The person who attacked me is speaking. His voice is low, his words controlled but I can’t hear anything beyond the blood hissing and pounding in my ear as I struggle to break free.

Terror gallops through my body and as I struggle I lose my footing and my body folds like a rag doll. I’m yanked upright by my hair and it feels like thousands of red hot needles are pricking at my scalp. My mouth springs open, despite the hand covering my lips, and I bite down as hard as a can, my teeth a vice around his fingers.

‘Fucking bitch.’

I am pushed forward, falling heavily onto my knees, and banging my head against the floor. Dizzy, I scramble into the corner and shuffle around until my spine is pressed hard against the wall. My eyes dart around, looking for something, anything, I can use as a weapon. Neil from the Prince of Wales pub scowls at me through slitted eyes as he sucks his fingers.

‘What do you want?’ I force myself to stand up, clutching my bag against my chest like a shield, my fingers looped around the handle, ready to swing it at him if he steps closer.

‘Where’s Owen?’ he growls, and I am momentarily thrown.

Why is he looking for Harry’s dad? Why would he come to me? I rub the lump that’s forming on the side of my head as though I can dislodge the fuzziness.

‘Did you follow me home from the pub the other night? Why are you asking about Owen? Do you know Kathy and Harry?’

I’m babbling I know. Asking too many questions, but I’m scared that if I stop I’ll be the one expected to give answers, and I don’t know anything about Owen. What will he do then?

From outside there’s the sound of a car engine, and we wouldn’t normally hear it here, if it wasn’t for the hole in its exhaust.

‘That’s my boyfriend, Sam!’ The words spill out in a rush of relief.

Neil hesitates before he peers out of the small, cracked window that overlooks the street.

‘What sort of car does he have?’

‘It’s a Fiat. Red.’ I take long, juddering breaths as Neil spins and hurtles down the stairs, two at a time, and as the outer door bangs open I make my way over to the window. Sam is slotting his car into a space outside the florists. I look up and down the street but I can’t see Neil.

Sam has parked now but he doesn’t cut the engine. Instead, I see him lower his forehead onto the steering wheel as if trying to decide what to do, and as I watch him I rest my forehead against the dirty glass willing him to come upstairs. Time seems elastic. It stretches and stretches. Neither of us move. My breath fogs the glass and I pull my sleeve over the heel of my hand to wipe the window, and when I can see out onto the street again Sam’s reverse lights are on. His car shifts and engine roars, and as he pulls away I whisper: ‘Don’t go, please,’ but he can’t hear me, of course, and I am alone.

Or am I?

There’s a sound. It could be a floorboard shifting. It could be the wind against the letter box. It could be something. It could be nothing. But I yank my keys from my bag and run into my flat, locking the front door behind me and dragging the telephone table in front of it. Just in case.

* * *

I’m so tired. My mind map is a tangle of sweeping lines and as I struggle to focus my sleep-heavy eyes the colours seem to swarm on the page. But my exhaustion is tiny in comparison to the fear that has wrapped itself around me like ivy clinging to a tree ever since I visited Owen’s house. I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I check my phone for the umpteenth time. I’ve set a Google Alert for Burton Aerodrome. There haven’t been any updates and I can’t stop thinking about the body they found there. Why had Callie been there? A sudden sound slices through the early morning stillness making me jump and for a split second I worry Neil has come back, and I wonder again whether I should have called the police but it’s only a dog barking. Neil. Owen. Callie. Their faces zing round my mind and just as I feel my head might explode it comes to me. The grainy photo of Neil I’d found with the article online, accusing him of assault. The blurred image standing behind him. It was Owen. I’m sure it was, and it only takes a quick check to confirm I am right. Did Callie know Owen? Was she having an affair with him? Although I didn’t know her it seems almost impossible to think of her with Neil. I’m so tired. I dig my hands in my hair and pull as though I can release some of the pressure inside my skull. My eyes are drooping now, and I drain my cup but this time my eyes don’t snap open and I cross my arms on the table in front of me and rest my head down. Just for a second. I’m so tired. But I won’t go to sleep. It’s not safe to sleep, but darkness folds itself around me anyway, burrowing into my subconscious, sparking a memory.