As me and Mum leave the Masonic Hall I’m still reeling from my encounter with Fiona. It all felt so real; the sense of being shaken; the blood; the shadowy figure. During the episodes I’d told Vanessa about, usually everything goes black. This one was different. Like looking through a kaleidoscope. An image that was there one second and gone the next. One twist and it all falls away leaving fragments that don’t quite make sense on their own.

Discomfort slithers along my spine as I think of the ‘second energy’ Fiona talked about, and my head throbs as I try to make sense of it all. As much as I don’t believe in mediumship of any kind I can’t deny what I felt. I’m unnerved and tired.

‘We can go home if you want to, Jenna?’ Mum’s voice breaks through my thoughts and I force myself to smile. I know she’s planned something else and I don’t want to disappoint her.

‘I’m fine. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store next?’ I hope she doesn’t pick up on the flatness in my voice.

‘It’s a surprise. We’re nearly there. You’ll be able to have a sit down,’ she says, and I know I can’t fool her. She can tell how exhausted I am.

It doesn’t take too long before Mum pushes open a glass door of what used to be a bakery. The smell of chemicals hits the back of my throat as we step inside the hair salon, all glossy black tiles and chrome fittings.

‘I’ve booked us hair appointments. My treat.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my hair.’

The receptionist with the swinging bleached blonde bob raises an eyebrow sceptically, and I feel my face heat as I wonder when I last washed it.

‘It’s got so long. You need to look smart for Monday, if you’re still going back to work?’ There’s an edge to Mum’s voice as she says this.

I understand she’s worried but as much as I sometimes feel I’d like to I can’t hide away in my flat for ever. My statutory sick pay has run out and although Dad has said not to worry, he’ll take over my rent, he’s already paying Mum’s bills, and I know he can’t afford it, despite his assurances he can. You only have to look at the awful bedsit he’s living in to see how stretched he is. Besides I love being a veterinary nurse, and I’d been heartbroken when the doctors advised me against being around animals at all for the first few months after surgery. There was a risk of infection from the pets, particularly cats, that could prove fatal. I added it to the long list of other things I initially had to avoid: crowds of people, driving, sex. Not that I have a car, or have anyone to have sex with but it felt like a loss all the same. That said, my rejection drugs have been gradually reduced, with Dr Kapur pleased with my progress, so it’s back to normal. My new normal anyway. He agrees the psychological benefits of being back at work will outweigh the potential risks, now infinitely smaller than they once were.

‘Yes, I’m still going back. Linda will look after me,’ I say, and Mum purses her lips together. I know she thinks no one can look after me quite like she can. ‘A trim would be good. Thanks, Mum.’ I twirl long mousey strands around my finger. The ends are quite split and it’s so much thinner than it used to be. I shrug off my coat and hold my arms out, mummy-like, as a black gown is cloaked around me.

The basin digs sharply into my neck as I tilt my head backwards and my jaw clenches. Warm water floods my ears, and cools as it trickles down my collar but I confirm through gritted teeth the temperature is OK; ‘yes I’m comfortable’. The water stops and firm fingers massage my scalp. The shampoo is zesty – lemon, I think – and it feels so good to be touched I almost groan out loud, and my tension melts away.

In front of the mirror the hairdresser tugs a comb through my hair. In the chair next to me Mum dunks a digestive into a coffee.

‘Just a trim then?’

Flashes of red flit through my mind. A feeling of lightness I haven’t felt before urges me forward. It’s almost as if since hearing Fiona talk about a second energy I don’t feel quite so alone any more. I imagine there’s someone whispering just outside my consciousness, and I somehow feel a little braver.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I reply. ‘Can I try something completely different?’

* * *

The back of my neck is cool without a curtain of hair blocking out the breeze, and I can’t help staring at my reflection in every shop window we pass, hardly able to believe it’s me. As soon as we get home I stand in the hallway, gazing into the gilded mirror I’d bought at a car boot sale.

‘You look good.’ Mum stands behind me.

‘I don’t know what possessed me,’ I say twisting my head left to right, tugging the hair in front of my ears as if I can somehow make it longer.

‘It’s certainly a bold choice for someone who’s never dyed their hair before, or had it short, but you look good. Younger.’

I’m hardly old anyway, but I know what she means. The strain of the past few months is etched onto my face but the pixie cut suits me.

‘Tea?’ she asks.

‘Please.’ I breathe in as she squeezes past me and heads towards the kitchen.

There’s the whoosh of water as she turns the tap and the kettle clicks on. I hear her opening the fridge to pull out the carton of milk I know she’ll sniff to check it’s OK.

I can’t stop staring in the mirror. The new red colour of my hair has warmed my skin tone. The purple bags under my eyes aren’t so prominent. Raising my hands to my head I smooth my hair against my scalp with both palms; it’s so soft. My fingertips tingle as though charged with electricity and panic mounts as I begin to feel the way I felt with Fiona. Detached from reality, almost. In the mirror, my image begins to blur and dizziness hits. This can’t be happening. Not again.

Darkness. Screaming. Pain.

The sense of fear hits me so hard and fast I feel a band has been tightened around my lungs, restricting my breathing. The sense of danger is suffocating. In an instant, the feelings dissipate and I’m once again in my hall, leaning heavily against the wall as though I would fall without its support. I’m safe, I tell myself, but I don’t feel safe. It’s as though Fiona has triggered something inside me, and my skin crawls with the thought. I breathe in slowly and deeply but the screaming I’d heard in my mind seconds earlier lingers, along with the sense of panic. My second-hand heart thuds against my ribs, and I press my fingers against it. Who did you belong to?

‘Let go of your obsessive thoughts,’ Vanessa had said last Tuesday.

But what if they won’t let me go?

What then?