got this feeling, I felt cold. Dead cold, I'd get shivers all over my body.

I thought at first it must be Benjamin, playing a game with me. But he was never nearby, when it happened. He would always be outside, upstairs or in a different part of the house.

I couldn't admit it at the time, to Peter, or myself – I wouldn't even think about it between incidents – but deep down I couldn't ignore that something was wrong in that house. I couldn't put it into words, into ways he could understand. I thought he was so sensitive and open when we first met; what an idiot I was. What an idiot he was! He was oblivious right up until it was too late!

All the hysteria would come out during our arguments. He underestimated just how fragile I was becoming. I made him swear, made him promise that the travel, the long periods away, they had to stop. I just wasn't going to accept no for an answer. He had to stay around London and stay with us. I tried to convince him that we were better off together, as a family, stronger together. He agreed, but he wasn't completely on board; I could tell, I knew it. But I got his word and that was enough for now.

Things were more... normal, for a while. We got back to playing happy families. We were fine for money, we spent plenty of time together, family days out and the like.

Of course his resentment would bubble up from time to time. I was prepared to slap him if he ever said he felt 'cooped up'. This is what he wanted too – it wasn't just me! He asked me to marry him, start a family. Usually he'd bite his tongue and slip away for a sulk. I gritted my teeth and didn't rise to it, but things eventually got back to normal.

Benjamin was more his old self for a while. More lively, more in the world with the rest of us. He just seemed to connect better with his father, I don't know why or how. I wasn't any different with him, any less affectionate, any less warm, or fun to be around. Maybe he just didn't like me as much. I mean, I did everything I could with him. Everything. We got along fine; but he was never as affectionate with me. I don't know what I did wrong, because I was a good mother to him. I gave him everything I could.

He used to garden with me, that was the one thing we used to do together where I could see that he was having as much fun with me as he was with his father. Before we used to pay for this man to come over and do it. But I decided I was going to do it, because by that point I'd basically given up on my art, there was nothing, just a blockage. I'd lost my touch, if I'd ever had it. Couldn't get inspired, couldn't make anything I started come to life, so I just quit.

He seemed to like gardening and being outside. I think it was the digging and making a mess that appealed to him. Although he liked to see things grow; know that he'd planted something and then see it grow.

He got obsessed with making compost. We bought this compost bin for the outside and he was obsessed with trying to find things to put in. He'd leave some of his food and say he was doing it so we could use it to make compost. An excuse not to eat his vegetables.

Those were probably the last good times we spent together...

Things got so back to normal that when something strange happened, I didn't really notice. A clue to all that had gone on before came up, and I didn't even realise it. I didn't realise its meaning till much later, when it was too late.

This one time, during that happy time, I was putting clothes away and I heard him talking. His bedroom was next to ours and with him being usually so quiet, I went straight over to him to see what was going on.

He was hiding under his duvet talking to someone, but only he was there. I called out his name and he threw himself from under the blankets, like I'd walked in on something secretive.

"Who were you talking to sweetie?" I asked him.

"No one," he said, with a sly little smile.

"Oh," I said. "I thought I heard you."

"No" he said, and dived back under the duvet without saying another word.

Kids have their games; I didn't think much about it at the time. Things were happy again, I didn't want to dwell on the bad times, I'd put them to the back of my mind as much as I could.

You know how it is; you sometimes choose not to believe things you don't want to face. It was happy families again. Everything was supposed to be fine.

We went almost a year playing happy families. Things were truly blissful again. Me and Peter had started to connect like we used to. We even talked about having another child. It seemed like such a good idea, now that everything was back on track again.

It couldn't last though, could it? One day, he announced that ______, the band he'd helped go big, they wanted him for their new album. It was a big deal, could be worth a fortune. But they were recording in America – not England. He'd be gone for six weeks at least, maybe longer. I was livid; just as everything was settled he wanted to take off again.

We had this horrible row. He denied promising that he'd said he'd never go away again, that he'd just agreed not to do it for a while. The opportunity was too big to miss. He approached me as if this was already a done deal and there was no negotiation. We had such a slanging match, it was so bad, but he tricked me into agreeing to it, providing it was one last time.

I can't believe I let him leave us. He should've stayed. This all wouldn't have happened if he'd stayed...

Quickly things started to go back to how they were before. It was term time, so when Benjamin was away I never really felt alone. And then when he was there, his quietness, he was so quiet I wanted to scream. I felt alone when he was there and watched when he wasn't.

Sometimes he felt like a ghost, barely even there with me. I'd hear his creeping footsteps upstairs, just sparsely, like he was creeping around. It would drive me crazy. I kept it all back, I never went crazy mad at him; he seemed so innocent, so serenely in his own world. But when parent's night came around at school, I went to see his teachers and they commented with concern about how detached he was and wanted to know where his father was.

I could see how their minds were working. They were thinking he had a horrible home life, that his father was violent and that I was a drunk and that he had withdrawn from the terrible life he had. The questions they asked, the insinuations, I couldn't take it. I wanted to get up and throttle that woman; that look of fake sympathy and understanding. I did everything I could for that boy, my boy!

I was planning to take him to a therapist, to hell with what Peter thought. This just wasn't natural. At least if I got a therapist to bring him out of his own little world he might not come to hate me.

Then there was this one day I saw him out in the garden. We had these two trees growing, and he was running around them, and I could see him talking to someone. I watched him for a while; he was having a private little game with someone who wasn't there. Was that it? Did he have an imaginary friend? A friend so good that he didn't even need me?

I asked later that day. He was eating his tea and I was doing the washing up. He was quiet again, so I said to him: "Who was that you were talking to?"

He didn't answer, so I asked him again: "Who was that you were talking to outside?"

After pushing some food around his plate, he said: "Wasn't talking to anyone."

"I heard you. I saw you talking to someone outside. Who were you talking to?"

He didn't answer again. I got angry.

"Benjamin who were you talking to?"

"I wasn't talking to anyone!" he shouted. He slammed his knife and fork down, his food half-eaten, and just left. He stormed off upstairs and disappeared.

I was flabbergasted. My too-good-to-be-true, good little boy just didn't do things like that. I felt so guilty, I made myself feel ill. I shouldn't have shouted at him.

That night I really decided I was going to find a therapist for him. I was upstairs in the bedroom, looking through names on my laptop, writing down names, when suddenly, Benjamin was there in the doorway, in his pyjamas ready for bed – he was always so good about that too.

"I'm sorry I shouted Mum. Neil said I wasn't to tell you or anybody his name and I thought he would be upset with me. But now he says it's ok and I can tell you that his name is Neil and that he's my best friend and that we play all the time."

He grinned at me and I looked back at him speechless.

"He thinks you're funny," he said. And then he went back to his bedroom. I sat silently on the bed. I didn't know what to think now. Was I overreacting? Was I going mad? I looked it up online, imaginary friends. Apparently they weren't a bad thing, but a boy of Benjamin's age should be growing out of it.

I went to put him to bed. As I knelt beside him, I said I was glad that he'd told me about Neil. But I asked him, I said "Don't you think you spend too much time playing with Neil?" I said that he needed to be making friends with other boys and girls and that playing with them would be so much better than skulking around at home with Neil.

He suddenly got so angry. His perfect pretty face creased up into an angry, fierce little scowl and he cried: "Neil's my best friend, my best friend in the whole world. I like him better than I like you!"

He rolled over. I yelled at him. I screamed at him: "Don't you ever say something like that to me again. Don't you ever." I tried to roll him back over but he wouldn't move. I gave up, slammed the door and went back to my computer. I was going to find someone to talk with him. This couldn't go on.

The next morning I was adamant that I was going to call one of the names on my list. But early in the morning I got a call from Peter. He was happy, enthusiastic. Recording had been going so well, there wouldn't be any extra time needed. He'd be home within a week.

I wanted to tell him, wanted to raise hell with him. But I was so lonely; I just wanted to hear someone else's voice. And he was in such good spirits, I just couldn't tell him. I felt such shame, a mother who couldn't connect with her son... I couldn't bear the thought of being judged like that.

I just spoke calmly and nicely; he could tell I wasn't completely fine, but I just let it go that time, I didn't want to row. I just wanted him back home. It's horrible to admit you're going mad to someone.

I decided to put off calling someone for just a little longer. If Peter would be home in just over a week, I could discuss it with him. He wouldn't like it, but I wasn't taking no for an answer. He was going to hate me for it, but he'd hate me more if I didn't at least talk to him about it. God knows what he'd think about Neil – but of course Benjamin was all smiles and sunshine when he was there. Peter was so damn perfect; it was just me who was all wrong.

The next day was a Saturday, just me and Benjamin in the house. He was sulking, not talking to me out of anger and spite rather than his usual pretending I wasn't there.

I started to question him about Neil; he didn't give answers very willingly. I asked him about what he'd said the night before and why he wasn't supposed to tell me about Neil.

He said: "Neil said that you'd try to split us up. That you wouldn't understand."

I told him I wasn't trying to split them up, that I just wanted to understand. I asked him where Neil was now. What he looked like.

Neil was apparently a normal boy just like him, although he had blonde hair and freckles. I asked him how long he'd known Neil. Where Neil had come from.

"He's always been here. He's been here for years but only I can see him," he told me.

He skulked away into the living room, leaving me with a horrible thought. That damn feeling, that ominous fear that I wasn't alone. That someone was watching me. That maybe I wasn't just being stupid and paranoid and going mad, that maybe something was there in the house watching me.

The thought creeped me the hell out, oh God, I can't tell you. But I told myself it couldn't be true, that it was all stupid and that everything would be fine once Peter got home. And then maybe after we'd got Ben some help, maybe I should get some help too.

I had to get out of the house. I needed to do some shopping so I dragged Ben along with me, although he didn't want to come and made a sulky nuisance of himself the whole afternoon. Was it this imaginary friend that was keeping him so well behaved? I didn't know what to think, I was so confused; I was in hell.

One of the shops we went into was a charity shop. It was after I'd done the main shop; I'd dropped some old clothes off. I was looking through the clothes and the shoes and Benjamin was looking at the toys and the books. He'd been such a pain I was glad for once that he was quiet. Then suddenly he tugged my sleeve and said "Mum, have you seen this?"

He was all smiles and perk again. He pulled me towards this toy chest. It was about a metre long, painted white with clowns and balls and streamers – hand painted. Good in its way, the clowns were jolly, not frightening. It looked like something that might've come from a fairground. It had certainly been knocked around quite a bit though; the paint was starting to peel off. It wasn't new by any means.

"It's nice isn't it? I could fit all my toys into there and keep my room tidy. Can I have it please Mum?"

The old ladies behind the counter cooed. They loved that; a little boy who wanted to keep his room tidy. They thought he was an angel – I smiled awkwardly, unable obviously to tell them what a nightmare I was in.

The chest was ten pounds, but they said I could have it for eight. Benjamin stretched the word "Please" as long as he could and I... I just ended up being pressured into buying it. He didn't need it, I didn't really like it much. Kids can manipulate you like that, can't they? It was just a stupid chest, it shouldn't have meant anything. But that was the beginning, the beginning of the end...

* * *

...No it's all right, I want to go on. I just want to get it all out...

A few days later, just a few days before Peter came home, I was upstairs putting my clothes away. I knew Benjamin was in his room, I'd seen him. But when I came past his door a few minutes later, he wasn't there.

His room was empty, but I was sure he couldn't have gone back down the stairs. Even Benjamin, with his creepy quiet behaviour, wasn't able to shift around that silently, not up and down those creaky old stairs.

Some of his toys were scattered across his floor, so much for him being tidy! Then I noticed that the toys had been dumped right out in front of the chest. As if they'd just been emptied out. I had the sudden instinct to look inside.

I opened up the lid, and inside, half buried in stuffed toys, was Benjamin. He was lying on his back, his arms folded across his chest like a body in a coffin.

I cried his name: "Benjamin". His eyes flicked open.

"What are you doing in there!" I pulled him up by the arms and hoisted him out.

"We were playing hide and seek."

"Playing hide and seek, with who?"

"With Neil."

"Oh for God's sake," I said. I lifted him out and put him down on the floor.

"It was just a game," he shouted, getting defensive.

"Benjamin..." I said, trying not to shout myself. "You could've suffocated in there. Do you know what that means? Air can't get inside and out, you can't breathe. You know about breathing don't you? They've taught you this at school?"

He looked at the floor, which meant he had learnt about it. Then he ran away, down the stairs. I found him hiding in the garden. He refused to come back in, even when it started to rain. I had to physically drag him inside kicking and screaming. He went to bed without his dinner that night; I wasn't afraid to punish him even if Peter was.

The next few days went by so slowly. Ben just had this face on him all the time, like there was a bed smell in the room. He hated me. My son hated me. I couldn't bear it; I never touched him, never laid a bad hand on him.

But I thought I could strangle him. I wanted to strangle my own little boy; what had I done to deserve this?

I just had to wait till Peter came back. His timing couldn't have been better. That day I had been to the doctors and had got caught in traffic on the way back. I called him and he agreed to get Ben from school. He was glad to and everything seemed fine.

Then, when I got home, I noticed something: the chest I'd bought Benjamin was sticking out of the top of the wheelie bin. There was a piece of it lying in the driveway. It had been smashed to pieces and then stuffed into the already overflowing wheelie bin.

I went in confused about what had happened. As soon as I was through the door, Peter came marching towards me ranting and raving. I asked him what the hell was wrong and took him into the living room, closing the door behind us, hoping Benjamin wouldn't hear.

I thought maybe he'd found the list of child therapists and thought I'd gone ahead and contacted one. But it was much stranger than that. He asked me, yelled at me, what the hell I thought I was doing buying that toy chest for Ben?

Didn't I know that he could get himself killed? Didn't I know that children often suffocated in chests like that because they didn't understand that air might not be able to get in? I couldn't understand what he was getting so angry about; I might've thought he'd gone mad if it hadn't already almost happened!

But I couldn't admit that, I was feeling already like I was a terrible mother. I tried to calm him down; that sort of thing had to be exceptionally rare. Death by toy chest; it's not high up on the child fatality list. It's hardly tuberculosis or... playing with matches.

He was sweating, I could tell something else was wrong. I thought maybe he'd found Benjamin lying in the chest again and had been scared witless. He told me that when he grew up someone he knew had died like that. They climbed into a chest and their parents had found them hours later, their face blue, their body cold and lifeless.

That explained it a little, but I knew there was more. Peter was usually so damn unflappable. We had a very frosty dinner; Benjamin was cheerful and talking again but he could see his father was upset so that didn't last long. We had pizza, usually a nice treat, but it wasn't fun.

After I'd put Benjamin to bed I made Peter tell me what had really happened. He didn't want to at first, but I could tell I'd stumbled across something terrible from his past, and I couldn't leave that sort of thing alone. I was his wife; he'd shouldn't be hiding things from me.

Eventually he started to tell me a story. When he was a kid, there were three children on his street and they used to play together. Having children roughly at the same time had made all three families very close and it was not unusual for them to have each other over to their houses or for them to play in the street and go on days out together.

There was Peter, Oscar and Nils – the Lundgren family were Swedish but had lived in England for over a decade. The three children played together all the time from when they were very young, but by the time they were seven or eight most of them had siblings too. Peter had his little brother Lance, who lives in Canada, and Oscar had brothers and so on. The Lundgrens had had a second child, after many problems. Nils had almost died in birth and they'd been told that they might never have another. That's probably what made Nils so shy and scared, Peter had said, that his parents were over-protective of him.

They'd had a little girl they'd called Sigrid and they were going to have a big party after her christening. It was being held at the Lundgren's house and all the three families plus relatives were there.

Out of the three of them, Oscar was sort of the leader, bossing the other two around. Peter was usually happy to go along with it, but Nils was shy and cautious and he'd sometimes get pushed around. Peter said he used to try to stand up for Nils, stop Oscar from picking on him. But often he would become impatient with Nils too and they both might pick on him, maybe bully him a bit.

On the day of the christening the three of them were playing together at the party after, along with Lance who was the oldest of the next generation of kids. They were playing hide and seek around the Lundgren's house, which was the biggest on the street, and somewhere where they didn't normally have the chance to play.

Nils wasn't good at playing hide and seek, despite living there. Oscar kept pestering him that it was because he was afraid of the dark. Nils was getting upset by this and even Lance was starting to tease him too. Peter was trying not to tease him, but he didn't want to defend him too much because he didn't want to look bad in front of Oscar or his brother.

After a while of teasing him, Nils said he could find somewhere to hide, somewhere where no one would ever find him. So Oscar told him to go; it was supposed to be Nils' turn to go look, but Oscar would let him have another go at hiding if he had such a great place to hide. So off he went, but instead of Peter and Lance going to hide too, Oscar thought it would be really funny if they just left him. That they'd pretend he'd found a place to hide so good, that they just couldn't find him.

Lance thought it was hilarious but Peter thought it was harsh. But then Oscar starting laying in to him, telling him he was a baby and that it was funny. Peter went along with it, but after a while, when Nils didn't show up, he went looking for him. He went all over the house looking, but he couldn't find him.

At one point he went into Nils' father's office. None of them had hidden in there, because they thought they might get in trouble. Nils' father was a lawyer and his office was full of paperwork and case files and in there was this chest. And Peter wondered if Nils was there inside. But when he went to the box he noticed there was a latch on the front and that it was on really tight.

He couldn't open it, so he thought Nils couldn't possibly be in there because it couldn't be opened. So eventually he gave up too and went on playing with the others. He had no idea something terrible had happened. So when, after more than half an hour, no one had seen Nils, their parents started to ask about him. And when they started shouting and he didn't answer, they started tearing the place apart looking for him.

Peter said it was almost an hour before they found him. He suffocated to death in that chest. They pulled him out and he was bright blue and ice cold.

His parents blamed it all on Peter and Oscar and their families were no longer friends. Nils' father started to drink heavily and he would shout and yell at Peter and his brother in the street. He and Peter's father got into fights. Nils' father said he'd take them to court but he never did. Eventually they just moved. But it drove a wedge between them and Oscar's family too. While Nils' family blamed both of them, Peter's family blamed Oscar's. He never saw them again after they moved.

Peter told me all this with tears flowing down his face, obviously he had buried these memories away deep and hadn't thought about them or faced them in years. He was less than ten when it all happened.

I listened sympathetically, held him as he cried. But while he told the story one question burned deeply in my mind. A question that had me all in a panic through what he was telling me. When he told me everything and he'd pulled himself back together a bit, I asked him about Nils' name. I asked him whether anyone had ever called Nils Neil?

"All the time," he said. People didn't get that it was a foreign name and people often called him Neil by mistake.

Apparently I fell off the bed and fainted. I don't think I was out very long; I woke up on the bed with Peter standing over me with his concerned face on. Peter wanted to know what had happened, was I alright?

I wasn't alright and I told him. I started to tell him everything about Neil and Benjamin. He didn't believe me at first. He started ranting and raving again about how there was nothing wrong with Benjamin and how he thought I'd got over all this. So I lashed out back at him and told him about the chest, and how I'd found Benjamin inside; threw it in his face to show him I'd been right all along. That our son was acting strange, that he was lost in a world of his own, that there was something else in the house with us!

I mean, what kind of kid has an imaginary friend called Neil? It's not very imaginative is it? And Benjamin had a wonderful imagination.

We argued all night. Peter kept trying to escape the truth; that the ghost of his dead friend had come back and now he was trying to take Benjamin away from us. I know that sounds crazy, but there was no other explanation. It all added up; insane though it sounds, it all made sense.

That next morning, the two of us sat Benjamin down and Peter asked him about Neil.

But Ben said he didn't know anyone called Neil; that he didn't have an imaginary friend and that he didn't know what I was talking about.

I practically screamed the place down; how could he lie like that? And straight away my loyal husband started to doubt everything that I had said. I shouted at Benjamin; he started to cry, tears pouring down his face. The perfect little manipulator.

I was livid, I was screaming the place down. Peter took Benjamin away to his room and then came back down to me and all hell broke loose.

He said I was going insane, that I wasn't the woman he married, that I was making it all up, that I was delusional. He couldn't see that Benjamin was lying to him. That his perfect little son wasn't so perfect. How would he know anything about him; he wasn't even there half the time.

But they'd played it so beautifully – I could prove nothing. Everything I was saying could be disputed. My word against Benjamin's; against the perfect little angel who did nothing wrong when Peter was there. Not a damn thing.

We argued for hours. Peter said I was the one who needed help, not Benjamin. And what's more, I if didn't get it, he was taking Benjamin away from me. He was going to take away my son because I couldn't be trusted with him any more.

I exploded; he said that there was nothing I could do about it. I said I'd call the police, he said he would tell them everything, about all the lies and delusions and about how unstable I was. I had a choice, either I could seek help voluntarily or he would report me to social services.

He was going to call his parents and take Benjamin there while I made up my mind. I was a wreck, bawling with tears, prostrate on the floor. How could he do that to me? My own husband, my own husband!

That bastard. He made me doubt myself again. Could I be imagining it all? Could I be making it all up? Was I really ill? Was it really all my fault? I just didn't know any more. I just didn't know.

All I know was that I didn't want to be alone. That I didn't want to be without my family. They were my life – I didn't have anything else. Without them I had nothing. I was nothing.

Peter couldn't get hold of his parents; that bought me some time. He could hear me crying my eyes out and I think finally he began to feel guilt, and shame. He came back into the kitchen and sat down with me and he tried to say sorry. Said that this was his fault, he should've known earlier that I was breaking down. He shouldn't have left me alone. He had plenty of warning signs and he was too stupid not to have acted on them sooner.

He didn't know what he was talking about, but I was so near suicidal that I would've taken anything. Any small sign of affection, from anyone.

We sat on the floor crying together for more than half an hour. We were going to get help together, we were going to get through this. Fucking idiot; he couldn't see what was staring him in the face.

After a while he said he was going to go upstairs and see if Benjamin was alright. I wasn't crying any more, I was fatigued and barely able to stand up; I had been that emotional. I washed my face and tried to look normal in the vain hope that Benjamin might be convinced that everything was going to be alright, that I was going to be alright.

Peter came back downstairs. He said he couldn't find Benjamin.

We both started shouting. Loud, at the top of our lungs, we yelled his name. We screamed his name. We couldn't find him. He was nowhere to be seen.

We both panicked. Frantically we started tearing the place apart. Opening cupboards, searching under beds, wardrobes anywhere. Peter searched upstairs, I searched downstairs. But there were only so many places to hide. I looked down behind the sofas, behind the television. I opened all the kitchen cupboards, under the table, behind the curtains. I searched under the stairs, pulling out all my canvases; he wasn't there.

I heard Peter pulling down the attic stairs. I checked my phone; he'd already been missing for more than ten minutes! I rushed to the stairs to help Peter.

As I put my foot on the bottom step I got that feeling. Cold shivers up my spine – I was being watched. I threw my head around. There was no one in the corridor, like always, there was nothing there.

But this time, I wasn't so sure and I was desperate, and in a state of panic, I yelled, "Benjamin" knowing, deep down, there was still no one there.

Then I saw it. Just the tiniest of glimpses of a foot, a child's shoe, just protruding from behind the kitchen door frame.

"Benjamin," I screamed.

A child peered from inside the kitchen; he stood half behind the doorframe, just his left side visible to me.

His hair was blonde, his eyes were brown, his clothes were old and faded – it wasn't Benjamin!

He was smiling at me, malevolently, and then disappeared.

"Benjamin" I screamed and ran into the kitchen. The back door to the garden was wide open. It was pouring with rain outside. The boy was nowhere to be seen, but as I stood in the doorway I saw the door to the shed was not closed either.

I ran across the soggy wet lawn towards the door. I pushed it open and staggered inside. The shed was empty, except for all the tools and sacks of compost.

Compost – I looked towards the windows, below which stood the two compost bins where me and Benjamin used to toss our leftovers and vegetable peelings.

The lid of one of them wasn't properly closed; it was propped up like it had been over-filled.

I ran to it, threw open the lid – two feet pointed out at me from the soil.

I screamed and dug my hands in and pulled at Benjamin's feet. He was dug in so deep I couldn't even pull him out. I dug more, screaming, crying. I tipped the bin over; as it spilled out I was able to get my arms in and pull him out.

He was already cold, my poor little boy. His eyes were closed tight, I couldn't get them open. I tried to resuscitate him, but his mouth was full of soil. There was nothing I could do...

I picked him up and held him to my chest. He was already gone. I fell to the floor in tears, holding my beautiful boy so tight. I was in so much pain, I could barely even see, my eyes were so flooded with tears. The pain – my poor boy, my precious boy. Benjamin, why did it happen? What did he ever do to deserve this? He was so young...

Peter came. He saw me on the floor distraught, debilitated, in pain. That mother-fucker; he screamed at me and wrenched Benjamin out of my arms. He ran back across the lawn. I went after him but I got to the kitchen doors and found them locked. He locked me out to get me away from my son.

I banged on the doors, banged on the windows. He tried to resuscitate him. He beat his chest, tried to clear his mouth, but he could do nothing. He brought death into my home and now he could do nothing.

He called the police and ambulance on his mobile. He ignored me, didn't even look in my direction. I beat so hard on those windows that I shattered one of the glass panes but it was too late. Too late. I fell to the floor, onto the soaking wet doorstep.

I picked up a small piece of glass and tried to cut my wrists. I couldn't even do that properly. All the big shards of glass had fallen on the inside.

He did nothing to stop me. He just left me there. And when the police came he told them I'd done it. The mother-fucker told them I'd murdered my own son. My own husband told them I'd killed my own son.

They locked me up for a while. There was a trial, an inquest. That liar told them he'd done nothing, and when I told them it was all his fault, all his fault because he killed that boy all those years ago he flat out fucking denied it. Denied that he'd ever told me about Nils and that that boy had never existed.

They wanted to pin it on me; they all thought I was mad too. But they couldn't prove I hurt my boy. There were no marks on him. I'd have to have incapacitated him to get in there, but there were no marks on him. He'd just climbed in on his own. He just got in by himself and let himself be buried.

I've never seen that mother-fucker since. And I hope he rots in hell.

My beautiful little boy...

THE STORM WALKER

I was out driving the first time I saw her. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds; there had been a terrible storm and parts of the road were flooded.

She was soaked through to the skin, water dripping off her. I'd never picked up a hitch-hiker in my life, but I found myself thinking that I should stop and see if I could give her a lift into the village. It was as if the city thinking was already leaving me and I was starting to think like a human being again. Or maybe I just wanted the company. She was dragging an umbrella turned inside-out; she looked so tragic.

She accepted with a nod, a slight smile and a mumble of thanks. She really was absolutely drenched. The second she sat down I started to worry about the state of the seat and mud getting all over the mat.

She was heading back to _______, same as me. I asked her if the rain had taken her by surprise, and she said:

"I always take my walk in the afternoon; I don't let the weather stop me." She meant it too. There was a look of aged formidability in her face; the type that people of a certain age get when they go militant against the weaknesses of getting older and aren't going to let anyone tell them that they can't do this or that anymore. But when she took off her hoods and glasses she was younger than she first appeared. Early-to-mid 50s rather than late 60s – she was overweight, not tall, and pale, sallow, tired-looking.

"Have you lived around here long?" I asked, hoping to build a conversation.

She was polite, but brusque: "All my life," she answered. After a pause, she followed with "You must be new; haven't seen your face before."

"Yes, I moved here about two weeks ago."

"Not from Scotland?"

"No," I smirked, everyone kept saying that.

"From London I suppose?"

"Sort of, not originally, but that's where I was living."

"We get a lot of your sort around here now." She said this in a mildly disapproving way, but less so than some folk I'd spoken to. It was true, the village was isolated but well-off, a haven for middle-class families wishing to "get away from it all". Although only a few seemed to be English.

"Not a bit quiet for you?"

"That's sort of what I wanted."

"Never saw the point of cities. Too cramped and cooped up. You get proper air out here."

The conversation continued this way for a few miles – stops and starts and awkward silences.

"You married?"

I thought for a second, and just answered "no". Later I thought I saw her looking down at my hands; if she caught sight of my ring, she must have chosen not to pry about it.

"Most folk move out here now to raise kids. Not so many years ago all the kids seemed to leave. Now the parents seem keen to drag them back again." I thought I could see a hint of a smile; I thought maybe she was starting to ease up a little, but then I asked:

"Do you work around here?"

"No," she said, becoming more hard-faced. "Can't work because of my back." She used an end-of-subject tone.

I chose not to pry either. But she'd been a good five or six miles out of the village; she obviously couldn't be that unhealthy. Although she could well have given herself pneumonia in this weather. I'd been foolish taking the car out in that downpour. As I thought about it I realised she must've been crazy to go out at all. It must've been at least a 10-mile round journey for her. What on earth was she thinking?

"You take a long walk every day?" I just had to ask.

"Not always, sometimes." She corrected herself and said "Most days. You must have a job in _____."

"Oh no. Well, not yet." I answered. "I really just wanted to get away from it for a while; I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet."

"And what did you do before?"

"I was a psychiatric nurse."

"Oh well, you should have no trouble finding work. Plenty of fools around here." There wasn't even the tiniest hint of a smile; she wasn't making a joke.

As I approached the village she gave me directions to where to drop her off, rather presumptuously assuming I was happy to take her home. It was a pleasant terraced house, well looked-after, small garden at the front, just like mine.

"I appreciate your help," she said, getting out. "Safe journey now." I watched as she walked slowly up to her front door and let herself in. Most folk around here barely bothered to lock their doors, but she spent several moments unlocking locks and unfastening bolts before going inside.

I realised suddenly that I hadn't caught her name. And she hadn't asked for mine either. I looked over at the passenger seat and scowled; I'd have to spend time cleaning it. Muddy footprints were all over the mat.

I drove home, which was about a mile or so on the other side of the village. Well, more probably it was a town; it just felt like a village, and everyone called it one.

There were no answerphone messages when I got back, which was a relief. The phone was my only point of contact now; I'd decided to give up my mobile. Not that it would probably work out in ______ anyway. I'd probably get the internet put in eventually, but I had no idea how long I was going to stay.

The old lady who owned the place seemed to know nothing about letting. I'd paid her for two months' rent and she said we'd 'see how it goes'. I think she let it normally for holidays, so she probably rarely had tenants off-season. Not that I could think why there'd be much demand for it as a holiday home, although I suppose for hikers, climbers, and outdoor types it would have quite a bit of appeal. Hills, mountains, woodlands and streams could be found in almost all directions.

It was a good job it was a holiday home, otherwise it would've been empty. I only had two suitcases, everything else I had was in storage. I was putting my past-life to one side and just thinking about me and what I wanted to do next. And there'd be no rush; there was no need for a rush. I'd just go on and see how I felt and how things unfolded.

I didn't have much to do at first. I enjoyed reading, I took a little to hiking, but the weather was generally too miserable and it was starting to turn cold. I went to the cinema, the first time in years. They had this quaint little town hall cinema; they pulled down a little screen and had their own projector. They played Casablanca and To Have and Have Not on a double-bill. All the pensioners were there; they looked at me like I was from another planet. Clearly they didn't get newcomers often.

I thought about painting, but I wasn't very good at it and gave up a bit too easily. I thought I needed to meet some people and make some friends. I volunteered at the local pet rescue charity shop. It hadn't been open long and Joyce, the manager, was pretty much doing everything herself.

They had strange ways, some of the folk around there. They wouldn't volunteer to help, but they'd sort of ask about it and if you just happened to ask them if they'd like to, then maybe they could probably just about find some time to come in once or twice a week, or more.

They used to look at Joyce like she was an alien too. She was Jamaican – she used to joke she was the only black woman for 50 miles. Although it could've been her size too. She was a good six foot tall and big-bodied. She used to tower over the little old folk. They were nice people really, just used to things being always the same.

We did have a laugh. She was irrepressible – you could hear her laugh in the pharmacy next door. And things were starting to get busy after a few slow months. ______ is a strange place, there was no high-street as such. Just odd little pockets of shops here and there, as if people kept trying to set one up, but kept giving up.

We talked a lot; she didn't know many people either, but was much better at making friends. She was just one of those people: big, open and bubbly; everyone felt like she was their friend.

I confided in her a little. Told her about my husband's death without giving away too many of the details. I just told her about the cancer and left it at that. She didn't ask too many questions. She understood that I was trying to move on with my life and we concentrated more on happy things. She kept telling me she was going to set me up with someone. I laughed and joked about it, but that was really the last thing I wanted and did my best to let her know without being nasty about it. Difficult to know who she could set me up with anyway; the only single types they seemed to have around _____ were little old men.

I'd been working there a week or two when the lady I'd picked up appeared at the shop counter. I hadn't seen her come in; I'd been talking to Horace, a sweet old man from up the road who liked to talk, and talk, and talk...

"Hello," I said with familiarity. She returned the greeting with only a hint of fondness. She placed a red umbrella on the counter.

"For your walks?" I said, attempting conversation again.

She didn't answer. "How much is that?"

"Three pounds for umbrellas".

"And those as well?" She moved the umbrella; there were two gloves on the counter, children's woolly gloves. They were pink with little yellow flowers on.

"Oh, they're a pound. Four in total."

She held out a fiver and I took it. Just when I thought she'd forgotten who I was, she said "Are you settling in all right?" She said it almost like an obligation, a chore.

"Yes, I'm settling in fine, thank you," I answered, while passing her her change.

"Good," she said, giving the smallest of smiles and a nod.

"Would you like a bag?"

"No thank you." She picked up the umbrella and stuffed the gloves into her coat pocket. "Good afternoon".

I smiled and she started to amble towards the door. Just as she was passing the women's jacket stand, the clouds seemed to burst outside and it started to rain. She stopped and stood watching it.

"Good job you bought the umbrella," I said. She didn't say anything. After a moment she just carried on. She went out the door and walked away in the rain. She didn't even open the umbrella.

She was strange, but in my profession, I'd seen a lot worse. She probably just had trouble talking to people; it doesn't necessarily get any easier when you get older. It was probably quite hard for her to even try. I felt quite touched that she was trying; it was so easy for folk getting older to just give up.

The rain killed custom for the afternoon; the street was dead after three o'clock. We closed at four. Joyce had spent the afternoon going through a large donation and not a good one. Unfortunately, the pet rescue store was much closer than the dump. There was so much rubbish it would take two rubbish collections to get it all taken away.

While she cashed up, I started to take the sacks out. They were heavy; I managed two at a time, but only just. The rain was still falling hard. I dragged them out through the side door and towards the metal skip bin. There was a girl playing in the alley, jumping joyously in the puddles. It made me smile.

I put the rubbish bags down and unlocked the bin lid. After I threw it open, I got one bag in fine. But I caught the other on the bin's side and it tore. Some items fell out – a broken bead necklace slipped out and scattered beads in all directions when it hit the ground. I swore.

"You're not throwing away toys are you?"

I looked up, slightly embarrassed, at the young girl. She was maybe six or seven, not very old. And she was dressed in a faded blue duffle coat; vintage, but worn and old. Some of the buttons were missing. She was looking at a wooden toy train that had also dropped through the tear.

I put the bag down. "It's broken dear," I said. "The wheels have all come off." She stared at me, saying nothing. I smiled at her; she didn't move. Her face was frozen in a sulking expression, eyes downcast, lips curling downward. She was white, frighteningly pale; she looked almost albino, like she was freezing.

Feeling a bit spooked, I picked up the second rubbish sack and got it in the bin. As I bent down to pick up the train, I noticed she was gone. Vanished, without a sound.

It was very strange. I tried to pick up some of the scattered beads but gave up quickly and went back inside. I didn't think much about the pale girl until later, when I started to wonder what on earth she was doing behind a charity shop in an alley leading to a row of garages? There didn't seem to be anyone else there. Who was she with? And where did she go?

One of the first things Joyce had found out from me when I started was where I lived. This was so she could find out whether I would be able to give her a lift home after work. Joyce didn't drive; she could probably walk it, but she had an amazing ability of avoiding any kind of hard work. When I was there she always managed to find some reason why it was better for me to do any lifting. I brought in the donation bags, she just did the sorting. And that way she could grab anything she liked first.

Her house, which was only supposed to be just around the corner from mine, was actually a good mile and a half away. Just past the outskirts of ______, nestled amongst some trees. She called it Grandma's House, because it looked like it had come right out of a fairy tale. It had a long winding path and a tiny rock wall fence, and a little red gate. It was a single storey bungalow, with a thatched roof; you could just imagine a big bad wolf hiding behind the door.

Anyway, we were a short distance away from there, stuck waiting to cross the bridge over the river because of a tractor, when I saw that woman again. The rain was starting to clear now, but she had her umbrella, the one she bought from me, still open. Her head was hung down, she looked positively miserable. It had been over two hours since I'd served her. Had she really been out all that time?

"It's that woman again," I said, thinking out loud.

"What's that?" said Joyce.

"That woman, I gave her a lift the other day. She was out in the middle of nowhere soaked to the skin, walking. Now she's doing it again."

"You gave her a lift? Crazy Rose?"

"You what?"

"Crazy Rose – her there with the umbrella. You gave her a lift?"

"What's crazy about her? She seemed ok." But pretty odd.

"Don't ask me. That's just what they call her. I've heard the ladies talk about her. They stay well clear."

"She didn't seem that crazy."

"Well you'd be the expert. But the women around here, they don't like to go near her."

I dropped Joyce off at her mysterious cottage. Apparently she shared it with another lady called Francesca, oft mentioned but as yet unseen by any of the volunteers. Tongues were starting to wag. Gossip spreads like wild fire in isolated places like ______. But frankly, who cares?

Yes, village life could be pretty insular. I wondered whether I could ever really get used to it. I was enjoying the slower pace, but could I ever get used to a life where the biggest news story was whether a Jamaican woman was a lesbian or whether a woman who liked to walk in the rain was a nutcase?

Honestly, if they thought she was crazy... they'd never seen crazy – real crazy. I wondered whether I could really go back to that life. So few ever seemed to get better; you knew which ones you'd see again. I felt like I'd done enough for the betterment of mankind. And that's if they'd have me back anyway.

There were still no answerphone messages. I wondered if that was a good thing, but I certainly felt that no news was better.

Nothing much happened for a few days. In between my shifts at the shop, I read some so-so chick-lit, did a bit of driving, took a long walk when the weather wasn't so bad. I think I may have even done a jigsaw; the days were so empty. So meaningless.

Then one evening – it wasn't very late – I was driving to the Co-op for my weekly shop when I saw "Crazy Rose" walking along the street, weighed down by heavy shopping bags. It was a crowded residential street. I passed her, on the opposite side of the road, and then pulled in between parked cars to let another car go by in the opposite direction.

It took a few moments for me to realise something was wrong. The car was full of kids, teenagers – they didn't look old enough to be driving. I saw them all turn towards Rose as they approached her very slowly. One was opening the sun roof.

The car passed me, but I didn't move – I watched. I saw one boy rise from the sun roof and the others lean out of the car windows. They threw eggs at Rose. They threw the eggs, then screamed, shouted and laughed at her.

After the first hit, she rose her arm to cover her face – dropping one of her shopping bags. She was hit a couple of times. With the car moving on, she screamed at them: "You bastards! You fucking bastards!" Then she stepped on the shopping bag she had dropped – tripping and falling over it. The kids cheered once more, then revved up and sped away.

I had to get involved – I couldn't just leave her. I stopped the engine and ran across the road to her.

"Are you all right?" I shouted.

"Those little bastards!" She cried. "Fucking bastards!" There were tears in her eyes. There was egg yolk on her coat – front and back – and on her neck and hair. And to add to the misery, she'd crushed her own eggs – a squashed carton lay on the street surrounded by spilled, bruising fruit and a still-intact loaf.

I tried to help her repack her bags, but one was torn. "The people around here. Bastards all of them."

"Let me help you."

"It's all right, it's all..." She broke into tears and slumped against a garden wall.

I tried to put part of my arm around her but she shook it off. She reached into her pocket for a tissue while I stood over her, awkwardly.

"I've got spare bags in the car," I said after a moment. "Let's get you home."

I remembered that she lived only around the corner. I left the car barely parked and went with her. As I walked with her there was a nagging feeling of doubt that I was walking into something bad. But this was basic human kindness – I wasn't being a Florence Nightingale again. And yet I knew I was heading towards trouble. Catch 22 – but I was doing the right thing.

I understood why she had so many locks on her door. She'd become the crazy old person in the neighbourhood the kids talked about and tormented. And with a place with so few things for young people to do... well, no wonder she felt vulnerable.

It was a tired looking place and was long overdue for redecorating. The wallpaper was a nightmarish display of faded chintz; once garish, now just dowdy. It was starting to peel towards the top and at some places near the skirting. The carpet was a dulling purple, darker around the furniture and towards the walls where the sun nor feet could land upon it.

She led me into the living room with few words. It too looked unchanged from a past era, when what seemed cheap and tacky now had once borne all the hallmarks of fashionable suburban living. A television the size of a tea chest lay on top of a chipboard cabinet wrapped in a plasticky wood finish. A fold out table with a doyley and fake flowers (dusty) lay in the window concave; the crowning touch was a hideous beige sofa, the seats long since sunk in and pock-marked with cigarette burns.

She was composed again now, hard-faced once more. "I'll stick my coat in the wash and clean myself up. Then I'll make us some tea," she said. Tea – the currency of British gratitude in the north as well as the south.

The sofa didn't look very inviting. There were marks in the carpet where an armchair had once been; four deep indents and a brighter square of carpet – no other seating options. There was a coffee table in the middle with a honeycomb of cup rings making its way from the wood surface onto a pile of assorted letters, a mixture of junk mail and bills. I could see the words 'Final Demand' several times.

I'd seen worse. It was grim but mostly clean, if a bit dusty and a bit smelly. She went upstairs, presumably to the bathroom. I paced around a little – all I wanted to do was leave. I'd probably just leave as soon as she came downstairs.

The walls were largely bare. A mirror with rusted edges hung at a slight angle. There had once been a picture behind the sofa, but that was long gone. There was a small sideboard, probably bought at a later date than the other furniture – it was darker and in better condition. There was a series of four mismatched picture frames on its top. One was larger than the others – it was silver; the real deal. It was tarnished, but attempts had been made to clean it. It was a posed photograph, a school photo.

It was that girl: the one I'd seen in the alley by the shop. She looked positively luminous; a big happy grin, perfect smile, adorable blonde pigtails. Hardly at all like the sickly girl I'd seen before – but it was unmistakeably her.

I heard the door move behind me. Rose came back into the room, surprising me a little. On seeing me looking at the photograph I saw her back stiffen.

"Is this your grand-daughter?" I asked her.

"No," she said very sternly. "That's my daughter." Her nostrils flared, her lips curled in, her eyes opened wide.

How was that possible? Rose was pretty old to have a six or seven year old child. I know they can do amazing things with IVF these days, but nothing about Rose's situation made me think that any of that was likely.

"She's very beautiful," I said. All the pictures on the sideboard were of her. But the others were all faded, old photographs. I wondered if she was delusional, but I'd seen the girl, walking around hardly much older than in the pictures. Something was very wrong here...

There was a moment of silence.

"I'll get you that tea," Rose said.

I could've left it at that, I should've left it at that. But then I said – why did I say it? – I said: "I think I saw her the other day."

Rose stopped dead. She spun around; with a desperate look on her face, she said: "You seen her?"

"About a week ago, I think."

Rose launched herself at me. She grabbed me by the sides of my cardigan; "Where did you see her?" She started to shake me; "Where did you see her!"

"She was by the charity shop, in the alley – Rose, calm down!" I pushed her arms off me, but she just grabbed me higher up.

"What was she doing coming to you!" She was shaking me again. "Why'd she come to you!" She pushed me away sharply. I tumbled over the arm of the sofa, landing on the sunken seats before rolling off onto the floor. I was lucky not to smack my head on the coffee table as I landed on the carpet.

"I'm her mum, she should be coming to me. I'm her bloody mother!" She clumsily tried to kick me, but I moved my legs in time. I'd been in situations like this before, but never on my own. I was terrified.

"Rose, you need to calm down. Stop shouting, Rose."

She didn't know what to say for a moment; she backed away a little, as if she wasn't sure what had come over her. I think she knew she'd crossed a line.

"You get out," she breathed. "Get out of this house!"

She turned around and went fast into the kitchen. Petrified she might come out with a knife, I pulled myself up and made a dash for the door. Thank God she hadn't done up all the locks – I undid the latch myself as I heard her footsteps coming after me. As I ran out into the road I heard her cry out to me:

"If you see her, you come get me. You hear me! You bloody come and find me if you see her!"

I ran back to my car and locked myself in and burst into tears. I don't know how long I spent there, slumped against the steering wheel, crying. I thought I was passed all this, but obviously not. Just a prod and I was in pieces again.

I'm being too hard on myself. I was feeling pretty shaken up; that woman really was crazy. She couldn't possibly have a seven-year-old daughter. Perhaps she'd died a long time ago and she never got over it. But then how could I have seen the child in the alleyway? Maybe she was a different child? Yet she looked so much like the child in the picture, those old pictures...

My head was hurting. I wiped away the tears with a tissue. I ought to be angry at her, but losing your child was probably even more painful than losing your husband. And that hurt badly enough. And then prophetically, as if to make things worse, I got home and found a message on my answerphone. The lawyers...

It was bad news. They weren't going to say much over the phone, but they implied that it might go to court after all. That they had enough grounds to contest the will.

I felt drained and slumped against the wall. Bastards. Christ, I didn't even really want the money – I just didn't want them to have it. They'd turned their backs on him when he needed them and now they thought they had a right to what he left behind? How low could people go?

They were going to make out I'd taken advantage of him. Seduced him when he was at his most vulnerable. We didn't even start seeing each other until after he was discharged. I was careful, damn careful about it. But they weren't going to see it that way, were they? My bosses didn't see it that way. Practically forced me to leave. I risked everything because of him, and then he goes off and he bloody well kills himself.

What did he think? He was saving me heartache? Saving me pain? He could've fought it; it didn't have to end like that. And look what a mess he left. What a state he'd left me in.

I opened a bottle of wine and drank most of it in silence. I spent the evening lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. That mad bitch had hurt my shoulder. It ached every time I lifted the glass or bottle to my lips. Christ, Adrian, couldn't you have held on that bit longer?

If only I'd been there. I never thought that he could just give up like that. They can fight these things; a prognosis is only an educated guess. He didn't even leave a note. He couldn't face me in the end. He didn't just want to save me pain – he didn't want to face me. Tell me he was throwing in the towel. It was one tragedy too many. As if being schizophrenic wasn't enough for a man to take.

I stayed indoors for two days. Cancelled an afternoon shift at the shop. Lied and said I had a migraine. I just didn't want to move. I wanted to find somewhere to hide. I spent most of one day under the bed. Hiding in the darkness. I didn't eat. I drank very little.

I ran a bath on the second day. Spent most of the day in it. Kept putting my head under the water to see how long I could hold my breath. I don't even know what I was thinking. I just felt heavy. Simple tasks were too difficult. Simple choices were too hard. Bubble bath or no bubble bath? Radio on or radio off? I chose no in both cases, but only because I never made a decision in the first place. Too much time just passed by.

Strangely enough, it was a call again from the lawyers that brought me out of my stupor. It was a reminder that I couldn't hide. And that there was still a vestige of anger in me that wanted to take on those bastards. There was still some fight left in me.

I called them back just before they closed for the day. They were going to send me some papers, which I would need to read and then go over with them point-by-point to challenge which parts I felt were incorrect, false, unfair, unjustified, etc.

Something to look forward to...

I was back in the charity shop on Wednesday. I didn't mention anything about my relapse to Joyce, but I had to tell her about Crazy Rose. I'd been outside to throw some rubbish away, just after I'd got there in the morning, and I knew someone was there in the alley. I just caught them shuffle back around the corner when they saw me. I knew it was Rose; she was searching where I said I'd seen the girl.

"I told you she was crazy".

"She needs help," I said. We don't use words like crazy in the mental health profession. "You should've seen the place; it was like it hadn't changed for twenty years. She bought kids' gloves here the other day."

"It's so sad, losing your child. But didn't you say you'd seen her outside?"

"Only thought I'd seen her. I must've been wrong, those were old photos, and you've seen how old she is." Something didn't add up. I could've been wrong, but I didn't think I was.

"Alice will know," said Joyce. "She's the librarian. And the local historian. She's got the dirt on everyone. Biggest gossip in town, and you know how they love to gossip around here. She runs the book group; I've been telling you you should go."

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow night. Still time for you to go over the material." She got up and scoured the book shelves. After a few moments of searching she plucked out a copy of Life of Pi. "Not a bad choice this time."

"That's handy; I've read it."

As I'd guessed, the book group consisted of only ten minutes of book talk followed by a free-roaming discussion on everything from Brangelina to local teen pregnancies and who the fathers were. Alice was a woman with glasses much wider than her head. She was long-necked with a penetrating stare. She was like a woodland creature scanning its environment, in this case looking for little gossipy titbits to feast on. Her eyes roamed around the group; she dipped in and out of the conversations, entering when they got juicy, exiting when the scandals died down.

We were going to discuss Rose when all the other women had left. She gave me a wink to suggest that this was something big, beyond mere book group chitter-chatter. As soon as everyone else had left, she practically skipped past the bookshelves to get her records.

After a few moments Alice returned with a large red ring binder, A3 size, which she placed down on the table with a sense of relish.

"Nowadays I don't usually bother keeping the newspapers, not with the internet. But we used to cut out all the local stories."

The binder was a giant scrap book; thousands of stories had been diligently cut out and stuck inside. She had bookmarked the page she wanted to show me. She picked up a large clutch of papers, lifted them over and dropped them down on the desk with a thud.

What she revealed made my eyes open wide:

LIGHTNING STRIKES SCHOOLGIRL DEAD

Me and Joyce were speechless. It was one of several headlines – the story was unusual enough to have reached the nationals: Scottish girl killed by lightning; Child killed by playground lightning; Lightning strikes girl dead in playground. Only the local paper carried it as a front page story. In a rather tasteless image they had the girl's picture superimposed next to a picture of fork lightning badly pasted over a picture of a school playground. I recognised the school; it was on the other side of town; I passed it occasionally.

"______ was in mourning yesterday after a six-year-old was struck by lightning and killed in the playground in front of her classmates. Chloe Rutter was leaving school when she was inexplicably killed as she waited for her mother to take her home."

It was her: the girl I'd seen in the alley. How was that possible? Her name was Chloe; I hadn't even known her name.

"My sister-in-law was there," said Alice. "They'd just let the wee ones go for the day. And they were just heading across the playground. Little Chloe, she sees her mum, Rose, and she goes to run to her. And Rose opens her arms open wide, ready to catch her and pick her up." Alice did the motions. "And just as she was running to her, barely a few yards away, bang!"

She struck the fist of her right hand into her left palm. "Lightning struck – it came right down from the sky. There was a big flash, and poor little Chloe, she fell dead just feet from her mum, all burnt-up. Smoke were coming off her. Dead, instantly. Old Nora, she said she'd never seen anything like it. No one had; it wasn't even barely raining."

I looked at the paper's date. Christ, that was 26 years ago. That meant that Chloe was older than I was! Would've been older than I was. God, I'd seen a ghost. I couldn't believe it. I'd seen a ghost. And talked to a ghost!

"That's horrible," said Joyce, scanning her way through the press cuttings.

"It's a terrible thing to lose a child," said Alice. "But to lose one like that. Right in front of your eyes. And it must be, what? A million-to-one chance, getting struck by lightning?"

"It's unbelievable," I said. But it was well documented. It was the end of the school day; all the mums and dads were there. And the other children.

"It happened in a flash," a parent was quoted as saying. "One moment she was there, running to her mam, and then she was gone. I've never seen anything like it."

"What happened to her? Rose, I mean."

"She went mad with grief, didn't she? Imagine it, losing you own daughter in front of you, killed no closer to you than you are to me now.

"She disappeared for quite a while. Institutionalised I mean. No one saw her for months. Her husband looked after the house; he started drinking. They didn't even have the funeral until she got back. And then things settled down for a bit. But they'd have these rows, these terrible rows. Then one day, he left. Never seen around these parts again. Just vanished.

Rose, she never came to terms with it. Some people reckon she still thinks she's alive. She used to talk like she was still alive, and when you tried to tell her Chloe was gone, she'd get furious. People stopped talking to her altogether, they got afraid of her. She's mad, completely barmy."

I looked at Joyce and Joyce looked back at me. I'd seen her. I'd seen a dead girl.

"She bought kids' gloves off me the other day," I said.

"Sad really. But what can you do? She won't let you help her. Even after all this time she can't come to terms with it. Can't get over the shock."

It was tensely quiet in the car as I drove Joyce back home.

"It couldn't have been her," I said, not believing myself. I wondered if somehow, I'd seen the newspaper story before, somehow dug that picture from deep within my memory and imagined the girl behind the shop. But of course I hadn't; I was five when that happened and would hardly have been big into newspapers.

"I've heard some strange stuff in my time," said Joyce. "But I haven't heard anything like this."

"That's why she goes out in the storms," I said. "That's why she goes out walking. She's trying to find her. She thinks she's going to find Chloe out in the storm."

"But that doesn't make sense."

"None of this makes sense! But when I saw the girl, it was raining. And she, I mean Rose, she'd just bought that umbrella..."

"Look, I don't know what crazy stuff you're getting into your head, but you need to leave this woman alone. She already attacked you once. And you heard what Alice said about her husband. Never seen again. He could be under the patio for all you know."

She was right. I had to put aside my Florence Nightingale tendencies and stay well away from this. 26 years Rose had been searching for Chloe. No wonder she was angry with me. She goes rambling across hills and fields and I stumble across her in a back-alley by accident.

Why had she appeared to me? Because of my loss? No, I scattered what was left of Adrian across Richmond Park where we used to walk together. More than likely she appeared to people all the time. Who was going to remember a little girl from 26 years ago except her mother?

I dropped Joyce off and continued on back home. It had a certain gothic poetry to it. The woman who chased storms... trudged through the mud every time the rain fell. And for what? A glimpse of her child, a chance to spend time with her? Or in the vain hope that somehow, someday, the storm might return her to her, having once so cruelly taken her away?

I laughed at myself for getting so melodramatic. As I drove back to my house it started to rain, only very slightly. But as I stepped out of the car and felt the cold rain land on my face, drip slowly down my back, I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of horror. 26 years... walking alone through the cold... the rain... the mud... chasing a dream, a fantasy. Praying for rain, despairing when the sun shone. A life in darkness, grey and cold. Never ending, never changing. A life of loss and futile hope.

I went in and poured myself a large glass of wine. Christ, and I thought I had problems. I thought I could take my mind off it by watching the telly. Even the latest tensions between Israel and Palestine were starting to seem like a pleasant alternative.

But just as I thought I might be taking my mind off it, the weather came on and the girl warned that more bad weather was coming. And not just any bad weather: the tail-end of a South-American hurricane. We should expect bad storms come the weekend. And gale-force winds.

My blood ran cold. Would that make her happy? A weekend of heavy stormy weather? Would she prepare? Get her best Wellington boots ready? Her rain-mac, umbrella?

Then another unpleasant idea came into my head: what if she wanted to die too? What if she wanted the storm to take her like it had taken her child? What if every time she went into the storm, she hoped that she might die too?

I didn't sleep well. In fact, I even dreamt about it. That day in the playground...

The sky was grey, a hint of drizzle falling. The children were leaving the school building – it was small, only large enough for two classrooms. The children were all dressed in their raincoats, with scarves, wellies, gloves, bobble hats or hoods. They carried lunch boxes, rucksacks, some had little umbrellas – all small, tiny and adorable.

The parents were waiting on the periphery. Some of the children ran to them, others walked, some skipped. Friends waved each other goodbye, brothers and sisters squabbled. Teachers oversaw from the double-doored entrance, trading a few words while they did the last of their daily duties.

Chloe was still by the school doors. She scanned the hedges, then the front fence, furtively looking for her mother. There was a rumble in the sky.

I was Rose. I waved enthusiastically to her. She jumped a little off the ground and waved happily to me. She wore an expression of undiluted, untainted pure affection. Sheer joy just at seeing me. I walked a little into the playground, across a faded hopscotch game. She ran towards me, arms outstretched. I leant down to catch her and hoist her up. She giggled and laughed as she sped towards me.

A stream of white fell from the sky. There was no warning, not even a second, a moment to see or comprehend the impending terror. She crashed into the crack of light and the world was torn in two.

I gave up on sleeping after that. I washed off a layer of sweat in the shower and then took to the sofa in my duvet and watched whatever dross the television had to offer.

At some point I drifted over to the 24-hour news channel. The weather report told once more of the impending storm. Gale-force winds expected. I changed the channel; there would be no more Florence Nightingale. I had had my fill of getting involved in other people's problems. That's why I moved up here – to get away from everything.

But I hadn't, had I? The postman would be here with letters from the solicitors this morning. What a joke. The only reason I'd come out here, decided to hole myself up in this obscure nowhere in the highlands was that Adrian used to tell me about it. He'd come to _____ once with his grandparents and found the place so peaceful, so... absent, of anything. He said it was the vaguest place in the world. Towns, cities, had personality, character – ______ had nothing. It was just houses together, people walking in and out of dream. A human purgatory.

And he was right, wasn't he? I was here running away from my problems, Rose was chasing her past. Even Joyce, bright bubbly Joyce, she was living in her Grandma's cottage with her mystery woman, living their life of secrets away from prying eyes. That day in the 80s when Chloe died, that was probably the last time the world even noticed _____. One brief mention in the paper and it vanished once again.

Adrian came here to reset – to really get away from it all. To try and derail his episodes. And now I had come here too, to get away from it all. I'd come to my dead husband's purgatory, where his presence lingered around every corner.

I laughed at myself. What a stupid fool I was.

Tired and unwell, but at least avoiding a full-on depressive stupor, I pulled myself away from the house. I wasn't due in the charity shop that day, but I went anyway. Stephanie, a stick-thin, easily flustered woman was looking after things; it was Joyce's day off. I lied about Joyce asking me to come in. No it wasn't because Joyce didn't think she was up to it; it was because there was always supposed to be two people working there and now that we had enough people we should follow the rules to avoid trouble.

I just didn't want to be alone. I knew the lawyer's papers were just going to upset me. And I didn't want to get involved in that other thing either. The radio in the shop kept reminding me of the impending storm expected this weekend. I wanted to turn it off.

When I drove home, I deliberately avoided driving by Rose's house, which would've been on my usual route. My days of martyrdom were over. When I got home, I couldn't look at those papers, which were waiting ominously on the doormat. Even looking at that first page made me start to cry. I was in such a mess. How long could I carry on like this? Trapped in purgatory with nowhere to turn except the past.

Thursday turned to Friday. The weather warnings escalated in their severity. Flood warnings had now been issued, people shouldn't travel unless absolutely necessary. Joyce said she'd play it by ear, but would probably keep the shop shut.

The clouds darkened. The wind grew strong – the whole landscape felt on the brink of a full on tempest. Streets emptied; children left school early. The local news stoked the fire – "This could be the worst storm for more than a decade". I saw sandbags in driveways; surely we were too high up here to be put at risk from the river flooding? Perhaps the rain water could run down the streets as it came down through the hills?

What the hell did I know? My landlady had not thought to give me any instruction. Let the rain waters come. They were the least of my problems. Maybe I'd even enjoy some new problems.

But my new found taste for alcoholism was my first concern. If I was going to get through those papers I was going to need a stiff drink or two. And as the heavens had yet to open, there was still time to visit the Co-op for some booze.

The shelves were half empty; people had been preparing for the worst. I took the best of what was still there and started back for home.

It was on the way back that I saw her; climbing clumsily over a stile onto a public footpath. Yes, she was on her way. She had to be, didn't she?

I almost said no. I almost convinced myself that I didn't care. That I could just say "To hell with her" and just drive away. But I couldn't, could I?

And even as I got out of the car I knew I wouldn't be able to convince her. That she would just throw abuse at me and carry on, despite the risks. But not try? That's not that kind of person I could be.

"Rose, for God's sake!" I cried. "You can't go out there, you'll get yourself killed."

"Don't you worry about me," she said, barely even turning to look at me.

The wind was already strong; I could barely hear her as it roared past my ears. I didn't know what I was saying; how do you get someone chasing a ghost to see sense?

I improvised as best I could: "You can't bring her back Rose," I yelled. "She's gone."

"She's not gone," Rose turned to me in anger. "She's always with me. She's all I've got!"

"But it's not safe; she doesn't want you to get yourself killed."

"It's the only time I'm with her," tears were running down her cheeks. "It's the only time I see my little girl, the only time I can find her. I need her and she needs me. She's my baby!" She turned back to the hills, staring out into the grey wild.

There was a rumble of thunder from far away. Rose turned her head, scanning the landscape slowly. "I'm coming my love," she shouted. "Don't run; I'm coming."

"Rose!" I yelled. She didn't hear me, or didn't want to. I climbed over the stile to go after her, but I just wasn't dressed for it. My heel sunk straight into the mud and I almost fell over backwards. I just managed to grab hold of the fence to stop myself.

My hair was blowing in front of my face. Rose marched determinedly into the distance. I couldn't stop her; probably nothing could.

I pulled myself out of the mud and climbed back over the fence. I'd done my part, done my best. You can only do so much. If they're that fixated on the abyss, you can't keep them out of it. Some people are just too determined to tie their own rope.

I stumbled back to my car, my ankle twisted and aching, and drove back home. The gale blew all afternoon and into the evening. The rain came down around 6 o'clock; it came down heavy but for not as long as they'd predicted. It was running in streams down the gutters and down the sides of the street.

It fell harder further north. _____ was not so badly flooded; the banks of the river held.

But many of the roads into town were flooded; that's why the shop shelves were so empty. This wasn't a hurricane, but the country roads flooded so easily. The town could so easily be cut off.

I watched things progress on the news between soaps, sitcom repeats and predictable detective shows. Of course, if this had been the Home Counties there would be hours of coverage. But as this was the highlands, bad weather wasn't big news. The local news was of course more keyed-in. There were road accidents, real flooding in other areas; some rural communities stranded. All train services had been cancelled past Edinburgh and Glasgow. A caravan had blown down a hillside at a campsite 50 miles away, killing a man and his two children.

From my window I watched wheelie bins get blown down the street. The rain wasn't coming down heavily by night time, but a fierce drizzle spat against the windows.

I drank heavily; my mind was on Rose – that stupid woman. Would she have the good sense to go home? Would she stay out all night in the cold and wet? If she didn't get herself killed, she'd probably die from the cold.

I tried my best to put my mind on other things, but the only other things I had to focus on were legal matters. I'd barely looked at the legal papers; a mixture of accusations, insinuations and gossip – they made me sick to my stomach.

I couldn't sleep. The roaring sound of the wind created an uneasy atmosphere. I tossed and turned beneath the sheets. When I closed my eyes I felt like I could see the storm in my mind – the wind rushing through trees, the rain hitting the puddles in the street, the people on the street struggling to get to shelter.

Then I imagined myself chasing Rose through the fields, arguing with her, pleading with her to come back home.

And little Chloe. She was with me, mocking me. "She's not listening to you," she would say with glee and a jolly little skip. "She doesn't have to do a thing you say. She's my mum. She doesn't have to do what she's told by you."

She laughed at me. I told her to go away. I told her she was dead; she kicked mud at me: "No – you're dead!"

I woke up with a start. There was a large crash outside. I listened cautiously for a time, hearing sounds of panic in the street. I went to the window and pulled aside the curtain.

Just a few houses away the wind had blown down a chimney. Bricks were lying across the garden. The family were in a panic, the neighbours were out in the road with them. I couldn't see much from my window and after a short while I pulled the curtains closed. A bit cold of me, but there wasn't much I could do for them. The arrival of the fire brigade a short while later made sure that I didn't get back to sleep that night.

I had breakfast early – the legal papers sitting on the end of the table, taunting me as I ate. I had no plans for the day. I took to staring at the wall in silence. I thought about doing many different things, reading, writing, listening to music, watching the television – but all of them seemed like too much hard work.

I got a call after nine from Joyce. Stick-thin Stephanie was in trouble. Part of her garage roof had caved in, and she needed help shifting everything out of there before it soaked with water.

It wasn't far for me to go, so I walked there. By the time I arrived, quite a band had formed. Various people's nephews, sons, brothers, cousins... all Stephanie's friends were old, so they had sent a variety of relatives to help. Her children were abroad, which is how all their furniture had come to be stacked up in her garage. A neighbour had kindly offered some garage space to store some of it for the time being, and Joyce said we could fit some in the back of the shop. I took the keys and supervised things at that end, making room amongst the assorted bric-a-brac in the stock room.

I had to wait quite some time while it was decided what should go in the back of the shop. No one had a large van, so things came in the backs of cars or in a mini-bus in one case. It was heartening to see so many people banding together to help out.

The shop got a dining room set and several boxes of plates and assorted bits and pieces. One of the guys – a nephew or cousin or friend's son – quite young, did his best to flirt with me and got me to make him a cup of tea. It was kind of nice, and he was good-looking. But I just couldn't imagine myself spending that kind of time with anyone.

Things were finished by just after lunchtime. I locked up and took the car the long way around to get back home. Deliberately I drove past Rose's, just looking for some sign that she had returned.

I don't know what I was expecting to see. Her house looked like any other house when you drove past. Unless there's anyone standing right by the window, you can't really see anything.

The legal papers went untouched for another night. I just couldn't face them. They'd be chasing me for them soon – nothing on the answerphone yet.

Another night of television and drinking followed. I was determined to go out on the Sunday – not just wallow indoors and drive myself crazy. The roads had mostly cleared and I drove out to a remote inn for Sunday lunch and ate it in near silence as everyone else seemed to be keeping away. And I so wanted distractions; any conversation, any overheard morsel.

There was no escaping my troubles. The only thing keeping my mind off Adrian's venomous relatives was Rose, and I feared for her safety. I should've done more to stop her, she could be dead already.

I cursed myself for driving away and enjoying lunch. Someone's life could be hanging in the balance and I was here stuffing my face. What was wrong with me? I fretted myself into a sweat and panic and rapidly paid for my meal and drove back to ______. I ran up to her doorway and knocked loudly. I knocked three, four times. No answer.

I peered into the windows, searched to see if there was a back alley to her back garden – there wasn't.

I waited outside, keeping vigil in my car. I sat there for four, maybe five hours. I fell asleep at one point, against my steering wheel – I had to explain to a concerned neighbour that I was fine and was just waiting for someone.

The sun started to set and Rose was nowhere to be seen. I thought about calling the police – but what was I to tell them? Some crazy woman who chased ghosts wasn't at home when I called?

I had no way of knowing where she was. I only thought – I only knew – that she had been out on the hills, chasing God knows what. But she could be somewhere else now; I didn't know what else she did during the day. I knew nothing about her. It was only a morbid instinct that told me something was wrong.

I drove home after it went dark. I got my senses back; she wasn't my responsibility and she wasn't my problem. I'd tried after all; what was I supposed to do?

Joyce was ill the next day, so I looked after the shop alone. It was quiet, the rain stayed away but the sky stayed grey. I thought about putting the radio on, or putting on some music – but nothing seemed to fit my glum, foreboding mood.

The hours passed slowly. I made less than £50 for the whole day. I tried to read a book, but I couldn't get into it. It was some detective novel. I went around the shop looking for old stock to reduce as time slouched into the afternoon. Around about two o'clock, I was reducing some glasses that had been over-priced (they were chipped), when I caught a glimpse, the barest of glimpses, of a blue coat – a small girl – skipping past the shop window. Putting a glass down so carelessly that it fell off the shelf and broke, I raced towards the door, pulled it open, and found the street outside completely deserted.

Now I was seeing things.

I closed early. There was no point in staying around, although I couldn't summon up the confidence to tell Joyce. I locked up and went over to the Co-op to do my shopping. The shelves were still looking pretty bare; evidently supplies were still struggling to get there.

I filled up on what essentials I could buy, along with several bottles of cheap wine. I went to the checkout, paid, and carried the bags out to my car. I opened up the boot and lifted both bags into the back.

"Mum needs help".

I froze.

Slowly, fearfully, I turned my head. She was stood there on the edge of the car park, dressed in the same tatty blue coat. Her face was pale; her milky blue, washed out eyes stared at me with concern.

"She needs help, she's fallen down and I can't get her to wake up."

I was almost too frightened to speak. I swallowed and said: "What's happened?"

"We were playing and she fell over and now she can't move. You've got to come quick".

A cold sweat was gathering on my forehead.

"Come on," she said, pushing her way through the bushes that bordered the car park. I couldn't help myself; I couldn't possibly turn away. I closed the boot, locked the car and went after her.

Behind the bushes was a tall wire fence. There was a small hole in it, large enough to crawl through. She was on the other side already, skipping into a dense gathering of trees. I was dressed in no condition for this kind of thing: I wasn't wearing heels, thankfully, but my Ugg boots were hardly fit for purpose.

I bent down and squeezed through the hole in the fence, my coat's collar and hood getting stuck on the torn steel wires as I passed through as best I could.

I was in a dense gathering of tall, but young fir trees. Pushing through the branches I realised I had walked into an enclosed area surrounding an electricity substation, or whatever these stone power buildings were called. It was a small brick shed with a tall pylon next to it, flowing wires down inside.

I heard Chloe call to me; I saw her peer out from behind the building. I jogged after her. The other side of the small enclosure had a wooden fence, and she was squeezing through a gap between missing fence panels.

The ground at least was fairly firm here, but it was still hard to run on. I pushed through the sharp young branches and managed to squeeze between the fence panels.

When I was through I found myself in the forecourt of an abandoned petrol station. Closed for many years, the old looking pumps were rusted and smashed up; the shop was boarded over with steel panels. I'd never been out here before. Strange how you can so easily lose your bearings; I didn't know quite where I was.

I was on the edge of town somewhere. After the petrol station there were no other buildings, just open ground, field after field. Chloe was already on the other side of the forecourt, supernaturally quickly ahead. She climbed over a dry stone wall and disappeared into the adjoining field.

On solid ground I was able to move quicker. By the time I reached the wall there was no sign of her. But as I lifted my head, I could see her again, in the far corner of the field, jumping, waving her arms from side to side.

I wondered what on earth I was doing, but I couldn't give up the chase. I climbed the wall and I trudged through the long grass to the far corner, slowly and with difficulty. I didn't like the look of the sky: it was dark grey, the clouds thick, jagged and dangerously ominous.

I crossed from field to field, uphill, one into the next, each one more overgrown and more of a challenge. Eventually, the dry-stone walls faded; neglect had let them crumble. I was in rough, untamed landscape. I found myself struggling through thick heather, my trousers scratched and scraped by thorns. My boots, long-since soaked through, kept getting caught on branches and under roots. I was lucky not to rip my feet out of them.

Chloe appeared and disappeared like a phantom, unseen for short periods, but always making herself known to keep me on track.

I was sweating; the weather was cold, but I was sweating profusely. I was unfit and unprepared. I looked back towards ______. She had led me quite a way; over half-a-mile uphill, probably further – I'm not much of a judge of these things.

Finally, she led me to a footpath, although I had to pass through a muddy ditch to get there. I tried to jump it, but missed and ended up tripping and falling, my feet sinking into the mud and me striking down against a sloping bank of stones and wet soil. I swore loudly – but she was nowhere near to hear me. Whenever I shouted for her or cursed her she wasn't there.

The path was a mixed blessing. It was easier to walk on but it ran mercilessly straight up the hill, a tough ungradual ascent. It headed towards a patch of forest between two high hill peaks. Breathing heavily, I struggled on, the face of Chloe ever appearing at any moment when I was tempted to turn back and give up.

At one point, I stopped for rest on a tree stump. I was allowed less them a few moments of respite before she shouted for me: "Hurry, she needs help!" I almost screamed at her. I groaned out aloud. This was insane.

I followed the path finally to the wooded valley inbetween the hills. I yelled, "How much further?" to her as she led the way through the trees. As ever, she refused to answer. As I continued deep into the woods, I heard the sound of water, the rush of the river flowing from the peaks – had I come so far? I continued on for several minutes, keeping just ahead of sheer exhaustion and wondering when or where this might end.

I arrived at the river, here running wide across a slope of rocks. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and scanned, full of frustration, for Chloe. As my eyes searched through the trees, I suddenly found her – Rose.

She was lying face-down flat on the other side of the river, her dark red coat standing out against the dull browns and greens. I shouted to her, but got not reply.

The frustration and anger melted away; I had to get across. Fortunately, the river was quite shallow, I was more afraid of slipping than I was of getting wet – every inch of my body seemed already to be soaked and soggy. I tried to step my away across some of the large stones, and was forced several times to simply go straight into the water – the shock of the cold went straight to my head, and now that hurt too.

Finally, I was across and stumbled down the slope to Rose. I shouted her name again. I pulled at her coat and shook her slightly, hoping for some sign of life. Jesus, she must have been out here for days, just slumped against the ground.

There was mud all over her clothes, and she was damp all over. She didn't speak, her eyes were closed. I was about to conclude the worst, when suddenly her mouth opened and let out a slight moan. She was alive, but maybe not for long.

"Is she alright?" Chloe was suddenly stood over us.

"I don't know," I said. "We need to get help." I felt my pockets. Damn it, I still didn't have a phone! I didn't know what to do. I had to find someone else. I couldn't lift her down the hillside myself. She might have broken bones; I could be making things worse.

"I've got to get help."

"Don't leave her," Chloe shrieked at me.

"You stay with her. I need to find someone who can get her down the hill."

I went back into the woods. If I followed the river down, I was bound to bump into somebody, arrive at one of the roads at least. I found myself gradually moving out of the woods, still keeping the river in sight. I couldn't really see anything from amongst the trees; I needed to be able to get a look at the landscape, see where I might be able to find help.

Finally, I came to the edge of the woods and found myself looking back across fields and hills. There was a footpath, I could see it. It led down towards an abandoned ruin of a barn and a farmhouse. And, yes! There were people there: two hikers. They were a long way from me though. I had to try, so I screamed. Screamed so hard my throat burned.

They didn't hear me at first. But there was a faint echo, and after some time I saw them look my way. I waved to them, jumped up and down, throwing my arms from side to side. They waved back at first – I had to convince them this was more than just an over-enthusiastic greeting. I threw my arms over towards the woods. Hoping they would respond to the summons.

They looked at each other, confused. Desperate, I screamed "Help me" with every bit of strength I could. That seemed to do it; they started moving in my direction and I started off in theirs. I careened down the hillside towards them, ecstatic with relief. At one point, I tripped and fell dramatically, both arms up in the air and down flat onto my chest. Fortunately, it was wet, soggy ground, but it still knocked the wind out of me. They ran quicker to help me, and eventually we met.

I explained that I'd found a woman, barely conscious and probably dying. They came with me up the hillside. I lied to them and told them that I'd been out walking. They didn't say anything, but they could tell something was wrong; I clearly wasn't dressed for it.

I tracked our way back to the spot quite well. Of the couple, he was a vet, which was sort of helpful. He examined her, said he didn't think she'd broken anything, but she was frighteningly cold. She'd been up here for quite some time.

They were proper hikers. They had an ordinance survey map with them; to get help out here they'd need a helicopter and they could tell them the right grid reference – I was so relieved.

Typically, however, there was no signal for a mobile phone. The vet's wife went off out of the woods to get a signal. He wrapped Rose in his jacket and took out his own mobile – on a different network – and started to spread out trying to get a signal himself.

When he'd moved away a little, Chloe re-appeared, walking out from behind a tree like she'd been hiding.

"Is she alright?" she said.

"She's very sick." I answered.

"But she's going to be ok?"

I suddenly felt myself getting very angry. "Why don't you leave her alone?" I cried. "This is your fault. Can't you see what you're doing to her?"

Her face hardened suddenly, just like her mother's.

"She's my mum!" she hissed, through gritted teeth.

"And you're destroying her! Just leave her alone. You're dead, you don't even exist!"

"She's my mum!" she screeched, stamping her feet. "You can't tell me what to do, you can't!" She jumped up and down in a fury and started to scream. The sound went right through my body; it made me shiver and tremble. The pitch could've shattered glass.

"You can't take my mum!" She reached down to pick up a stone and threw it at me. If flew towards my face with uncanny force and accuracy – I barely had time to dodge it. It flew over my shoulder and smacked into a tree, making a deep dent in the bark.

I looked back at her; she was gone again. She'd been so benign before, but now I was frightened. I looked suddenly at Rose and a horrible thought occurred to me: what if she'd done that to her? If she'd have hit me with that rock, she'd have knocked me out cold; little girls just couldn't throw like that...

There was a sound behind me. Taken off-guard, I turned and screamed.

It was the vet. I felt faint suddenly; this was all taking its toll. He could see I'd been through it; he took hold of me and propped me up against a tree. He gave me some water from a travel bottle. I told him I was fine even though I clearly wasn't.

It was almost an hour before a helicopter came; we made awkward conversation until it arrived. By that time his wife had returned and the three of us watched as they hoisted Rose inside. I pretended not to know her; I just couldn't explain all this, all that had had happened. Because I didn't know her, I didn't go in the helicopter with her. I wish I had, but I just wanted to get home, somewhere safe as soon as possible.

They took her away and the vet and his wife helped me down the hillside. They took me to their Land Rover and kindly took me back home. It was almost dark by the time we started back on the roads.

I broke down and cried. It was just as we passed over the bridge to town; I don't know why then. They looked into the backseat as I was pouring with tears. They tried to comfort me, tried to offer me their help. They knew something about all this wasn't right.

I just wanted to get home. They took me back, I composed myself enough to say thank you. They were such nice people, but I don't even remember their names.

I cried for hours on the sofa, and passed out at some point, I'm not sure when. I awoke, my body aching and tired, in the early morning. I was starving, I'd not eaten since the day before.

After some toast and coffee, I noticed there was a new message on the answerphone. It was the lawyers; it had to be didn't it? I called them back straight away, just for someone to talk to.

I received a polite telling-off and a stern warning about putting things off this long. I tried to tell them it was hard, and to their credit they were very understanding; they could tell I was almost crying. I could sense the discomfort on the end of the phone. The woman seemed to want to offer advice beyond her legal remit to me; I could sense her concern, but she probably knew better than to get too involved.

I promised I would get the papers back to her tomorrow. There could be no more hiding. I looked at the phone after I put it down. What about Rose? I needed to find out what had happened to her. But I dreaded what I might find out. She might be dead. Just because she'd been rescued didn't mean she'd survive.

I thought long and hard about it but decided to put it off. I didn't think I could take it if she'd died. To go through all that and not make it through. I washed and dressed myself in clean clothes. I took a long walk, something to get some fresh air in my lungs and some of the depressive weight off my shoulders. It was a bad idea; my body ached and groaned from the ordeal the day before. I went to a café not far away for some breakfast, bought some nice pastries – and then went back to face my past.

I sat over the papers with a glass of wine for company. Things didn't look good, but then again, it was the case against. Lots of gossip, lots of hearsay, lots of mud-raking... they'd dug up an old case of sexual harassment; an oily doctor who didn't want to take no for an answer. All the bitter old hags who worked there had always held that against me; thought I'd asked for it, done it all for attention.

Unexpectedly it strengthened me. The anger, the outrage. The wrongness of it all. It awakened some fighting spirit. Weak spirit all the same, still fragile. But it was a revelation to me nonetheless. I wasn't ready to give in to despair.

But the depth of the situation I was in was still a heavy burden. I put the papers quickly to one side as soon as I was done. Things could still get so much worse.

I looked over to the phone. I thought of Rose and of her body slumped down on the hillside. Suddenly, in some strange way, that became the crux of the argument. If she could survive, pull through in spite of it all. Then maybe I could too. But then again, if she hadn't...

I got the hospital number from the Yellow Pages. I phoned up and spent a long time on hold before being passed from one receptionist to another.

I breathed slowly and carefully as I waited for the news. It didn't help that I didn't remember her last name. But not so many people get brought in by helicopter, so that narrowed it down.

She was alive. In a critical condition, but alive. She had pneumonia and a broken leg, but she was alive. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders; such relief, I can barely describe it.

I felt compelled to see her. The hospital was miles away, but I could make it before visiting hours were over. I had go back to the Co-op to get my car. Then I drove like a demon, smashing through deep puddles on still water-logged streets. I wanted to bring her something, but not really knowing what she'd like, I bought her grapes – a pleasant, well-meaning cliché.

It was even further than I thought. The nights were drawing in now; the clocks would be going back soon. I arrived with only twenty minutes of visiting time left and on the wrong side of the hospital. I had quite a way to go to get to Rose's ward; I had to stop and ask directions more than once.

I introduced myself to the ward nurses and they led me to her. She was fast asleep; they said she was coming in and out of consciousness and wasn't making much sense. Perhaps that was best, I thought. I didn't really want to know what had happened to her on that hillside. She had most probably fallen, but there was still that unsettling possibility...

A doctor checking on another patient in the quiet, half-full ward came over to ask me some questions. I couldn't help it; I kept up the pretence that I had seen her on the hillside for the first time ever. They were hoping I knew somebody that could help to take care of her. She didn't seem to have any relatives that they could find. There was her husband, but they couldn't seem to track him down.

They were hopeful that she would pull through. I sat with her a while; I wondered if she could hear me if I spoke to her. But I couldn't think of anything to say. I thought about saying something trite like "Chloe would want you to pull through". But I didn't want to mention her name.

She looked so sad lying there. Blankets tucked up to her neck, her tired face, wrinkled and wrought before its time. Christ, maybe it would've been better if she had died. What kind of life was she living here in purgatory? Even if she pulled through, would she ever move on? Could there really ever be more for her than her already miserable existence?

I thought about saying that too, something like: "It's time to move on Rose; time to live in the present." But what good would that do?

Perhaps whoever they got to look after her could help her. Finally get her to get over her loss. Anything was possible, even if it probably wasn't. I left the grapes on the side; the one futile gesture I was willing to make.

As I exited the ward, I saw through the windows that it was raining outside. A talkative nurse, one I hadn't seen on the way in, commented, in a typically British way, that that was all we needed, more rain. I stood for a moment watching the droplets break against the glass and then I asked her whether anyone else had been in to see Rose. She said no; it was like the doctor had said, she seemed to have no relatives, no friends.

I watched the rain for a few seconds longer. Perhaps ghost girls didn't like hospitals any more than the rest of us.

The drive back was much slower, the dark and the pouring rain making for a much tenser journey. I'd foolishly thought seeing Rose would bring me hope, some joy. But how stupid I was; how was seeing her in there, in that condition, going to make me feel better? Her life was a living death anyway; it was just going to continue instead of ending.

I had to get out. That was the only thing to do. I would call my landlady in the morning. Time to get out and never look back. Whatever happened to me now, it couldn't be worse than a lonely mourning life like this.

The rain was starting to get heavy and progress through traffic was slow. I let a couple of cars pass me on a quiet but crowded residential street, lined with parked cars. It was going to be a long, slow drive home.

As I reached the end of the street, a shape appeared in the road. Leaping from behind a parked van, a child appeared in front of me.

I had no time to react; before I could even put my foot on the brake, they'd thumped against my bonnet and disappeared under the wheels.

I screamed; my head snapped forward as the car came to a sudden stop. I took both hands off the steering wheel and clamped them over my mouth. I was still for just a moment before I howled through my fingertips.

I ripped off my seatbelt and threw myself out the door. I tripped as I got out and had to grab hold of the window to stop myself from falling over. Back on my feet quickly, I swung the door back and got down on my knees to see under my car.

The road was wet and cold and the street-lighting poor – I could see nothing.

Frightened and desperate, I laid down, in the road, looking as far and clear under my car as possible.

There was nothing.

But I hadn't imagined it. I'd seen a child, felt them thump against the bonnet.

And then I realised, my memory coming into focus, that my victim had been a girl. A blonde girl, pale-faced, dressed darkly, probably in blue.

I got up and on my feet again – she was here. It had to be her. Normal children don't disappear. I didn't know why or what had just happened, but I had to get away.

I got back inside and slammed the door shut. My keys were still in the ignition – I twisted them and started the engine.

I took a second to breathe, trying to calm myself.

The passenger-side window smashed. I screamed; a shower of shattered glass sprayed across the seat; I turned my head instinctively away as fragments hit my cheek.

I put my foot down. The wheels spun against the wet tarmac – I had to get away. I drove stupidly fast; I didn't know what I was running from, but I had to get away. The falling rain was a threat – she only came out when it rained. And while I was outdoors, I was in danger. She was dangerous. Rose wasn't just trying to chase and love her lost daughter; she must've been terrified of her. Frightened of what she'd do if she didn't go after her. Tormented not just by loss but by fear. For all these years...

A car pulled out in front of me unexpectedly. I almost didn't stop in time; I skidded dangerously across the road.

I shrieked to a halt. They stopped, seeing just how close I'd come to hitting them they hit their horn loudly. I saw an angry face snarl at me in the glare of my headlights.

I couldn't take the cramped space any longer. I opened the door and got out, walked out into the road and onto the pavement. My heart was pounding; I had to get a grip. I paced around a little, trying to get my breath back.

After a few moments, I noticed something lying in the road, just by the open door of my car. I walked up to it and leant down.

It was a broken wooden toy train. I recognised it quickly; it was the one I'd dropped that first time I'd ever seen her. That's what had shattered the window; I hadn't even seen it. It must've gone through the window and hit the door on the other side, slipped down the side of the seat and fallen out when I'd got out of the car.

I picked it up. Two of its wheels were still missing – it had to be the same one.

There was the sound of a car horn. Another car had pulled up behind mine, wanting to get through. The driver side window was wound-down: "Are you all right love?"

I dropped the train and got back in the car.

I drove a little more carefully, but still with speed. I was glad to be back on the country roads, feeling that somehow the wide open space offered fewer surprises than the over-crowded town streets.

When I got home I ran for the front door and locked it quickly behind me. I didn't even bother to cover up the broken window. The next morning the passenger side seat was soaked. At least the car hadn't been stolen; but it had been visited in the night.

A message had been written on the back window.

STAY AWAY FROM MY MUM \- the condensation was gone, but the words were still visible. It was written big enough to fill the whole back window.

Let it never be said of me that I can't take a hint.

My mind had already been made up. I phoned my landlady and told her that I would be moving out at the end of the month. I'd paid the whole month so I'd stay till the end, I didn't want to leave Joyce in the lurch anyhow.

I thought carefully about what to do. I didn't want to call one of my close friends or family, they'd only berate me for falling off the map and not keeping in touch. I called Kieran, someone I'd been friends with for a while, but had never been so close to for them to have been upset by my long stretch of absence. He was settled with a new boyfriend but happy to put me up and seemed very relieved to hear from me. I didn't give him too many details, but promised to fill him in when I got back.

I made an appointment with the lawyers. They wanted to see me sooner, but I insisted this was the best I could do.

Those last two weeks passed very slowly. With my life moving towards something, it really put into perspective just how lonely and empty and pointless those months had been. Just empty, devoid of anything. Better to live or die than live in purgatory. Whatever happened from this point on, I decided I'd never go back to ______. I felt truly sorry saying to Joyce that I'd be back to visit her, when I knew I wouldn't. I had made one friend, but I'd probably never see her again. I had her number, swore I'd friend her on Facebook where we could exchange empty pleasantries.

I still had pathetically little in the way of possessions. Packing my belongings took less than half an hour. Before I left, I sat alone in the house silently. Though I'd brought with me so little, with it gone, the house seemed empty, foreboding, dark. I sat uncomfortably on a low stool in the living room. Clouds were gathering once again in the sky. It would be raining again soon.

I walked slowly into the hall. I was supposed to return the keys to Mrs McMurray that afternoon. I undid the door latch and let the door hang open. The clouds lingered ominously; in my mind they rolled like smoke rumbling from a fire burning out of control. The rain would fall soon; I might not have much time.

It felt like now or never; if the rain came down again, I might never escape. What did it matter, Mrs McMurray could get the keys back by post; send the deposit back by bank transfer, if she knew what that was.

I closed my eyes tight, gripped hold of my suitcases and pulled myself out of the door. With purpose I marched towards the car and threw them on the back seat. There was no time to apply more tape to the cardboard patch that covered the broken passenger-side window. There was no time to go back inside and check whether I'd left anything behind.

I locked the front door, sat in my car and I drove away. For once and for all, I sat in my car and I drove away.

But before I left, before I abandoned purgatory, I had one last thing to see. One last silly gesture I had to make.

I took a detour via Rose's house, hoping, though I knew it unlikely, to glimpse her at home through her window. Maybe she was still in hospital. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was making a cup of tea. I probably would never know; the chances of me spotting her, catching her in just that moment, in her front window, were so ridiculously remote.

But I'd run over a ghost girl only a few weeks ago, so anything was possible.

And despite the odds, she was there. To my disbelief, I saw her as I panned past in my car. She was sat by her window, right up against the glass.

She was in a wheelchair, her leg broken and supported, held up horizontally in its cast. She was looking out; not at me in my car, but up into the sky, the clouds, the threatening tumultuous grey.

I wondered what she must be thinking as I passed. Was she in agony, forlorn because she was trapped there and unable to see her little girl? Perhaps she was terrified, frightened of what her angry, destructive child might do without her to stop her, to calm her.

Perhaps all this was nothing new. Perhaps she'd tripped and fallen a dozen times, got sick and been forced into bed time after time with new colds and viruses brought on by the freezing temperatures. Perhaps each time she hoped that she wouldn't make it; that her and her baby would finally be reunited in death, to walk the storms forever, together. Maybe that was just her rotten luck, the same odds-defying misfortune that had taken her daughter from her in the first place.

Perhaps she feared death, because they might never be together again. Perhaps she thought none of those things. Perhaps sodden and ruddy, she just carried on because that's the only thing she knew how to do.

I reached the bridge over the river – I crossed it with surprising ease, as if I never quite believed I'd ever make it. The clouds kept themselves restrained, the rain did not fall. My way out was assured; you could leave purgatory if you still had the strength to do it.

One day I'll have the guts to find out; see what happened to old Rose. Find out if she died out on the hills or tucked up in bed somewhere. Maybe warm and cared for, probably just alone. This will sound cruel, but I think I'll do it one day when I feel at my lowest, to remind myself just how lucky I am. That whatever lies ahead of me, I can take comfort that at that moment I was able to escape.

I remember keeping my eyes firmly on the road as I drove, never allowing them to drift away to the sides. If she was there watching me as I went, I never saw her. Thank God, I never saw her again.

THE END

A Rhythm of Six, In a Box, The Storm Walker and the introduction appear in Eleven New Ghost Stories.

The Girl on the Bench, Blind and The Wife appear in Fourteen New Ghost Stories.

