After leaving the dentist I call into the Carphone Warehouse and pick up a charger for the phone Sara gave me, but rather than going straight home I head towards the pub Sophie used to drink in hoping to catch the crowd calling in for an after-work drink. Someone must have heard from her. Imagine how delighted Tom and Amanda will be if I can contact Sophie and convince her to come home?

The Prince of Wales looks as far removed from royalty as you can get. The chipped and faded sign depicting a crown creaks in the wind and the single-paned windows vibrate with the sound of heavy rock music. Motorbikes line up against the kerb like soldiers, shiny chrome and slick black seats. It’s still early. The sky is peppered with smudges of indigo and grey as the moon and sun occupy the same space. I peep through the cracked glass panel in the door; the pub is surprisingly busy for the time of day. I take in the row of silver tankards hanging above the bar but when there’s a roar I step back hurriedly, my ankle turning in the process, but the door remains closed. As I peep inside once again I notice the TV hanging from the far wall, silently showing a football match while a couple of guys jeer at the screen.

‘You going in or what?’ I jump at the growling voice behind me and stutter my apologies, standing aside and letting the man push past me into the pub. As the door swings open the smell of stale beer rushes towards me. I follow the customer inside, my ankle throbbing as I walk.

It might be my imagination but as I stand at the bar it seems the chatter in the pub quietens. There’s a chill on the back of my neck as though someone is standing beside me, softly breathing, but as I swing around no one is there. My hand is shaking as I pull a ten pound note out of my purse and wait for the barman to notice me. The thwack of pool balls behind me makes me jump and all at once everything seems loud. Too loud. Coins clatter from a fruit machine and sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. The urge to run away, back to the safety of my own flat is all-consuming, and I don’t notice the barman standing before me until he slams both palms down on the bar.

‘You deaf or something? I am talking English right, Neil?’

The guy on the stool to my right sniggers. ‘Yeah. I understand you, Steve.’

I open my mouth to speak but my words are stuck to the dry roof of my mouth.

‘Do. You. Want. A. Drink?’ Steve asks.

My face is burning now but as I think of Tom and Amanda my sense of unease pales into comparison against their loss. I can do this. I lick my lips and swallow hard.

‘Lemon and lime.’ I look him in the eye. ‘Please.’ I add as he doesn’t move.

‘And do you want a straw with your lemon and lime?’

I start to answer but Neil twists his head to look at me and says: ‘Perhaps she wants a cherry and an umbrella,’ and I know they’re laughing at me. The hope I’d felt that I could find some answers here seeps from my body, sapping the strength from my muscles as it leaves. I scrape a stool towards me and sit.

My drink is banged on the bar in front of me and it spills over the side of the glass. Steve’s stare is challenging, almost daring me to say something. Lowering my eyes, I pick up a beer towel to mop up the puddle but the material is hard and crusty and I drop it and wipe my fingers on my jeans. My lemonade is flat and warm but the zing from the lime revitalises me. I straighten my spine and raise my head, pushing my drink back across the bar.

‘I’d like some ice.’

There’s a beat and then a ghost of a smile flickers over Steve’s face. Neil roars with laughter and drags his stool closer to me, bringing the ice bucket with him. He stinks of oil and stale smoke, and I suppress the urge to recoil.

‘I’ve not seen you here before?’ Neil unzips his black hoody and shrugs it off. His hands are filthy and dark hair springs from the pale skin on his forearms. He lifts the lid on the bucket and scoops up ice cubes with his fingers, and I try not to grimace as he plops them into my drink. Pushing the thought of the dirt under his nails out of my mind I smile gratefully and pick up my glass, even though I can’t bring myself to take a sip.

‘I’ve just moved here,’ I lie. ‘My friend used to drink here. So I thought I’d try it out.’

‘Oh?’ He raises his pint of ale and sips. A frothy moustache covers his top lip, and he wipes it off with the back of his hand. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Her name’s Sophie.’

‘I don’t know anyone of that name. We get lots of girls in here.’

‘Hang on.’ I remember the photo Tom had given me, and I take it out of my purse and show it to Neil.

‘That’s Sophie, on the left. Do you know her?’

‘No. And I’ve drunk here for years.’ His expression is unreadable as he stares at me, and I shift uncomfortably, bracing my feet against the floor as my bottom slides across the wooden stool. I start to put the photo back in my bag but he plucks it out of my hand.

‘Steve,’ he hollers. ‘This girl is friends with someone called Sophie who apparently used to drink here.’ He dangles the photo between his fingers. ‘You’ve been here longer than me. Do you know her?’

‘Nope,’ Steve says without even turning and looking.

‘So where is she? This friend of yours?’ He leans towards me as he speaks. His breath reeks of onions.

‘I don’t know.’ His scrutiny is making my skin crawl. ‘She’s not really a friend.’

‘But you carry a photo of her around? She must be quite important to you? You look a bit like her sister.’ His tone has changed now as he studies me.

‘How do you know Callie is Sophie’s sister if you don’t know her?’ I challenge.

‘You must have said.’

‘I don’t think I did.’ I try to replay our conversation in my mind, but I’ve been so nervous already the details are sketchy.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Any pretence of friendliness is gone as he stares at me, eyes narrowed.

‘No. Of course not.’ I grab the photo and open my bag but my hands are shaking and it slips from my grasp and the contents spill over the floor. Crouching down I slap my palm over a tampon that’s rolling away, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me.

‘You’re from Forest Gate? Not very local then?’ Neil has opened my purse and is reading my ID.

‘That was from before I moved,’ I lie as I snatch it back from him and stuff it into my bag, rising. ‘Is there a toilet here?’ Perhaps I can slip out of a fire exit.

He jerks his head towards the back of the pub, and I rush towards the darkened doorway, the soles of my shoes sticking to the wooden floor with each and every step.

I can’t see another way out and so I push my way through a chipped door marked ‘Ladies’. The toilets are pungent with chemicals. Bright pink liquid sloshed down stained toilet bowls. The opaque window above the ring-stained sink is cracked open, and I lean towards it, desperate for fresh air.

Shadows move outside and there’s a scuffle. The sound of something being slammed against the wall. I hardly dare move as I hear a man pleading: ‘I’m sorry. I can get it. Please don’t—’

There’s the sound of a thump. A cry. Another voice, deeper this time.

‘You’d better. You know what will happen if you don’t, and you don’t want to leave your kids without a father do you? Imagine how they’d feel if you had an accident?’

And I think of Callie driving without a seatbelt and my blood runs cold. I know I have to leave the pub right now, but how?

Peering around the door leading to the bar I can barely hear the sound of the jukebox over the whooshing of blood in my ears. The stool Neil was sitting on is deserted; his empty pint glass rests next to my full lemon and lime but his hoody is draped over the stool. Is it him I heard around the back? I dart towards the front door, ignoring the call of Steve behind me: ‘Don’t you want your drink, princess?’

Outside, a couple of men loiter, cigarettes in hand, smoke curling into the air, and I shiver as I feel their eyes on me. I half-run down the road, my ankle pulsing with pain. Night is quickly drawing in, the sky turning to inky blue, and only every other street lamp is lit. It’s a long walk home and I hesitate when I see a bus stop, but I feel exposed standing still. The threat I’d heard outside the toilets fills my head, ‘we could make it look like an accident,’ and the circumstances of Callie’s crash bounce around my mind but I shake them away. The weather is turning, a mist descending, and as I walk I wrap my arms around my ribs in an effort to keep out the biting wind that stings my cheeks and numbs the tip of my nose. I’m only wearing a light jacket and a cotton scarf with sunflowers on; I’d forgotten how unforgiving spring evenings can sometimes be. Cars rumble slowly past, headlights slicing through the gloom. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I think I’m being watched, and I swing my head around but there’s no one to be seen. Increasing my pace, I stride along the street. Behind me there’s a noise I can’t identify and I stop. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears. I twist my head from left to right. The glow of a TV flickers through net curtains, and the thought someone is so close is comforting and I berate myself for being so paranoid. I’m toying with the idea of ringing Sam when there’s a shuffling from behind a parked car. Adrenaline heats my body as I strain my eyes, waiting for a movement. Everything in my peripheral vision fades away and there’s nothing to see but blackness. But then there’s a shift. A shadow. And I turn and run. Feet pounding along the pavement.

It’s not too far home now but I’m breathless by the time I reach the crossing. I jab the button but I don’t wait for the lights to change before I race across the road. It’s quiet as I hurry across the park. In the pond, the ducks have tucked their heads under their wings. There are no toddlers chucking crusts into the murky water. As I pass the play area there’s a creaking, and I freeze. What was that? The wind gusts again, and I realise it’s a swing moving as though a ghost child is playing in the deserted playground.

I rush forward, cutting across the grass, adrenaline masking the pain in my ankle. Moisture seeps into my canvas shoes. Away from the path it’s darker now but I know I’m almost at the gates. And then I hear them. Footsteps. I stop and turn. It’s quiet. My fists are so tightly bunched my nails cut into my palms. A rustling in the bush. An animal, that’s all. I push forward and there it is again. The clump-clump-clump of feet on concrete.

‘Hello?’ I swing around in a circle, holding my breath. Over the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears I think I hear the footsteps again, and I run. Pelting towards the gate, my messenger bag bumps against my thigh. My lungs are burning with exertion and from the freezing air I’m gulping. I’m back on the path now and so very nearly there. My shoes are sopping wet and the heels slide on the path but I don’t slow down. Another couple of minutes and I’ll be home. But as I hurtle towards the gates I’m yanked back. Something has snagged my scarf.

Or someone.