Panic stutters in my veins as I listen to Nathan’s movements downstairs. There’s the thump of his briefcase hitting the floor, his shoes thunking on the mat. Please don’t go into the lounge spins around my mind like a mantra but then it strikes me that I don’t want him to come upstairs either. I feel as though I’m made of stone my muscles are so tight. I daren’t move. Hardly dare breathe. A creak. The stairs. He’s heading this way. I try to remember whether I’ve put everything back where I found it but I can’t remember whether or not I closed the bathroom cabinet. Ever so quietly I take exaggerated steps over to the window and look outside, desperately searching for another exit but I know there isn’t one. His footsteps come closer and closer. Sweat pools in the small of my back; my T-shirt is clinging to me. I’m surprised he can’t hear the frantic pounding of my heart. There’s a second of complete silence. Stillness. Why has he stopped moving? I rest my forehead against the door, picturing him standing on the other side, his hand reaching for the handle. I’m sure the doors were closed when I arrived. Now they are all ajar. He must know someone is here. What will he say if he finds me? What will he do? The shrill sound of a mobile slices through the air and I instantly delve into my pocket, but Nathan snaps: ‘Hello’, and the ringing has stopped. It wasn’t my phone and I breathe a sigh of relief and put mine onto silent.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ He sounds angry. Really angry. I’ve never heard him speak that way before.

There’s a tickle in my throat and I swallow hard. Don’t cough.

‘I’ve told you to never contact me again.’ There’s a beat. ‘I know. I saw. It’s really not my problem, is it?’

A pause.

‘Where are you?’

‘Fuck!’ He sounds furious and a whimper escapes and I clamp my hands over my mouth and crouch down, resting on my heels. My knees feel too rubbery to stand. ‘It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. OK, tomorrow night.’

A pause.

‘Around ten o’clock then, and then we’re done. Understand? You never. Ever. Contact me again.’

There’s a slam and my shoulders jerk upwards but seconds later water pitter-patters into the bath as the shower is switched on. I’m hesitant to move. Convinced he’ll notice the bathroom cabinet is open and spring out at me as I try to leave. Seconds turn to minutes and I know I can’t have long. I slip off my shoes and hold them in one hand and I reach for the door and slowly pull it towards me. It squeaks. I screw up my forehead but the water still runs. The bathroom door remains closed. The staircase seems endless as I take the stairs one at a time, pausing after every step, every creak, looking behind me, and when I’ve reached the bottom I retrieve my bag from the lounge and try to open the front door. It is locked. I am reaching into my back pocket for the key when I realise there’s something different. The sound of the water has stopped. The bathroom door clicks open. I clamp my lips together to stop a sound escaping and I fumble to unlock the door as quickly as I can. The floorboards shift above me. The lock springs open. A shadow falls on the stair carpet. My fingers grip the handle. He’s coming. I wrench open the door and I am outside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind me. And then I run.

* * *

The fury in Nathan’s voice during his phone call snaps at my heels, and as I run I imagine his fingers grabbing my shoulders, tugging me backwards, hot breath on my neck. The stitch in my side burns and I press my palm against my flesh, feet slowing, until I stop moving altogether. I stand with my back against a wall, hands on my knees, hunched over, grappling for breath, eyes fixed on the direction I have just come. My heart leaps into my mouth as a figure appears around the corner, but it’s not Nathan. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve while I think of what to do. I’m exhausted. Nausea spins in my stomach and I know I can’t make it home. Usually after a biopsy I rest for days, letting the energy the procedure has drained, physically and emotionally, seep back in.

I didn’t bring my purse and there’s no cash at my flat so I can’t call a cab. Usually I’d ring Dad but I don’t know what I’d say to him. He called this morning but I had let it go to voicemail and as he stuttered out yet another apology I’d pressed hard with my thumb, deleting the voice that used to soothe and calm. I swallow hard. My throat stings and anxiety pounces, grasping me tightly as all the horror stories I’ve heard about transplant patients picking up infections in hospitals circle like sharks in my mind. I grow hotter and hotter with every passing second until I’ve convinced myself I have a fever when I know it could be panic, and I try to remember the things Vanessa has taught me. Straighten my spine. Breathe in deeply, push my stomach out. After a few breaths I feel calmer. Cooler. I close my eyes and try to picture myself in a beautiful garden, but instead I see Nathan’s angry face looming towards me. Did he hurt Sophie? Is it her body in the airfield? I snap my eyes open and force myself to carry on walking, pulling my phone out of my pocket and making the call I didn’t want to.

* * *

It feels I’ve been sitting on the hard, wrought iron bench for ages and I’ve almost convinced myself he won’t come. Cars whizz past, windows down, bass thudding. None of them are him. The smell of soaps and bath bombs wafting out of the propped open door of the shop behind me is overpowering. Strawberry mixed with sandalwood, citrus with lavender. A headache creeps behind my eyes.

At last he’s here and a rush of relief lifts me to my feet as I step towards the kerb and wave.

‘Thanks for coming, Sam,’ I say as I climb into the passenger seat.

He’s crunching a humbug and he’s reached the chewy bit in the middle but he nods. I rest my head back as the indicator tick-tick-ticks and we pull into the traffic. As the engine thrums and music floats from the speakers there’s comfort in the familiarity.

Sam keeps his eyes on the road. ‘You OK?’

‘Feeling weak after my biopsy. I went for a walk and lost track of where I was. I shouldn’t have ventured so far.’

‘Let’s get you home then.’

Home. He means the flat, I know, with its empty rooms and almost bare fridge, but here, my body melded to the seat, the smell of mint, Ed Sheeran strumming his guitar, imploring ‘give me love’, I feel more at home than ever. I feel safe, and it pains me to think Callie didn’t have that too.

‘Sam? Do you have time to take me somewhere first?’

* * *

The car crunches into the pub car park in Woodhaven. It seems a lifetime ago we stopped off here on our way back from the coast. As we judder over the rough surface a petal falls from the sunflowers on my lap that we had stopped at a BP garage to buy.

‘I don’t know why you want to come here?’ Sam says. ‘You’re supposed to be moving on?’

‘I know. But I can’t shake the feeling there is something I need to do, but maybe I’ve got it all wrong.’ I rub the fallen petal between my fingers. It feels like velvet. ‘Perhaps it is just that I need to see where Callie died and say goodbye to her properly. I think it’s just up there.’ I shield my eyes from the sun and point up the road. ‘There’s a crossroads, and beyond that, the tree. Why don’t you get a drink and wait here?’ I reach for the door handle.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Sam says, and I’m touched by his offer.

‘Thanks,’ I say as we step out of the car. ‘But I want to be alone.’

‘Of course you do,’ he snaps and I balk.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’re pushing me away again. The way you do with everyone.’

‘I don’t—’

‘The way you have with Rachel,’ he says.

‘You’ve been having cosy chats about me again, have you?’

‘How could you accuse her of stitching you up at work, Jen?’

‘I wasn’t thinking straight. It was right before my biopsy and… Anyway I know it wasn’t her, Linda said—’

‘It shouldn’t have needed Linda to say.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘I’m not the one you should be apologising to.’

‘I feel I owe everyone an apology at the moment. It’s hard to know where to start. Look, Sam—’

‘I can’t do this any more, Jen. This trying to be friends. It’s too bloody hard.’ He looks down at his feet as he toes the gravel. ‘I’m sorry, Jen. I’m going to get a pint. Let me know when you’ve finished and I’ll take you back to yours.’

He strides away and despite everything that’s been said it’s his referring to our flat as ‘yours’ that makes me want to cry.

* * *

The tree is an oak, large and solid; a tangle of dried grass and daisies pepper the dusty soil covering its roots. I run my fingers over its rough bark looking for the damage Callie’s car must have caused, but there’s only the slightest scuff. How quickly nature eradicates signs of life. It’s almost as if she was never here at all.

I place both palms hard against the trunk and close my eyes. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet and I lose my footing, landing heavily against the tree as the truth hits me as hard and painful as a brick.