Land of the Living

I told Sadie everything. The ledge, the noose, the hood, the bucket, the wheezy laugh in the darkness. How I knew I would die. She listened without interrupting, though occasionally she made little sounds of amazement or muttered expletives. I didn't cry. I had thought I would cry and she would hold on to me and stroke my hair the way she stroked Pippa's. But I felt absolutely dry-eyed and dispassionate and told my account calmly, right up to this moment. "I'm not going mad, am I?" I finished.

"They didn't believe you! How could they not believe you? The bastards!"

"They thought I was in a vulnerable state and fantasizing."

"How could you make up something like that? Why would you, for God's sake?"

"I don't know. To run away, to get attention. Whatever."

"But why! Why didn't they believe you?" she persisted.

"Because there's no evidence," I said flatly.

"None at all?"

"No. Not a shred."

"Oh." We sat there in silence for a few seconds. "So, what on earth are you going to do now?"

"I don't know that either. I don't know where to begin, Sadie. I mean, I literally don't know what to do next. When I get up tomorrow morning, I don't have a clue where I should go, who I should see, who I should be even. It's like I'm starting from zero. A blank. I can't tell you how odd it feels. How truly horrible. It's like an experiment designed to drive me insane."

"You must be furious with them."

"Yes, I am."

"And scared."

"Right." The warm room suddenly felt chilly.

"Because," said Sadie, following her thoughts, 'because if what you say is really true then he is still out there. He may still be after you."

"Yes," I said. "Exactly." But we'd both heard her say it. If. If what I said was true, if I hadn't made the whole thing up. I looked at her and she dropped her eyes and started talking to Pippa again in her baby voice, though Pippa had fallen asleep by now, her head tipped back like a drunkard's and her small mouth half open, a milk blister on her top lip.

"What do you fancy for supper?" she asked. "You must be famished."

I wasn't going to let it drop. "You don't know whether to believe me, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Abbie. Of course I believe you. Of course. One hundred per cent."

"Thanks." But I knew, and she knew I knew, that she was unsure.

Doubt had been planted, and it would grow and flourish. And who could blame her? It was my hysterical Gothic tale against everyone else's measured, everyday sanity. If I was her, I'd doubt me.

I made supper while Sadie put Pippa to bed. Bacon sandwiches, with fat white slices of bread that I dipped in the fat first, chewy and salty, and big mugs of tea. Being here should have felt like a refuge from all that had happened and might again, but that night on Sadie's lumpy sofa I slept fitfully and several times I lurched awake from dreams of running, tripping, falling, with my heart racing and sweat pouring off my forehead. Pippa woke often, too, howling angrily. The walls in the flat were thin and it was as if we were in the same room. In the morning I'd leave. I couldn't stay here another night.

"That's what you said last time," remarked Sadie cheerily, when I told her at six the next morning. She seemed remarkably fresh. Her face was rosy under her mess of soft brown hair.

"I don't know how you manage. I need at least eight hours, preferably ten, twelve on Sundays. I'll go to Sheila and Guy's; they've got room. Just till I work out what to do."

"And you said that too."

"So it must be a good idea."

I made my way to Sheila and Guy's in the dawn. It had snowed some more in the night, and everything even the dustbins, even the burnt-out cars looked eerily beautiful in the soft light. I walked, but I stopped at a baker's on the way to buy three croissants as a peace-offering, so I now had exactly 5.20 left. Today I'd phone my bank. What was my account number? I had a flash of panic that I wouldn't be able to remember it, and that lots of bits of my life were disappearing now, as if there was a delete cursor randomly at work in my brain.

It wasn't even seven o'clock when I rapped at their door. The curtains upstairs were all drawn. I waited for a decent interval, then rapped again, longer and louder. I stood back from the door and looked up. A curtain twitched. A face and bare shoulders appeared in the window.

Sheila and Sadie and I have known each other for more than half our lives. We were a quarrelsome threesome at school, breaking up and re-forming. But we went through our teenage years together: exams, periods, boyfriends, hopes. Now Sadie has a baby and Sheila has a husband, and I ... well, I don't seem to have much right now, except a story. I waved furiously at the window and Sheila's face changed from scowling grumpiness to surprise and concern. It disappeared, and a few moments later, Sheila was standing at the door in a voluminous white to welling robe, her dark hair in rats' tails round her bleary face. I thrust the bag of croissants into her hands.

"Sorry," I said. "It was too early to ring in advance. Can I come in?"

"You look like a ghost," she said. "What's happened to your face?"

I edited the story down this time, just the highlights. I was vague about the police. I think Sheila and Guy were obviously confused, but they were effusively supportive and welcoming, fussing over me with coffee and offers of a bath, a shower, money, clothes, the use of their phone, of their car, of their spare bedroom for as long as I liked.

"We'll be at work, of course. Just treat the place like your own."

"Did I leave any of my things here?"

"Here? No. There might be odds and ends floating around."

"How long did I stay then? Just one night?"

"No. Well, kind of, I suppose."

"What do you mean, "kind of"?"

"You stayed here Sunday and then you didn't come back on Monday. You phoned to say you were staying somewhere else. And then you picked up your stuff on Tuesday. You left us a note. And two very expensive bottles of wine."

"Where did I go after that, then?"

They didn't know. All they could tell me was that I had been rather hyped-up, had kept them up till the early hours of Monday, talking and drinking and making fine plans for the rest of my life, and then had left the next day. They glanced at each other surreptitiously as they were telling me this and I wondered what they weren't telling me. Had I behaved disgracefully, thrown up on the carpet? At one point, I came back into the kitchen just as they were getting ready to leave for work. They were talking urgently in low voices, their heads close together, and when they saw me they stopped and smiled at me and pretended they'd simply been making arrangements for the evening.

Them too, I thought, and I looked away as if I hadn't noticed anything. It was going to be like this, especially after Sheila and Guy had talked to Sadie, and they'd all talked to Robin, and then to Carla and Joey and Sam. I could imagine them all ringing each other up. Have you heard? Isn't it terrible? What do you think, I mean, really think, just between us?

The trouble is, friendships are all about tact. You don't want to know what friends say about you to other friends or to partners. You don't want to know what they really think or how far their loyalty goes. You want to be very careful before you test it. You might not like what you find.

Four

I had no embarrassment. I was down to about five pounds and I just had to borrow money from Sheila and Guy. They were very nice about it. Of course, being 'very nice' meant a lot of huffing and puffing and gritting of teeth and rummaging in purse and wallet and saying that they would be able to get to the bank later. At first I felt like saying it didn't matter and I could manage without the money, but it did matter and I couldn't manage without it. So fifty-two pounds in assorted notes and coins was dropped into my open hands. Then I borrowed a pair of knickers from Sheila and a T-shirt and threw mine into her dirty-washing basket. She asked if she could give me anything else and I asked if she had an old sweater that I could take for a day or two. She said, "Of course', and went and found me a lovely one that didn't look old at all. Sheila was rather larger than me, especially now, but I was able to roll up the sleeves and didn't look too ridiculous. Even so, she couldn't keep an entirely straight face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You look great but.. ."

"Like someone living rough," I said.

"No, no," she insisted. "I'm used to you seeming, I don't know, more grown-up, maybe."

As they left for work, I thought they looked a little concerned about the idea of leaving me alone in their house. I don't know whether they thought I would raid the drinks cabinet or the fridge or make international calls. In fact I raided the medicine cabinet for some paracetamol, and I made four calls, all local. I ordered a cab because there was no way I was going to wander around the streets on my own. I rang Robin at work. She said she couldn't meet me for lunch. I said she had to. She said she was already having lunch with someone. I said I was sorry but she had to cancel it. There was a pause and she said, "All right', with a sigh.

I was calling in a lifetime of favours. I rang Carla and leant on her to meet me for coffee in the afternoon. I rang Sam and arranged to meet him for another coffee, forty-five minutes after my meeting with Robin. He didn't ask why. Neither did Carla. It seemed worrying. They must know something. What had Sadie said? I knew the feeling. I, too, had been feverish with some amazingly hot piece of gossip and had run around spreading it like Typhoid Mary. I could imagine it. Hey, listen, everybody, did you hear what happened to Abbie? Or was it simpler than that? Hey, everybody, Abbie's gone mad. Oh, and by the way, she'll want to take all of your loose change.

I looked out of the window until I saw the cab draw up. I reached for my bag and realized I didn't have a bag. I had nothing except a small amount of Sadie's money and quite a bit more of Sheila and Guy's crammed into my pockets. I told the cab driver to take me to Kennington Underground station. The cab driver wasn't exactly ecstatic. And he was puzzled as well. It was probably the first time in his career that he had taken a passenger to a tube station a few streets away. It cost three pounds fifty.

I took the train to Euston and walked across the platform, where I changed on to the Victoria Line. I got off at Oxford Circus and walked to the Bakerloo Line platform. I looked across the rails at the map. Yes, this train led to places satisfyingly remote from anywhere I'd ever heard of. A train arrived and I got on. Then, as the doors started to close, I stepped off. The train pulled out and for a second or two, until other people arrived on the platform, I was alone. Anyone looking at me would have thought I was a lunatic. And obviously I had known that nobody was following me. Nobody could be following me. But now I really knew and that made me feel better. A bit. I went to the Central Line and took the tube to Tottenham Court Road.

I walked to a branch of my bank. I felt a great weariness as I pushed through the doors. All the simple things had become so hard. Clothes. Money. I felt like Robinson Crusoe. And the worst bit was that I had to tell almost everybody I met some version of my story. I gave a very truncated version to the woman behind the counter and she sent me to the 'personal banker', a larger woman in a turquoise blazer with brass buttons, sitting at a desk in the corner. I waited for some time while she opened a bank account for a man who apparently spoke no English. When he left, she turned to me with an expression of relief. Little did she know. I explained that I wanted to withdraw some money from my account but I had been the victim of a crime and I didn't have my cheque book, credit card or debit card. No problem, she said. Any form of photographic identification would be perfectly acceptable.

I took a deep breath. I didn't have any form of identification. I didn't have anything. She looked puzzled. She almost looked afraid. "Then I'm sorry' she began.

"But there must be some way of getting at my money," I said. "And I need to cancel my old cards and get new ones. I'll sign anything you want, give you any information you want."

She still looked doubtful. More than doubtful. She seemed almost paralysed. Then I remembered Cross. Of all the people who had ejected me back into the world, Cross had looked the most unhappy. He had muttered something about how if there was any help I needed he would do what he could.

"There's a policeman," I said. "He was in charge of the case. You can check it with him."

I wrote down the number for her and was immediately worried. If Cross was too co-operative, I might be worse off than before. She frowned at the number and said she would have to talk to the assistant branch manager. He was a balding man in a decidedly smart grey suit and he looked worried as well. I think they would have been relieved if I had got into a temper and stormed out but I didn't give up. They had to let me back into my life.

It took a long time. There were phone calls. They asked me lots of questions about my life, about my account, bills I'd paid recently, they asked my mother's maiden name. I signed lots of pieces of paper and the woman typed and typed into the computer on her desk. In the end, with obvious reluctance, they gave me two hundred pounds and told me that they would send new credit cards and a cheque book to me within two working days, maybe even the following day if I was very lucky. I suddenly realized that this meant that it would all be sent to Terry's flat. I was going to get them to send it somewhere else, but I thought if I tried to change my address as well, they would probably throw me out on to the street. So I left with the wad of cash stuffed into two trouser pockets. I felt as if I were coming out of a betting shop.

Robin hugged me hard as soon as she saw me, but if she was concerned she was also wary. I could see why. We looked like members of a different species. She's beautiful, dark-skinned, groomed, be suited I looked like what I was, which was someone with nowhere to live and nowhere particularly urgent to go. She met me outside the travel agent's where she works. She hadn't booked anywhere for us to eat. I said I didn't mind. I didn't mind. We went to an Italian sandwich bar where we sat at a counter. I ordered a large coffee and a sandwich that looked like an entire delicatessen counter between two slices of bread. I felt ravenously hungry. She just had coffee. She started to pay and I didn't stop her. I needed to husband my money carefully for the moment. I didn't know what things I would have to pay for in the vagrant existence I was leading.

"Sadie called me," she said.

"Good," I mumbled, my mouth full of sandwich.

"I can't believe it. We're so appalled for you. If I can do anything, anything at all.. ."

"What did Sadie say?"

"Just the bare bones."

And then Robin gave me a version of my story. It was a relief to be hearing it, rather than telling it.

"Are you seeing someone?" she asked, when she had finished.

"You mean a man?" I said.

"I meant a doctor."

"I've been in hospital."

"But Sadie said you had a head injury."

I'd just taken a large bite of my sandwich and there was a pause in the conversation as I chewed and swallowed.

"That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about, Robin. As Sadie said, I got this concussion thing, and that was the problem with the doctors and the police. So one of the things I'm trying to do is to reconstruct what happened in the time where my memory is blank. For example, and I feel a bit embarrassed even telling you this, I didn't realize I had walked out on Terry. It's stupid, isn't it? I finally get it together to make one of the best decisions of my life, then forget all about it. So, basically, if I were a policeman and I were missing and I said to you, "When did you last see Abbie Devereaux?" what would you say?"

"What?"

"When did you last fucking see me, Robin? That's not such a difficult question."

"No, that's right." She thought for a moment. "I knew you'd left Terry. We met the next day. Sunday, late morning."

"Hang on. Sunday January the thirteenth?"

"Right. We went shopping over on Kensington high street. You must remember that."

"Not a thing. What did I buy?"

She looked at me aghast.

"Is this for real? Well, I bought some fantastic shoes. They were reduced to thirty-five pounds from something ridiculous like a hundred and sixty."

"But what about me?"

Robin smiled. "I remember now. We'd talked on the phone the previous evening. You were a bit manic then. But that morning you were fine. Really good. The best I'd seen you in ages. You said you felt really positive and you said you were going to equip yourself for your new life. You bought a lovely short brown dress. Crushed velvet. Some tights and knickers. Shoes to go with the dress. And a spectacular coat. Long, navy blue. You spent a fortune. It was good, though. Money well spent. You were rather giggly about spending so much when you'd just walked out of your job."

"Oh, God! Don't tell me I've left work as well as Terry!"

"Yes. Didn't you know? You didn't seem to mind, though."

"So I don't have a job any more?"

The ground seemed to sway under my feet. The world appeared changed again. Greyer, colder.

"Abbie?" Robin looked concerned.

I fumbled for something to say. "Was that the last you saw of me?"

"We had lunch and we arranged to meet for a drink. I think it was on the Thursday evening. But the day before you rang and cancelled."

"Why?"

"You said something had come up. You were very apologetic'

"Was it something good? Did I sound upset?"

"You sounded .. . well, a bit hyper, maybe. It was very brief."

"And that was it?"

"Yes." Robin looked at me now, as I finished the last of my sandwich. "This couldn't all have been some sort of misunderstanding?"

"You mean being captured and held prisoner by someone who said he was going to kill me and that he had already killed other women? You mean that bit?"

"I don't know."

"Robin," I said slowly. "You're one of my oldest friends and I want you to be honest with me. Do you believe me?"

At that, Robin took my head between her slim fingers, kissed me on both cheeks, and then pushed me back and looked at me. "The thing is," she said, 'if it's true, and I'm sure it is, I just can't bear the idea of it."

"You should try it from where I'm sitting."

My meeting with Carla consisted of hugs and tears and assurances of friendship but it basically boiled down to the fact that she had been away for those days and all she could say was that I had left a message on her answering-machine asking her to call and when she got back she had left a message on Terry's answering-machine and that was that.

Sam is another of my oldest friends and I can't believe that the boy I remember with a joint in his hand upstairs at various parties in south London is now a solicitor who wears a suit and a tie and has to impersonate a grown-up between nine and five on weekdays. And yet, at the same time, I had started to see what this rather good-looking, trendy twenty-six-year-old was going to look like when he was forty.

"Yes, we met," he said. "We had a drink on Sunday evening." He smiled. "I feel a bit pissed off that you don't remember it. You were staying with Sheila and Guy. You talked a bit about Terry. But not that much. I thought that we were meeting so you could sound off about that ungrateful bastard. I mean, ungrateful for living with you. But you seemed excited more than anything else."

Oh, yes. I remembered. I didn't remember our meeting but I sort of knew what must have happened. Sam and I had always been friends, never been out together. I sometimes wondered if he had regretted that and maybe he might have seen my break-up with Terry as an opportunity. It was something that had crossed my mind too. But clearly the Abbie who had had a drink with him had decided against him. He was better as a friend.

I took a sip of about the fourth coffee I'd had that afternoon. I was buzzing with caffeine and strangeness. I hadn't learnt much, but maybe that was what was interesting. I now knew that I had chosen not to spend those last days before it happened with my closest friends. So who had I spent them with? What had I done? Who had I been?

"What are you going to do?" Sam asked, in his forensic style.

"What do you mean?"

"Because if what you say ... I mean, from what you say, he must be out there, and he knows that you're out there, so what are you going to do?"

I took another sip of coffee. This was the question that my brain had been screaming at me and that I had been trying to ignore.

"I don't know," I said. "Hide. What else can I do?"

Five

I hadn't made an appointment, and they told me that I would have to wait for at least fifty minutes before they could do it, but I didn't mind that. I didn't have anywhere else to be, and it was warm in here. And safe. I sat in an easy chair near the door and leafed through last year's glossy magazines. Penny, the woman who was going to cut my hair, told me to pick out styles that I thought I might like, so I examined film stars and musicians and grinning celebrities and tried to imagine my face under their hair. The trouble was, I'd still look like me.

It was just beginning to get dark. Outside the window, people trudged by, wrapped in coats and scarves, wincing in the cold. Cars and lorries thundered past, throwing up muddy slush. Inside, it was bright and still and quiet, just the sound of scissors snipping through hair, the swoosh of the broom on the floor, gathering locks up into soft piles, an occasional murmur of conversation. There were six people already having their hair cut, all women. They sat up straight in their chairs, black robes draped around them, or lay back against the sink, having shampoo and conditioner massaged into their scalps. I could smell coconut, apple, camomile. I closed my eyes. I could sit here all day.

"Have you decided?"

"Short," I said, snapping open my eyes. She led me to a seat in front of a large mirror and stood behind me, running her hands through my hair, her head to one side speculatively.

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"Yes. Really short. Not a bob or anything. You know, cropped. Short, but not too brutal."

"Choppy, perhaps, mussed up. A bit soft round here, maybe?"

"Yes. That sounds fine. I'm having a different colour put in first, as well."

"That'll take a good hour more."

"That's all right. What colour do you think I should have?"

"You've got pretty hair as it is."

"I want a change. I was thinking about red. Bright red."

"Red?" She lifted my long pale hair and let it fall through her fingers. "Do you think red would suit your colouring? What about something softer a kind of dark caramel colour maybe, with interesting with highlights?"

"Would it look very different?"

"Oh, definitely."

I've never had really short hair. When I was a girl I refused to have it cut at all. I wanted to be like my friend Chen, who could sit on her blue-black hair. She used to wear it in a single plait, fastened at the bottom with a velvet bow. It snaked down her back, thick and gleaming, as if it were alive. I put up a hand and stroked the top of my head, took a last look.

"OK, then," I said. "Let's go, before I change my mind."

"I'll be back after the colour's in."

Another woman dyed my hair. First, she applied a thick, brownish paste that smelt unpleasantly chemical. I sat under a lamp and baked. Then she put some lighter dollops on to slabs of hair and wrapped them with bits of tin-foil. I looked as if I was about to be trussed and put into the oven. I closed my eyes once more. I didn't want to see.

Fingers combed through my hair, warm water ran over my scalp. Now I smelt of fruit, of humid tropical forests. A towel was wrapped round my head like a turban. Someone put a cup of coffee down in front of me. Outside, more snow started to fall.

I closed my eyes when Penny began cutting. I heard the scissors crunch and a piece of hair slid down my cheek. The back of my neck felt strangely exposed, my ear-lobes too. Penny sprayed more water on to my head; she cut steadily, not talking except to tell me to sit this way or that; she leant forward and blew away prickles of hair. I opened my eyes and saw in front of me a small, pale, naked face. My nose and mouth looked too big, my neck looked too thin. I closed my eyes again and tried to think about other things. Food,

for instance. After this I'd go and buy a pastry from the deli I'd spotted down the road, something sweet and spicy. Cinnamon and pear, maybe. Or a slice of carrot cake. Perhaps an apple, big and green and tart.

"What do you think?"

I forced myself to look. There were smudges under my eyes and my lips were pale and dry. I put up a hand and touched the soft bristle on top of my head. "Fine," I said. "Great."

Penny angled the mirror behind me. From the back, I looked like a young boy.

"What do you think?" I said.

She looked at me appraisingly. "Very edgy," she said.

"Just what I wanted."

A brush was flicked round my neck and over my face, the mirror was tipped so I caught every variation of my new profile, I was handed my jacket and posted into the outside world, where tiny flakes of snow whirled through the gathering darkness. My head felt weirdly light. I kept seeing myself in shop windows and being startled. I bought a giant chocolate-chip cookie and ate it while I made for the shops.

For the past three years, I've dressed pretty smartly. It was part of the job and I guess I got used to it. Suits. Skirts and jackets and sheer tights, with an extra pair in my bag in case they got snagged. Things that were tailored and trim. So now I used up the rest of the money that Sheila had lent me, and then rather a lot more, on a pair of baggy black trousers, several T-shirts, some leather biker boots, a hooded, fleecy sweatshirt, black as well, a long stripy scarf and a black woollen hat, some warm gloves. I nearly bought a long leather coat, except I didn't have enough money left, which was probably fortunate. But I did have enough money for six pairs of knickers, two bras, several pairs of thick socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and some lipstick, mascara, deodorant and shampoo.

I stood in front of the long shop mirror. I turned round slowly, looking at myself over my shoulder. I lifted my chin. I was no longer Abbie the businesswoman, hair drawn up in a sleek bun and sensible shoes. I looked thin and almost feral, with sharp

T2T

collar-bones. The new black clothes made my face seem paler than ever, though the bruise on my cheek had faded to a jaundiced yellow stain. My hair was spiky and the colour of birch wood I thought I looked a bit like an owl. And about sixteen, a schoolgirl. I smiled at myself, the newness I saw there, and nodded. "Good," I said, aloud. "Perfect."

Six

"Christ!" said Sheila, as she opened the door.

"What do you reckon?"

"It's certainly a change of image. I hardly recognized you."

"That's the general idea. Can I come in, then? I'm freezing out here!" Icy flakes were landing on my cheeks and nose, trickling down my neck. My new haircut was flat and wet.

She stood back and let me into the warmth. "Sure. God, you look.. ."

"What?"

"I dunno. Younger."

"Is that good?"

"Yes," she said dubiously. "You look littler, too, somehow. Tea? Drink?"

"Drink. I bought us some beer."

"Thanks, but you shouldn't have bothered."

"Don't thank me. It was your money. I'll be able to pay you back soon, though, when my credit card is sent to Terry's, which should be any day."

"Whenever. That reminds me, Terry rang."

"Here?"

"No, Sadie's. He thought you'd be there. So Sadie rang me to say that Terry says can you go and collect this big bag he forgot to give you yesterday, with all your mail and stuff. And the rest of your clothes."

"Fine. I'll go tomorrow."

"Or he'll throw it away."

"Charming. I'll go now."

"Now? Don't you want something to eat? We're having these friends round. A couple, very nice, he works with Guy and she does something with antiques, I think. Nothing smart, just the four of us. Or five, that is," she said bravely.

"It's OK, Sheila. Four's a better number. Maybe I'll be back for the cheese course."

"No cheese. Lemon tart."

"You made lemon tart?"

"Yes." She looked self-conscious and virtuous at the same time.

"Save some for me. Can I use your phone to book a cab?"

"Of course. You don't have to ask."

I kissed her on both cheeks. "You're being very nice to me. I promise I won't stay here for long."

It costs a lot of money to go across London in a taxi, make it wait, then come all the way back again. I watched the meter nervously as it clicked into double figures. I'd had 257 this morning, from Sheila and Guy and from the bank, but after my haircut and shopping spree and various coffees and cabs, it was down to seventy-nine. By the end of the evening I'd have about sixty again.

The lights were on in our flat. Terry's flat, that is. I rang the bell and waited, then heard footsteps running down the stairs and a light went on in the hall.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Terry."

"Abbie?" He peered at me. "What have you gone and done to yourself ? Your hair, it's -'

"Gone. I know. Can I come in and collect my stuff? I'm in a bit of a hurry. A cab's waiting."

"I'll go and get it. I've put everything in bags. Wait here." He turned and dashed back up the stairs again. But I wasn't going to wait in the freezing cold, so I followed him and we arrived simultaneously. There was a lovely smell coming from the flat, garlicky and pungent. On the table was a bottle of wine, but only half drunk, two glasses, two plates of chicken covered with sprigs of rosemary and whole garlic cloves. That was my recipe, my standby. Candles that I'd bought. A woman was sitting there, twiddling her glass, her long fair hair falling forward and shining in the soft light. She was wearing a charcoal-grey suit and had tiny gold studs in her ears. I stood there in the doorway, in my baggy trousers, with my tufty hair, and stared at her.

"I'll get all your stuff," said Terry.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?"

He muttered something and disappeared.

"I'm Abbie," I said brightly to the woman.

"Nice to meet you," she said faintly. "Sally."

"Here." Terry dragged in two bin-bags with my remaining clothes, then put a bulging plastic bag of mail into my hands. He was red-faced.

"Must go," I said. Then I turned to the woman. "Do you know what's odd? You look rather like me."

She smiled, polite but incredulous. "I really don't think so."

They were still on the fish when I backed into the kitchen, dragging my bags after me.

"Abbie, back already! This is Paul and Izzie. Are you going to join us?"

"Hi." I could tell by the way Paul and Izzie looked at me that they'd heard the full story. "Don't worry, I'm not really hungry. I'm going to go through my post." I lifted up the splitting plastic bag. "Get some clues, eh?" They all laughed nervously and glanced at each other. Sheila flushed, and leant forward to refill their glasses.

"I'd love some wine, though."

Most of the post was junk, January sales catalogues, stuff like that. There were two postcards: one from Mary, who was in Australia for the whole of the month; one from Alex in Spain. He must be back by now. I wondered if he'd heard. There were two invitations to parties. One had been and gone, but one was this weekend. Maybe I'd go to that, dance and flirt, I thought, and then, But what shall I wear? And what shall I say? And who on earth would flirt with someone who looked like a vagrant schoolgirl? Perhaps I wouldn't go, after all.

There was a strange, formal letter from Laurence Joiner at Jay and Joiner's, confirming that I was on unpaid leave, but that my pension and National Insurance would still be paid. I frowned and put it to one side. Clearly I needed to go into the office sometime. Maybe tomorrow.

Then there was a bank statement. At the beginning of the month I had been a glorious and uncharacteristic 1810.49 in credit but now I had only 597 left. I squinted at the row of figures. What on earth had I spent 890 on, on 13 January? Fuck, those must be the clothes that Robin had told me about. What on earth had possessed me? I must have been drunk or something. And I didn't even have the clothes to show for it. Then, three days later, I'd withdrawn five hundred pounds in cash, which was very odd. I usually take out about fifty.

I drank some wine and opened an official-looking letter, which informed me that the tax disc on my car was due to run out. This didn't concern me too much because I didn't have a clue where my car was except I suddenly did, because I opened the next envelope and discovered that it was being held in a police pound in Bow.

"Yes!" I said aloud. "At last!"

I looked more closely at the letter. Apparently it had been towed away from an illegal parking place on Tilbury Road, E1, wherever Tilbury Road was. Wherever bloody E1 was. I could collect it between nine and five. I'd go tomorrow, first thing.

I raced to the kitchen. "I've found my car!" I said to them.

"Good," said Guy, a little startled. "Great. Where is it?"

"In a police pound in Bow apparently. I'll get it tomorrow morning. Then I won't need all those cabs." I picked up the bottle of wine and poured myself another large glassful.

"How?" asked Guy.

"What do you mean, how?"

"How will you get it? You don't have the key."

"Oh." I felt winded by disappointment. "I hadn't thought of that. What shall I do?"

"You could get a locksmith out," suggested Izzie kindly.

"No, I know. There's a spare key at Terry's, somewhere, God knows where, though. In a safe place I've forgotten. I'll have to go back again. Shit. I thought tonight was the end of it."

"At least you'll have your car again. That's something." "It's a start."

I was falling, falling from a great height. Nothing could stop me and there was silent black air all around me and I was plunging through it. I heard myself call out, a wild cry in the night. I heard it echo.

Then I woke with a violent lurch and lay as if winded on the pillow. The pillow was damp from sweat. I felt sweat trickle down my cheeks and neck like tears. I opened my eyes but it was still dark. Quite dark. There was a heaviness over my heart, as if a great weight had been dropped on to me. I was trapped in the darkness, I heard myself breathing, but the sound was hoarse, like a rusty gasp. Something was wrong. I couldn't catch my breath properly; it was stuck in my chest and my throat kept closing against it in spasms. I had to remember how to do it. I had to remember how to breathe. I had to count, yes, that was it. Breathe in and then out. Slowly. One-two, one-two. Pulling air into my lungs, holding it for a second, letting it out again.

Who was there? Someone was nearby. A board creaked. I wanted to sit up but my body wouldn't move, and I wanted to call out but my voice was frozen inside me. Another board creaked. There was breathing. I could hear it, just outside the door. I lay flattened against my pillow. I could feel my mouth pulled back in a scream, but still no sound came, and there was the breathing again, footsteps, a quiet, stifled cough.

"No," I said at last. "No." I spoke louder. "No, no, no, no." The words filled up my head. They ricocheted around the room, crashed around my skull, tore at my throat. "No, no, no, no."

The door opened and in the slab of light I could see a black shape.

"No!" I screamed again, even louder. There was a hand on my shoulder, fingers on my hair. I thrashed on the bed. "No, no, no, no. Oh, please, no!"

"Abbie. Abbie, wake up. It's all right. You're having a dream. It's just a dream."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Abbie."

"God, God, God," I whimpered.

"You were having a nightmare."

I took hold of Sheila's hand and pressed it against my forehead.

"You're soaked through! You must have a fever."

"Sheila. Oh, Sheila. I thought.. ."

"You were having a nightmare."

I sat up. "It was terrible," I said.

"You poor thing. Listen, I'm going to get you a towel to put over your pillow. You'll be all right now."

"Yes. Sorry. I woke you."

"You didn't. I was going to the bathroom anyway. Hang on."

She went away and returned a few moments later with a large towel. "All right now?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Call if you need me."

"Thanks. And, Sheila leave the door open, will you? And the light in the corridor on?"

"It's very bright."

"It doesn't matter."

"Good night, then."

"Night."

She left and I lay back in bed. My heart was still pounding like a drum. My throat hurt from screaming. I felt weak and shaky and clammily sick. The light flooded in through the door. I lay and watched it and waited for it to be morning.

"Where would I have hidden it?"

"No idea," said Terry. He was still in his dressing-gown, the one I'd given him for his last birthday, drinking thick black coffee and smoking cigarette after cigarette. A blue fug clouded the room, which smelt of ash and the garlic from last night. There was no sign of the other woman, though.

"I mean, it's not in any of the little cabinet drawers. It's not in the wooden bowl that every bit of crap ends up in. It's not in the bathroom."

"Why would it be in the bathroom?"

"It wouldn't be. That's what I said, it's not."

"Oh." He lit another cigarette. "Well, I've got to get dressed and go. I'm running late as it is. Will you be long?"

"As long as it takes to find the key. Don't worry, I can let myself out."

"Well, not really."

"Sorry?"

"You don't live here any more, Abbie. You walked out on me, remember? You can't just come and go like this."

I stopped rummaging and stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"I'll get dressed while you look," he said. "But, yes, I am."

I opened all the drawers in the kitchen and living room and banged them shut again, opened cupboards and slammed them closed. Not with the cutlery; not with the bills; not with the tins of food, the bags of flour and rice, the cereal packets, the packets of coffee and tea, the bottles of oil, vinegar, soy sauce. Not on one of the mug hooks. Not on the lintel of the door between the two rooms. Not on the bookshelves, or with the stationery, or in the glass bowl where I put used to put things like rubber bands, paper clips, spare buttons and hair bands stamps, tampons.

Terry came back into the room. He put his hands into his coat pockets and jangled change impatiently.

"Look," I said, 'you don't want me here and I don't want to be here. Go to work and when you come back I'll have gone. I won't steal anything. I won't remove the things that are mine. You can have them. I might as well start over with a completely blank slate. I won't scribble obscenities on the bathroom mirror with my lipstick. I'll find the key and I'll leave. OK?"

He jangled the coins some more. "Is this really the way it's going to end?" he asked eventually, which took me by surprise.

"The woman who was here last night seemed nice," I said. "What was her name? Sarah?"

"Sally," he said, giving up. "OK. I'll leave you to it."

Thanks. "Bye, then."

"Bye Abbie." He hovered by the door for a few seconds, then was gone.

I made myself a last cup of coffee. I took the mug and wandered round the flat. Part of me was wondering if the key would be hidden inside this cup, that cubby-hole. Part of me was just looking, remembering. I found the key under the pot of basil. The earth was all dried out and the leaves had wilted. I watered it carefully. I washed up my mug, dried it, put it back on the hook and left.

Bow was a long way. By the time I arrived I had forty-eight pounds left and a few coppers. I asked in a post office for directions to the car pound. It turned out to be a mile away from the nearest Underground station. You'd have thought that if they towed away your car, they'd at least put it somewhere near public transport. I would have taken a taxi if I'd seen one, but I didn't. There were just lots and lots of cars and vans spraying water up from the wide puddles in the road.

So I walked, past the garages selling B M W s, the factories making lights and catering equipment and carpets; past the building sites where cranes topped with snow stood motionless. I saw the pound as I came over the hill; row upon row of cars surrounded by a high fence, with double-locked gates. Most of them were old and dented. Perhaps their owners had simply abandoned them. I couldn't see my car, which was also old and dented, anywhere.

I took my letter to the office in the corner and a man rummaged around in the filing cabinet, came out with a piece of printed paper, scratched his head and sighed heavily.

"So can I just take it?" I asked.

"Hang on, not so fast. You have to pay, you know."

"Oh, yes, of course, sorry. How much?" I felt anxiously in my pocket for the dwindling wad of notes.

"That's what I'm working out. There's the fine for parking illegally, then there's the cost of towing it away, then you have to add on the time it's been here."

"Oh. That sounds like rather a lot."

It is, yes. A hundred and thirty pounds."

"Sorry?"

"A hundred and thirty pounds," he repeated.

"I don't have that much money."

"We take cheques."

"I don't have a cheque book."

"Cards."

I shook my head.

"Oh dear, oh dear," he said. He didn't sound too sad.

"What shall I do?"

"I couldn't tell you."

Can I take the car, drive to a friend's to get money, then come back here?"

"No."

There was nothing for it but go away again. I slogged back to Bow and sat in a little cafe with another cup of bitter, tepid coffee. Then I went to a payphone, called Sam and asked him, begged him, really, to send sixty pounds no, make that eighty, ninety even -by courier to the police pound, where I'd be waiting. "Please, please, please," I said. "I'm really sorry but this is an emergency." I knew about the courier service because once he'd got his jacket collected from a club we'd been to because he couldn't be bothered to go back for it. Perk of the job, he'd said.

I finally got my car. At just after twelve thirty, I paid over the 130 and he gave me a printout of where it had been towed away from and a breakdown of the charges. Then he pointed out where it was parked, and unlocked the double gates. I had nineteen pounds left. I climbed in and turned the key in the ignition. It started at once. I turned up the heating and rubbed my hands together to get rid of their cold stiffness. There was a Maltesers packet lying on the passenger seat. I pushed the tape that was in the machine and didn't recognize the music that came on. Something jazzy and cheerful. I turned up the volume and drove through the gates. Then I pulled over and looked at the official receipt. The car had been towed away from outside 103 Tilbury Road, E1 on 28 January which I

worked out was my last day in hospital. The road must be near here, surely.

The road map was in the glove compartment. I found Tilbury Road and drove there, through an area of London that was quite unfamiliar to me. It was a long, dismal street of boarded-up houses, dimly lit news agents and twenty-four-hour shops selling grapefruit and okra and dented tins of tomatoes. I parked outside number 103 and sat in my car for a few minutes. I put my head on the steering-wheel and tried to remember. Nothing happened, no glimmer in the darkness. I put the map back in the glove compartment, and felt a rustle of papers. There were three receipts pushed in there too. One was for petrol: twenty-six pounds, on Monday 14 January. The second was for 150-worth of Italian lire on Tuesday 15 January. The third was for an Indian take away delivery for that same day: 16.80 for two pilau rice, one vegetable biryani, one king prawn tikka, one spinach, one aubergine, one garlic naan. To be delivered to 11b Maynard Street, London NWi. I'd never heard of Maynard Street and I couldn't remember when I'd last been in that corner of north London.

I stuffed the receipts back into the glove compartment and something fell on the floor. I leant down and picked up a pair of sunglasses and a key on a loop of string. Not my key. A key I had never seen before.

It was not quite four. I drove off again, through the drawn-out London outskirts, in the growing dusk. Everything seemed more frightening in the dark. I felt ragged with tiredness, but I still had things to do before going back to Sheila and Guy's.

Seven

"You know what you need, don't you?"

"No, Laurence, what do I need?"

"A rest."

Laurence didn't know what I needed. I was standing in the office of Jay and Joiner's looking at the spot where my desk used to be. That was the funny thing. The office looked just as it had always looked. It's not a place that is anything special, which is pretty ironic for a company that designs offices. The only real attraction is that it is in a back alley, which is right in the middle of Soho, a couple of minutes' walk from the delicatessens and the market. When I say that the office looked the same, I mean the same except that all traces of me had vanished. It wasn't even as if someone else had just been sitting at my desk. The rest of the office seemed to have been repositioned very subtly so that the space I had once occupied wasn't there any more.

Carol had led me through. That was strange as well, being led through my own office. I didn't get the casual nods and greetings I was used to. There were double-takes, stares, and one new woman who looked at me curiously, assuming I was a customer, until Andy leant over and whispered something to her, and she looked at me even more curiously. Carol was breathlessly apologetic about the lack of all my stuff. She explained that people were falling over it and it had been put in boxes and stowed away in the storeroom, wherever that was. My mail was being opened and either redistributed around the office to relevant people or sent on to me at Terry's. But, then, I'd arranged all that, hadn't I? When I'd left. I nodded vaguely.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

That was a big question. I didn't know whether she just meant my appearance. She had certainly flinched when I had walked into

Reception in my civilian clothes. Very civilian clothes. Then there was my hair. Also I had lost over a stone since she had last seen me. Plus, my face was still a bit yellow from the bruising.

"I've had a bit of a difficult time," I said.

"Yes," said Carol, not catching my eye.

"Did the police come here? Asking about me?"

"Yes," she said. She was looking at me now. Warily. "We were worried about you."

"What did they ask?"

"They wanted to know about your work here. And why you'd left."

"What did you say?"

"They didn't ask me. They talked to Laurence about it."

"What do you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"About why I left."

I didn't tell her that I had no idea myself about why I'd left, no memory of leaving. I was hoping that there might be at least one person to whom I could avoid telling my story. I felt I couldn't bear looking at another face showing those signs of growing puzzlement. Should they pity me? Should they believe me?

Carol looked thoughtful. "I think you were right," she said. "You couldn't go on the way you were going. You were burning yourself out."

"So you think I did the right thing?"

"I envy you your six months off. I think it's very brave."

Another shock. Six months. And I noticed her use of the word 'brave': 'brave' as a euphemism for 'dumb'.

"But you're looking forward to me coming back?" I said jokingly. She looked wary again and that really did alarm me. What the fuck had I been up to?

"Obviously things got a bit frazzled at the end," she said. "And people said things they shouldn't have."

"I always had a big mouth," I said, when what I really wanted to say was, "What is all this about?"

"I think you were mainly right," Carol said. "It's always a matter of tone, isn't it? And timing. I think it's good you've come in to talk things over." We were at the door of Laurence's office now. "By the way," she said, too casually, 'that stuff with the police. What was it about?"

"It's complicated," I said. "Wrong place at the wrong time."

"Were you .. . you know .. . ?"

Oh, so that was it. The gossip was that I might have been raped. Or not really raped.

"No, nothing like that."

So I found myself being told by Laurence Joiner what I needed. It was all very awkward. On the spur of the moment I decided not to launch into a detailed account of my recent medical and psychiatric history. It was obvious that my last days at Jay and Joiner's hadn't been brilliant, and if there was going to be any prospect of my coming back, I ought to try not to make things worse.

"Good idea," I said. "In fact, I'm trying to get as much rest as I possibly can."

"I don't need to tell you, Abbie, how important you are to us."

"You do," I said. "It's always good to hear that."

Laurence Joiner had forty-two suits. There had once been a party at his house and one of the girls in the office had wandered into his bedroom and counted them. They had taken up three cupboards. And that had been a year earlier so there were probably more by now. And they were beautiful. As he talked, he stroked the knee of the lovely dark green one he was wearing today, as if it were a pet lying in his lap.

"We've all been worried about you," he said.

"I've been a bit worried about myself."

"First, we have .. . well, I needn't go over it again."

Oh, please, go over it again, I said silently. If the apple wouldn't fall, I'd have to give the tree a little shake.

"One of the things I wanted to make sure," I said desperately, 'was that everything was still all right from your point of view."

"We're all on the same side," Laurence said.

It was all so polite.

"Yes, but I want to know, explicitly, how you saw it. I mean my taking time off. I want to hear your view of it." '

Laurence frowned. "I'm not sure if it's healthy to rake over it again. I'm not angry any more, I promise. It's clear to me now that you had been overworking for some time. It's my fault. You were so productive, and so effective, I just overloaded you. I think if we hadn't had the row over the Avalanche job we would have had it over something else."

"Is that all?"

"If you mean, have I forgiven you for badmouthing the company to clients after you had taken time off, for going round London encouraging them to complain, the answer is yes. Just about. Now look, Abbie, I don't want to sound like someone out of The Godfather but I really don't think you ought to take sides with clients against the company. If you feel they've been badly advised or overcharged, you take it up with me, rather than informing them behind my back and in your own time. But I think we're all agreed on that."

"When, um -just for my own records, I mean when did I make these complaints?" I didn't need to ask what the complaints had been: I had a clear enough memory of the Avalanche project to know that.

"You're not going to start raking over everything again, are you, just when we've smoothed it all out?"

"No, no. But I'm a bit unclear about chronology, that's all. My diary's here and ..." I stopped because I couldn't think how to finish the sentence.

"Shall we just draw a veil over the sorry affair?" said Laurence.

"I left on Friday, didn't I? Friday the eleventh."

"Right."

"And I complained to people, um .. ." I waited for him to fill in the gap.

"After the weekend. I don't know the dates myself. I just heard gradually, on two occasions by solicitors' letters. You can imagine how let down I felt."

"Quite," I said. "Could I have a look through the Avalanche file?"

"What on earth for? That's all behind us. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"Laurence, I absolutely promise I'm not going to make any trouble for you. But I want to talk to a couple of the people involved with it."

"You must have the numbers."

"I'm in a bit of chaos, I'm afraid. I've moved."

"Do you mean moved out?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You can get any information you need from Carol." Now he looked even more concerned. "I don't want to butt in. But as I said, we've been worried. I mean, your problems here, you've split up with Terry, and then there were the police coming round. Can we do anything? Would you like us to arrange for you to go somewhere?"

I was puzzled for a moment then couldn't help laughing.

"You think it's drink or drugs?" I said. "I wish." I leant over and kissed Laurence's forehead. "Thank you. Laurence, I've got one or two things to sort out and I'll be in touch."

I opened the door of his office.

"Listen," he said, 'if there's anything at all we can do .. ."

I shook my head. "Just listening to you has made me think of how much you've already done. I hope I haven't been too much of a handful." A thought came to me. "I'd say that I was a different person then, but that might sound as if I wasn't taking proper responsibility."

Laurence looked deeply puzzled, and no wonder.

On the way out I asked Carol for the Avalanche file.

"Are you serious?" she said.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

She looked doubtful. "I'm not sure," she said.

"The job's done with."

"Yes, but-'

"It'll just be a few days," I said. "I'll be very careful."

She started to yield. Maybe the idea that I would go away if she gave it to me was just too tempting.

"Do you want the drawings as well?"

"Just the correspondence will be fine."

She fetched a bulky file and gave me a Marks & Spencer plastic carrier bag to put it in.

"One more thing," I said. "Has anybody called me here in the last couple of days?"

Carol rummaged around on her desk and gave me two sheets of paper covered with names and numbers. "Only fifty or sixty people. Mostly the usual suspects. Do you want to give me a number I can give them?"

"No. This is important. Don't give anyone my numbers. Nobody."

"Fine," she said, looking rather startled by my urgent tone.

"I'll just take these numbers with me, I think. You don't need them, do you?" I folded up the sheets of paper and put them into my back pocket. "I'll call you every so often. And one last thing."

"What?"

"What do you think of my hairstyle?"

"Amazing," she said. "A bit extreme maybe, but amazing."

"Does it make me look different?" I said.

"I didn't recognize you. Well, not at first."

"Great," I said, and she looked worried all over again.

I sat in the car and tried to clarify my thoughts. Avalanche. I felt like I'd been dropped on to a new planet. A foggy new planet. What did I actually know? The people at Jay and Joiner's saw me as a traumatized crazy. I'd left my job temporarily, at least after a row. And I'd left my boyfriend. At some point in the next few days I'd gone around visiting people who'd been involved in the project, apparently encouraging them to make complaints about the way our company had dealt with them. And I had met someone mad and murderous. Or could it possibly have been someone I already knew? It couldn't, could it?

An image came into my mind of an animal out in the open. I wanted to run for cover, but I didn't know which direction to run in. There were people who didn't know what had happened to me and there were other people who didn't believe what had happened to me. But there was one person who knew I was telling the truth.

Where was he? I looked around reflexively and shuddered. Maybe I could escape somewhere very far away and never come back. Australia. The North Pole. No, it was hopeless. What was I going to do, initiate the process of emigration? What did that involve? Or should I just go on holiday to Australia and refuse to leave? It didn't sound very feasible.

I took the take away receipt from the glove compartment: nb Maynard Street, NWi. It meant nothing to me. At one end of the spectrum, it might have been left there by someone else and have nothing important to do with me at all. Or it might be where he lived. But as soon as the thought came to me I knew I had to go there.

This was turning into the longest day of my life. I looked in the A-Z. It wasn't so far away. And I look completely different. I could pretend I had the wrong place. It would probably amount to nothing.

The flat was on the first floor of a smart stuccoed house just off Camden high street. I found a parking meter and crammed change into it to give me thirty-six minutes. It had its own entrance down the side. I stood in front of it and took a deep breath. I reached into the glove compartment and found the sunglasses. The cold winter evening was now as dark as the grave but it would complete my disguise. If a woman answered, I would have a proper conversation. If a man answered, I would play it safe. I would just say, "Sorry, I must have the wrong address," and start walking decisively away. There were enough people in the street for me to be safe.

But nobody answered. I pressed the bell again. And again. I could hear the bell ring, far inside. Somehow you can tell when a doorbell is ringing inside somewhere empty. I took my car keys out of my pocket and juggled them in my hand. I could go to one of the other flats in the building. But what would I ask? I walked back to the car. The meter showed that I had thirty-one minutes left. What a waste. I opened the glove compartment to replace the take away bill. There among the other stuff, the log book, a brochure, an

RAC membership card, was that key, the key that wasn't the key to my old flat.

Feeling ridiculous, I took the key and walked back to the flat. With a sense of utter unreality, I pushed it gently into the lock and opened the door. As I pushed it wider, I saw a pile of mail. I picked up a letter. Josephine Hooper. I'd never heard of her. She was obviously away. There were stairs and I climbed them slowly. It could hardly have felt stranger if I had walked through the wall. I looked inside. I saw stripped pine, pictures, photographs pinned to the wall in the entrance hall, photographs I didn't recognize. Rich colours. I pushed the door shut. Yes, I could smell the mustiness of absence. Something had gone off somewhere.

I had no memory of the house, the street. I had barely even been to the area before. But I had had the key to the door in my car, so maybe I shouldn't have been surprised when I walked into the living room and turned on the lights and there, along with Josephine Hooper's pictures, table, rug, sofa, was my stereo, my television, my books. I felt as if I was going to faint. I sank back into a chair. My chair.

Eight

I wandered round the main room, finding traces of myself everywhere. At first I just looked at them, maybe touched them with one finger, as if they might dissolve and disappear. My small television set on the floor. My stereo and my CDs. My laptop on the coffee table. I lifted the lid and pressed the shift bar, at which it emitted a bleep and sprang to life. My green glass vase on the table, with three dead yellow roses rotting over its side and a scatter of black petals at its base. My leather jacket lying on the sofa, as if I'd just popped out for some milk. And there, stuck into the mirror over the fireplace, was a photograph of me. Two, to be precise: passport photos in which I was trying to suppress a smile. I looked happy.

But this was someone else's flat, full of unfamiliar furniture -apart from my chair and books that I'd never read or even heard of, except the book of recipes that lay on the surface near the hob. Here was all the foreign clutter of someone else's life. There was a framed photograph on one of the shelves and I picked it up and examined it: a young woman with curly windswept hair, hands thrust into the pockets of her padded jacket, grinning widely, and hills spread out behind her. It was a lovely, carefree image, but I had never seen the face before. At least, I couldn't remember seeing it. I gathered up the mail that was lying on the floor and leafed through it. All the letters were to Jo Hooper, or Josephine Hooper, or Ms J Hooper. I put them in a neat pile on the kitchen table. She could open them later. But when I looked at the dead flowers on the table, or the amount of mail that had stacked up on the floor, I wondered when she was last here herself.

I opened the "Mail' file on my laptop, clicked on the 'send and receive' button and waited while a little clock shimmered on the screen. There was a melodic bleep and I saw I had thirty-two new messages. I scrolled down them quickly. Nothing but messages from organizations I'd never heard of, alerting me to things I didn't want to know about.

I hesitated in the quiet room. Then I went across the hall and pushed open the first of the doors. It swung open and I was in a bedroom, with open curtains and a radiator that was warm. I turned on the light. The double bed was made, three velvet cushions scattered at the base and a pair of red checked pyjamas on the pillow. There was a lavender-coloured dressing-gown hanging on a hook on the door, and some moccasin slippers on the floor. On the top of the chest of drawers there was an ancient, balding teddy, a bottle of perfume, a little pot of lip balm, a silver locket, and another photograph this time a close-up of a man's stubbly face. He had an Italian look to him, dark with absurdly long eyelashes. There were fine lines around his eyes and he was smiling. I opened the wardrobe. That black dress, that soft woollen shirt, this thin grey cardigan were someone else's. I lifted the lid of the laundry basket. It was empty, except for a pair of white knickers and some socks.

The next door opened on to the bathroom. It was clean, warm, white-tiled. My blue-and-white toothbrush was in a glass beaker, next to her black one; my toothpaste, with the lid off, was next to hers, with the lid on. There was my deodorant, my moisturizing cream, my makeup case. My green towel was on the radiator, next to her multi-coloured one. I washed my hands, dried them on my own towel, stared at my unaccustomed face in the mirror. I half expected to see her standing behind me, with that smile. Josephine Hooper. Jo.

When I went into the third room I knew at once it was mine -not, at first, because of individual objects that I recognized, but because of the peculiar, powerful sense I had of coming home. Perhaps it had something to do with the smell, or the vague, controlled mess of the room. Shoes on the floor. My suitcase lying open underneath the sash window, with shirts and jerseys and underwear still packed inside. A thick deep-pink jersey thrown across the chair. A small pile of dirty washing in the corner. A tangle of jewellery on the bedside table. The long rugby shirt I wear at night hung over the bed head. I pulled open the cupboard door and there were my two smart suits, my winter dresses and skirts. And there was the blue coat I'd heard about from Robin, and the brown, crushed-velvet dress. I leant forward and sniffed its soft folds, wondering if I had ever got round to wearing it.

I sat down on the bed and for a few moments I just sat there, gazing around me. My head buzzed lightly. Then I slipped off my shoes and lay down and closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the central heating. It was quiet in here. Every so often I heard a faint shuffle from the upstairs flat, or a car driving along on an adjacent road. I pulled the rugby shirt towards me, and put my head on it. Somewhere, a car door banged and someone laughed.

I must have dozed off because when I jerked awake, with a strange taste in my mouth, it was raining outside. The street lamps were glowing orange and the tree outside my window shimmered in its orange glow. I was chilly, so I picked up the pink jersey and discovered, underneath it, my bag. There it was, bulging and securely fastened. I fumbled with the zip. On the top there was my wallet. I opened it and found four crisp, twenty-pound notes and quite a bit of change. My credit cards were in there too, and my driving licence, a book of stamps, my National Insurance number written out on a bit of paper, several visiting cards. Nothing seemed to be missing at all.

I wandered back into the kitchen-living room, clutching my bag. I drew the curtains properly, and turned on the standard lamp and the light above the cooker. It was nice here, homely. I'd obviously made a good move. I peered into the fridge. It was full of food: fresh pasta, bags of salad, a cucumber, spring onions, milk, butter, cheese Cheddar, Parmesan and feta individual pots of yoghurt, eggs, half a loaf of seeded brown bread, the remains of a bottle of white wine. No meat or fish perhaps this Jo was a vegetarian. Most things were past their sell-by date; the milk, when I sniffed it, was sour, the bread was stiff, the salad in its bag limp and faded. That wine must need drinking, though, I thought.

Without thinking, I went to a cupboard and took out a tall wine glass. Then just as I was lifting the bottle, I stopped dead in my tracks: I had known where the glasses were kept. A tiny, buried part of my mind had known. I stood quite still and tried to let that shred of buried memory grow, but it was no use. I poured myself a generous glass of wine after all, maybe I had bought it myself- and put on some music. I was half expecting Jo to walk in through the door, and the thought made me both nervous and excited. Would she be alarmed to see me or happy? Would she greet me casually or with disapproval and shock? Would she raise her eyebrows or give me a hug? But, really, I knew she wouldn't come. She'd gone away somewhere. Nobody had been here for days.

There was a light flashing on the phone and after some hesitation, I pressed the playback button. The first message was from a woman, saying she hoped everything was all right, and that she was going to cook supper, if Jo would wait in. The voice sounded familiar but it took a few moments to realize that she was me. I shivered and rewound, listened once more to my unfamiliar voice in this unfamiliar place. I sounded very cheerful. I drank a gulp of vinegary wine. There was a long, bossy message from a woman about the delivery date of a piece of work, and how it was being brought forward; a man's voice simply saying, "Hi, Jo, it's me, shall we meet soon? Give me a bell." A different woman, saying she'd be in town tomorrow and how about a drink; another woman saying, "Hello? Hello?" until the line went dead. I saved the messages and took another sip of sharp yellow wine.

I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Was I an intruder here, or was this where I lived now? I wanted to stay, to have a hot bath and climb into my rugby shirt and eat pasta and watch TV -my TV curled up on my chair. I didn't want to be staying with friends who were being very kind and polite but who thought I was crazy. I wanted to stay here and meet Jo and find out about the self I'd lost.

Whatever I was going to do later, I had to find out as much as I could now. First things first. I sat down on the chair and tipped the contents of my bag on to the coffee table. The largest item was a thickish brown A5 envelope with my name on it. I shook out the contents: two passports, one old and one brand new. I turned to the back and found my photograph, the replica of the pair stuck into the mirror. An airline ticket: ten days ago I was meant to have flown to Venice, returning the day before yesterday. I've always wanted to go to Venice.

A pair of black gloves, balled up into each other. My address book, coming apart at the spine. Four black pens, one leaking. Mascara. Two tampons. Half a packet of Polo mints I put one into my mouth absentmindedly, which at least covered up the taste of the wine. A pack of tissues. One sucking sweet. One bead bangle. Three thin hair bands which I didn't need any longer. A comb and a tiny mirror. And a bit of tin-foil that had fallen on the floor. I picked it up and it wasn't tin-foil after all, but a stiff silver strip, holding two pills, except one pill had been pressed out. I tilted it up to the light to make out the words printed on the back of the strip. Levonelle, 750 microgram tablets, levo norgestrel I had an absurd impulse just to pop the other round white tablet into my mouth, just to see what would happen.

I didn't, of course. I made myself a cup of tea, then called Sheila and Guy's number and got the answering-machine. I told them I wouldn't be back tonight, but thanks so much for everything and I'd be in touch very soon. I put on my leather jacket, put the key and the tablet into the inside pocket, and went outside. My car was still there, except now it had a ticket wrapped in polythene, tucked under its iced-up windscreen wipers.

I'd deal with that later. I jogged in the darkness on to Camden high street and kept going until I came to a chemist's. It was about to close. I went up to the prescription counter, where a young Asian man asked me if he could help me.

"I hope so. I just wondered if you could tell me what this is for." I produced the silver strip and passed it across to him.

He glanced at it briefly and frowned at me. "Does it belong to you?"

"Yes," I said. "That is, no, no, it doesn't. Because if it was mine I'd know, wouldn't I? I found it. I found it in my my little sister's room and I just wanted to make sure it was safe. Because, you see, one's gone."

"How old is your sister?"

"Nine," I said wildly.

"I see." He laid the strip down on the counter and took off his glasses. "This is emergency contraception."

"What?"

"The morning-after pill'

"Oh," I said.

"And you say your sister is only nine?"

"Oh, God."

"She ought to see a doctor."

"Well, as a matter of fact.. ." I petered out nervously. Another customer was standing behind us, listening eagerly.

"When do you think she took it?"

"Ages ago. Ten days, something like that."

He looked very disapproving and then a rather ironic expression appeared on his face. I think he knew.

"Normally," he said, 'you should take two pills. The first no later than seventy-two hours after intercourse has taken place, preferably earlier than that, and the second twelve hours after that. So your sister could be pregnant."

I grabbed the strip and waved it. "I'll deal with it, I promise, thank you, but I'll make sure it's all right. Thank you." I made for the street. The cold rain felt wonderful on my burning cheeks.

Nine

I knew what had happened. I bloody knew. It was one of those ludicrous things that I'd heard of other people doing. Even friends. How pathetic. As soon as I got back to the flat, I phoned Terry. He sounded as if he had been asleep. I asked him if any mail had arrived for me that morning. He mumbled that there were a couple of things.

"They might have sent my new credit card. They said they'd try to."

"I'll send it on, if you'd prefer."

"It's desperately urgent. And I'm just in the neighbourhood, so is it all right if I drop by?"

"Well, all right but-'

"I'll be there in half an hour."

"I thought you were in the neighbourhood."

I tried to think of a clever explanation but couldn't.

"Look, the longer we talk the longer it will be until I get there."

When I arrived, he had a bottle of wine open. He offered me a glass and I accepted. I had to be subtle about this. I had to work my way round to it. He looked at me with the appraising expression I knew so well, as if I was a slightly dodgy antique and he was putting a value on me.

"You've found your clothes," he said.

"Yes."

"Where were they?"

I didn't want to tell him. This wasn't just bloody-mindedness. I thought that, just for these few days, it would be good to create the maximum amount of confusion. If the people who knew who I was didn't know where I was and the people who knew where I

was didn't know who I was, then maybe I'd be safer for a while. At least I'd be more of a moving target.

"I'd left them with someone," I said.

"Who?"

"It's no one you know. Have you got my mail?"

"I put it on the table."

I wandered over and looked at the two envelopes there. One was a questionnaire about shopping habits, which I chucked immediately into the bin, the other an envelope marked 'special delivery'. I picked it up and it felt promisingly firm. I ripped it open. A brand new shiny credit card. A. E. Devereaux. I had a place to sleep, my clothes, some CDs and now a credit card. I was really coming back to life. I looked around.

"Of course, some of my stuff is still here, bits and pieces," I said.

I sipped at my wine and Terry gulped at his. I was going to say something about his drinking and then I remembered with relief that I didn't have to do that any more. That was Sally's job now. But maybe he didn't drink with her.

"You can collect it any time you want," he said.

"I haven't exactly got anywhere to put it," I said. "Is there a rush? Is Sally moving in?"

"I've only known her a couple of weeks. She's just'

"You know, Terry, if there's one thing I don't want to get into it's a discussion about how she really doesn't mean anything to you."

"That's not what I meant. I was talking about you. I just wanted to say that I wasn't happy about what happened when you left." He tried to take a sip from an empty glass. He looked down at the floor, then up at me. "I'm sorry, Abbie. I'm sorry I hit you. Really. I've got no excuse to offer at all. It was my fault completely and I hate myself for it."

I knew this Terry very well. This was the apologetic Terry. The one who admitted everything and said he would never do it again and from now on it would all be different. I'd believed that Terry too often but, then, he always believed himself too.

"It's OK," I said at last. "You don't need to hate yourself."

"I was terrible to live with."

"Oh, well, I was probably difficult too, in my own way."

He shook his head ruefully. "That's the thing, you weren't difficult at all. You were happy and generous and fun. Except for the first few minutes after your alarm went off in the morning. All my mates thought I was the luckiest man in the world. And you didn't give up on me."

"Oh, well.. ." I said uncomfortably.

"Except you are now, aren't you? Giving up on me."

"It's over, Terry."

"Abbie

"Don't," I said. "Please. Listen, Terry, I wanted to ask you something."

"Anything." He was on his second glass of wine now.

"For some reason, my own sanity mainly, I'm trying to reconstruct this period that I can't remember. I'm investigating myself as if I were someone else. Now, from what I understand we had a massive row on the Saturday and I walked out."

"As I've said, it wasn't really a row. It was all my fault. I don't know what came over me."

"Terry, I'm completely uninterested in that. I just want to know where I was. And various other things. So I left, and went to stay with Sadie. But if I stormed out, I presumably wasn't carrying my CD player and my TV with me."

Terry shook his head.

"No," he said. "You walked out with nothing except your bag. I thought you'd be back later that evening. The next day you rang and I tried to talk you out of it but I couldn't. You wouldn't tell me where you were. Then a couple of days later, you rang again. You said you'd be over to collect some things. You came on Wednesday and you took quite a lot of stuff."

Now I was getting to the difficult bit. "Was there anything else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when we talked .. . when we rowed, you know, did we also, um .. . ?" "We didn't really talk, as such. We had a row. You left. I asked if you wanted to come back. You refused. You wouldn't tell me where you were. I tried to reach you on the phone but I couldn't."

"What about when I came round here to collect my stuff ? What about then?"

"We didn't meet. You came when I was out."

I felt a lurch in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know I'm being stupid about this, but you're saying that we didn't have any contact after I walked out?"

"We talked on the phone."

"I don't mean that. We didn't meet?"

"No. You wouldn't let me."

"So who the fuck .. . ?"

I'd begun a sentence that I couldn't possibly finish.

"Look, Abbie, I really want to .. ."

At that moment the doorbell rang so I never learnt what it was that Terry really wanted, although I could make a fair guess at it. I saw Terry clench his teeth and I saw that he knew who was at the door, so I knew as well.

"This is a bit awkward," he said, as he moved across to the door.

I wasn't in a condition to deal with anything at all. I could hardly speak.

"It's not at all awkward. Go and let her in. I'll come down with you. I'm going now."

We trooped down the stairs in single file. "I'm just on my way," I said to Sally, on the doorstep. "I was collecting my mail." I waved the single envelope.

"It's fine," Sally said.

"I won't make a habit of this," I said.

"It doesn't matter at all," she said.

"That's fantastic," I said, as I moved past her. "I can honestly say, with complete sincerity, that you and Terry make a better couple than Terry and I ever did."

Her expression turned frosty. "What are you talking about? You don't know me at all."

"No," I said. "But I know me."

I stopped off on the way home at one of those mini-supermarkets that compensate for the wrinkled fruit and veg they keep out on the pavement by never closing. I got milk, a bottle of white wine and the ingredients for a basic salad. Back in Jo's flat I locked the door with the chain then threw the salad together. I was so tired that I'd gone beyond the desire to sleep. My eyes felt sore, my head buzzed, my limbs ached. I swallowed a couple of pills and washed them down with a gulp of cold white wine, then I ate the salad alone and in silence, trying to clarify my thoughts. I looked at the small pyramid of Jo's mail. There was nothing necessarily sinister about that. She might have invited me to flat sit while she was on holiday or working abroad or almost anything. I flicked through her letters. There were a few red letters. I didn't know if that meant anything. Jo might be the sort of person who always leaves bills until the last minute. Or she might just have forgotten. Or she might be arriving back from her holiday at any second. I decided to give it a couple of days and then I would start to find out about Jo. First I had to find out about myself.

I sat cross-legged on Jo's pine floor and arranged things around me. There was the Avalanche file, the mail I'd collected from Terry out of the bag. There were the phone messages from Carol, the receipts I'd found in the glove compartment of my car. I went to the bureau in the corner of the room and pulled it open. I took a pen from a mug with a London Underground map on in it. From a drawer I took a handful of white A4 paper.

What did I know about the days that I couldn't remember? I took one of the pieces of white paper and wrote "Lost Days' at the top. At the far right-hand side I wrote Tuesday 22 January. Right at the end of the day, just before midnight, I had collapsed on the doorstep of Tony Russell. How many days had I been held captive? Three? No, it must have been more than that. Four, five, six, maybe more. The last piece of information I was absolutely sure of was the evening of Tuesday 15 January when I had ordered a take away to be delivered to this very flat. I needed to fill in the days. What had I been doing? I knew I hadn't been seeing my friends.

A thought occurred to me. I went to the kitchen. I had to open a number of cupboard doors before I found the rubbish bin. An awful smell, sweet and rotting, hit me as I leant over it. But I forced myself to look into it. There were horrible things down there, mouldy, rancid, slimy, but no tin-foil containers left over from a take away meal. Which meant that the bin had been emptied at least once and then there had been enough time for more rubbish to be thrown into it. Which meant that Jo or I, or Jo and I, or someone else had been here for at least some time after the Tuesday. Unless the take away meal had been thrown directly into an outside bin. How likely was that?

My head hurt. Hadn't Robin said something about me phoning her to cancel our evening drink? I scribbled "Wednesday' in the margin of the page and put a question mark beside it.

I began with Carol's list of telephone messages. More than anything those scrawled reminders took me back to my old life, those urgent communications, brief responses. One by one, I crossed out the ones I recognized. At the end I was left with three I couldn't remember. One with no name beside it, but a phone number. One saying, "Pat called." Pat? I knew about twelve people called Pat, male and female. One of them I'd been at nursery school with. She had the loudest scream I've ever heard. The other message was 'a guy called'. Thanks, Carol.

I sat down again and selected another blank sheet of paper. I wrote "Things To Do' at the top of the page. My general motto in life was, when in doubt write a list. First I wrote, 'phone the numbers'. Under that I wrote: "Avalanche'. Laurence had said that after I had stormed out of Jay and Joiner's I had used up my own time to go and speak to people involved in the project, and encouraged them to complain. It was one of the only real clues I had to what I'd been doing during the lost days.

I opened the Avalanche file and took out the contact sheet on top. They were all familiar names, the people I'd been dealing with during those frenetic days at the beginning of January. I flicked through the file. I wrote down names, put some in brackets and underlined others. It made me tired just to think about the work I'd done.

I came to the accounts at the back of the file. I stared at the figures until they blurred. As if shapes were sliding out of a thick fog, I remembered some of the arguments I'd had with Laurence. Or, at least, I remembered why I would have had them: the shoddy behaviour of our company towards its sub-contractors, the creative accounting that had gone on under my nose. And then I remembered Todd.

Actually, Todd was a part of my life that I'd never forgotten, just pushed to the back of my mind. I had wondered afterwards if I should have seen the signs earlier. He had been running the Avalanche project. It was a hugely complicated task that needed a mixture of finesse and banging heads together. I had learnt very quickly that everybody on a job has a grievance against someone else and everybody has an excuse for their own failings. If you step too far in one direction, you provoke a revolt. Too far in the other direction and nothing gets done. Because Todd and I were using some of the same people I started to hear that the work was going slowly. Work always goes slowly. But if the builders say it's going slowly, they mean it's going backwards. I mentioned this a couple of times to Todd and he said it was all coming along fine. I started to feel something was seriously wrong and mentioned it to Laurence.

The next I heard was that Todd had been fired and that I was in charge of the Avalanche job. Laurence told me that Todd had apparently had a breakdown without telling anybody and that part of this meant that he had done absolutely nothing and that Jay and Joiner's was facing the prospect of litigation. I was appalled and said that I hadn't meant to betray Todd. Laurence said that Todd was a psychotic, that he needed medical help, but that the immediate problem was to save the company. So I walked into Todd's office and I worked solidly for forty hours. For a week after that I never slept for more than four hours a night. So if I was partly responsible for what had happened to Todd, then Todd was partly responsible for what had happened to me.

I wrote his name on the sheet of paper. I thought, then added a question mark. I'd consider that one. I drew a square around the question mark. I added more lines to make it look as if the question mark were inside a cube. I shaded the sides of the cube. I drew lines radiating from the cube to make it look as if the cube were shining or exploding.

Another thought occurred. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck. Underneath Todd' I wrote 'pregnancy test' and underlined it. I had had sex with someone and I clearly hadn't taken any precautions. Who with? I started to think of writing another list of potential candidates, but I had nobody to put on it. Which men had I definitely met during my lost week? Guy. Unlikely. The person who delivered the take away was probably a man. And, of course, there was him.

Next I started to write "What' and then stopped. I'd been thinking: What are you doing? And I'd started to write it automatically. But what was I doing? The idea of these forgotten dark days was horrible and it was somewhere in my brain tormenting me every second of the day and night. Sometimes I fantasized that that was what was causing the pain in my head. If I could fill in all the blanks, discover everything I had been doing, the pain would go. Was it worth putting myself at risk for that? And was I even at risk? Was he out there somewhere in London looking for me? He might have found me already. He might be outside Jo's flat right now, waiting for me to come out. Or I could be wrong about all this. The man might have vanished. He knew that I didn't remember how he'd first met me. I didn't know what he looked like. If he sat tight, he would be safe. He would be safe to go off and kill other women and forget about me. But could he feel sure?

I drew a large question mark around "What'. I turned it into a three-dimensional question mark, then shaded it. If I could prove that I really had been kidnapped .. . That was the best I could hope for. If I could find some piece of evidence, then the police would believe me and they would protect me and go and find the man and I could have a life again.

But what would that evidence be like? Where would I look? I decorated my giant question mark with a filigree of baby question marks that ran down its back, round its tail, back up along its stomach then up to its head until it was entirely surrounded by a cloud of fluttering bemusement.

Ten

I woke with a start and for a moment I couldn't remember where I was. The room was dark and there was no sound at all. I lay in bed and waited for memory to return. I waited to hear something; a sound in the blackness. My heart was hammering fast and my mouth felt suddenly dry. Then I heard it, a gentle shuffling outside. Perhaps that was what had woken me. But who was there, outside my window? I turned and looked over at my radio-alarm clock on the table. It was ten minutes to five, and cold.

I heard it again, the shuffling, scraping sound. I couldn't move, but lay pressed up against my pillow. It was difficult to breathe properly and my head hammered relentlessly. I let myself remember the hood and the gag, but then I pushed away the thought. I made myself get out of bed and go over to the window. I opened the curtains a crack and looked outside, through the flowers of frost on the glass. The newly fallen snow made everything brighter, and by the light of the street lamp I could make out a dark shape beneath me. A fat tabby cat was rubbing itself against the shrub by the front door, winding its thick tail round the dead leaves. I almost laughed in relief, but then it raised its head and seemed to gaze straight at me with its unblinking yellow eyes. A feeling of dread seized me. I looked down the street, dark between its puddles of orange light. It was empty. Then a car a few yards away started up; its headlights illuminated the street and I caught the glimpse of a shape in the distance. There were footprints in the new snow.

I let the curtains drop and turned away. I was being ridiculous, I told myself sharply. Paranoid. In London someone is always awake. There are always cars and cats and figures on the street. Whatever time I woke in the night I could press my face against the window and see someone standing there.

I climbed back into bed and curled up, wrapping my arms around myself. My feet were freezing and I tried to tuck them inside the rugby shirt to warm them, but they kept slipping out. After a few minutes, I got out of bed again and went to the bathroom. I'd seen a hot-water bottle hanging on the door. I boiled the kettle, filled it, took two pills for my head, then climbed back into bed. I lay there for a while, hugging the bottle against myself and trying to go back to sleep. Thoughts whirled round in my head, like a wild snowstorm, and tasks piled up in drifts: the phone calls I had to make, the names in the file I had to go to see, and I must try to find out where Jo was, find out more about her at least, and what about the bloody morning-after pill? Someone must know what on earth I'd been up to, and was I looking for one man or was I looking for two, and what if I was pregnant? I remembered my old life and it seemed very far away, like a picture behind glass, while this new life was sinister and insistent, and shifted whenever I looked at it.

The radiator crackled and hummed, and after a few minutes the edge was gone from the cold. Outside, through the chink in the curtain, I could see the darkness was beginning to lift. It was no good. I couldn't sleep any more. While I lay there, dread squatted on my chest like a great toad. To shift it, I had to get started on sorting things out. That was the only thing to do.

I had a bath, almost too hot to bear so that when I got out my skin was pink and my fingers wrinkled. I dressed in my baggy trousers and black hooded fleece and put on two pairs of socks. I made myself a cup of coffee, heating the milk for it. I boiled an egg, toasted a slice of the stale bread and buttered it liberally. I was going to look after myself. I made myself eat the breakfast at the table, dipping the toast into the yolk and chewing it slowly between gulps of milky coffee. Then I went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. I still got a mild shock when I saw myself, my naked white face. I wet my hair and combed it, so that it wasn't so tufty and brushed my teeth vigorously, watching myself as I did so. No makeup. No jewellery. Ready for action.

It was still only just past seven; most people would probably be still in bed. It was certainly too early to get a pregnancy-testing kit.

I'd do that later. I settled down with my pieces of paper, going through the lists I had made last night, adding notes to myself. I rummaged through drawers, looking for Blu-Tack. I didn't find any, but there was some Sellotape in a drawer full of screwdrivers, string, fuses and batteries. I stuck the pieces of paper along the wall, leaving gaps that I hoped to fill in later. It was oddly satisfying, a bit like tidying a desk and sharpening pencils before starting real work.

I wrote down the names and addresses of the men I planned to visit today. They were all names I knew well, and I assumed they were the men I'd gone to visit after I'd left Jay and Joiner's. I had phoned them, or their staff, daily during the last weeks at work and I knew we had mistreated them. Some of them I'd met, but that frantic period was a blur, a time of abstract urgency, as if I'd been moving too fast to see, or as if the amnesia had somehow oozed backwards. Perhaps, I thought, my memory loss is like ink spilt on to blotting paper. It has a central point of greatest darkness, and it gets gradually lighter as it spreads outwards, until finally the stain is imperceptible.

I looked up each address in the road map, planning my route and which person to go to first. I lifted the phone and started to dial the first number then put it down again. I should arrive unannounced. I had no advantage except unpredictability. I put on my woollen hat and drew it down low over my brow, I wrapped my stripy scarf round the lower half of my face and then I turned off all the lights, and drew the curtains in my bedroom, as they'd been before I arrived.

The long day yesterday, and the unsatisfactorily short night, had made me extra jumpy this morning. There was no back way out, so I had to use the front door. Just before opening it, I put on my dark glasses; now there was scarcely a strip of my face showing. I took a deep breath and marched out, into the blasting wind. It was the coldest day yet, a cold to scour the skin and ache in the bones. The parking ticket was still under iced wipers on my car but that didn't matter. Today I'd be using public transport.

Ken Lofting's shop wasn't open yet, but when I pressed my face to the glass doors I could see that the lights were on at the back. There didn't seem to be any kind of bell, so I pounded with my fist and waited. At last I saw a shape appear. The lights in the shop went on and when I say they went on, I mean they lit up in a dazzling display and suddenly it was like Christmas all over again and the bulky figure of Ken came walking ponderously towards me, frowning at my impatience. He didn't immediately open the door. He looked at me through the glass then recognition dawned slowly on his heavy, florid face. He unlocked one set of bolts, then the next, and pulled open a door. My mouth went dry with apprehension but I kept on smiling steadily at him.

"Abbie?"

"I just had my hair cut, that's all. Can I have a word with you?"

He stood back, still staring at me until I felt self-conscious. "I was hoping to see you," he said. I listened to his voice. Was the accent right? "You've been on my mind."

"I thought you'd be open by now," I said, glancing around nervously. The lamps and chandeliers and spotlights shone, but there seemed to be no one else here.

"In five or ten minutes' time."

"Can we talk?"

He stood aside and I stepped into the shop. He locked and bolted the door behind us. The sound made me shiver. I couldn't stop myself.

Ken isn't just any old electrician who puts wires behind skirting boards; he's a maestro. He's competent with wires but he's obsessed with lights the way light falls, the depth of its field, the quality of contrast. In his shop in Stockwell you can buy weird discontinued Norwegian bulbs, and he can spend hours discussing up-lighting and down-lighting and over-head lighting; sharp beams and soft diffusions. He often did. The lights we put into Avalanche's office were works of art. Each desk was brightly lit, and each individual office, but there were areas between that were more shaded. "Contrast," he'd said, over and over again. "You've got to have contrast, give shape and depth to a room, bring it to life. The golden rule is never make lighting flat and glaring. Who can live with that?" The Avalanche directors loved that kind of talk.

"Why were you hoping to see me, Ken?"

"First things first. Tea?"

"Lovely."

He made tea in his back office, which was full of cardboard boxes. I sat in the chair and he sat on a box. It was very cold in there, and I kept on my coat although he was in shirt-sleeves.

"Why did you want to see me?"

"Biscuit? Ginger nut?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks."

"To thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"For saving me from losing three grand, that's what."

"I did that?"

"Yep."

"How?"

"What?"

"Sorry, Ken. Bear with me. There's just some things at work that need clearing up."

He seemed satisfied with that. "You told me I'd been underpaid and I should make a fuss."

"And you did?"

"Oh, yes."

"When did I tell you, Ken?"

"It must have been the Monday morning. Early like this."

"Which Monday?"

"Well, the one three weeks back or so."

"Monday the fourteenth?"

He thought, then nodded. "That would be the one."

"And I haven't seen you since?"

"Seen me? No. Should you have done?" A little glimmer of comprehension appeared on his heavy face. "Do you want to have seen me for your company records, to make up the hours, is that it? Because I owe you, so you just tell me when you saw me and for how long."

"It's not that. I just want to clear up a muddle. Have I really not seen you since?"

He seemed disappointed. "No. Though I've been wanting to say thank you." He leant forward and put one hand on my shoulder. "You put your neck on the block for me, didn't you?"

I shuddered at that, then said, "So you're sure? Monday the fourteenth? You remember it clearly?"

"I remember you could hardly stay still for a single second, you were that angry." He laughed a bit chestily.

"You need to be opening up soon," I said. "I should go. You've been very helpful, Ken."

"Yes," he said. He didn't move from his box, but perhaps that was simply because he was a big, slow man. And he looked at me in a way that might have been entirely friendly. But I didn't know. Doubt crawled through my entrails.

"So maybe you could unlock the doors for me, please?"

He lifted himself up and we walked very slowly through the dazzling shop. He opened the doors and I was out into the cold day. There were beads of sweat on my forehead and my hands were trembling.

"Oh, no! What now? Something not working? Something gone wrong, something crashed? Some idiot who doesn't know how to use the system? I tell you this." He practically jabbed me in the chest with his forefinger. "I am not doing any work for your company ever again. I've already told your lot that. Not ever. Not if you went down on your bended knee. It's not worth it. First that man who looked like he was about to cry every time he saw me and then that blonde woman who seemed to have a rocket up her arse, pardon my language, even though she did turn out all right in the end. You've probably got rid of her, haven't you, just for having a sense of justice?" He was a skinny, hot-tempered man. I liked him at once.

"It was me who told you about being underpaid, Mr. Khan," I interrupted.

"No, no, no. No way I'm having that. It was her. The one with long blonde hair. Abbie something, that was her name. I've never met you."

Was it really true that he didn't recognize me? I took off my black woollen cap. His expression didn't alter. So I gave in and pretended to be someone else. Abbie's friend.

"When did you last see her?" I asked, trying to sound businesslike.

"Friday January the eleventh," he answered promptly.

"No, I mean when did you really see her?"

"I just told you."

"It won't get her into any more trouble than she's already in, Mr. Khan."

"So she is in trouble? I knew it. I told her she would be. She didn't seem to care at all."

"Did you see her afterwards?"

He gave a shrug and glared at me. I wanted to hug him.

"I'm Abbie's friend," I persisted. At any moment he'd recognize me and then he'd think I was fraudulent, malevolent or quite simply mad. "I'm on her side."

"That's what other people say too," he said.

What did he mean by that? Bewildered, I just stared at him and he continued, "All right, then. I saw her the next Monday. And then I went straight to my lawyers. She did me a big favour."

"Monday the fourteenth."

"Yes. If you see her, thank her from me."

"I'll do that. And, Mr. Khan

"What?"

"Thanks," I said. For a brief moment his expression wavered. He looked at me more closely and I turned away, putting the glasses back over my eyes and the cap back on my head. "Goodbye."

I had lunch in a warm, dimly lit Italian cafe in Soho. They gave me a table tucked into the corner, at the back. I could see anyone who came in, but felt invisible. The cafe was full of tourists. I could hear people speaking Spanish, French and German, just from where I was sitting. A shudder of happiness ran through me. I took off my coat, hat, scarf, dark glasses, and ordered spaghetti with clams and a glass of red wine. I ate slowly and spent nearly an hour there, listening to fragments of conversation, breathing in the smell of cigarettes, coffee, tomato sauce and herbs. I had a cappuccino and a slice of lemon cheesecake. My toes thawed out and my head stopped aching. I could do this, I thought. If I can find out what happened to me, make people believe it, if I can make myself safe again, then I can come to places like this and sit among the crowds and be happy. Just to sip a cup of coffee and eat some cake and feel warm and safe, that's happy. I'd forgotten about such things. I left the cafe and went and bought a pregnancy test.

I couldn't remember ever meeting Ben Brody before, though I'd been to his workshop in Highbury once. I made my way there now, through a fine icy drizzle. I could feel my nose the only bit of me that was exposed turning red again. His workshop was up a small alleyway off the arterial road. His name was on the door: "Ben Brody, Product Designer'. How do people become product designers? I wondered. Then I felt stupid. How do people become office-space consultants, for God's sake? It struck me what a ludicrous job I'd been doing. If I ever got through this, I could become a gardener, a baker, a carpenter. I could actually make things. Except I'm useless with my hands.

Ben Brody did make things. Or, at least, he made prototypes. He'd designed the office desks and chairs for Avalanche, and the screens that made the vast open space of the floor less intimidating. And we'd underpaid him then overcharged our clients.

I didn't knock. I just opened the door and went in. The large room was lined with workbenches. Two men were standing near the skeleton of a bicycle. There was a drilling sound from the far end. The place smelt of sawdust. It reminded me of the way Pippa smells when she wakes up and her crinkly pink face stretches and yawns. Sweet and woody.

"Can I help you?"

"Mr. Brody?"

"No. Ben's out the back." He jerked his thumb towards a door. "Doing accounts. Shall I fetch him?"

"I'll do it."

I opened the door and the man sitting at the desk looked up. I kept my woollen hat on but removed my dark glasses. In the dark little room, I could hardly see with them on.

"Yes?" he said. He stared at me. For a moment he looked as if he'd sucked on a lemon. He took off his glasses and laid them on the desk. He had a thin face, but I saw that his hands were large and strong. "Yes?" he said once more.

"You probably don't remember me. We've only met a couple of times. My name's Abbie Devereaux and I'm from Jay and Joiner's."

He looked at me blankly. "I haven't entirely forgotten you," he said. "What are you doing here?"

His manner was almost rude. I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. "I won't take up your time. I'm just trying to clear up some confusion with the office."

"I don't understand," he said. Indeed, he looked grimly baffled. "Why are you here?"

"I just want to sort things out." He just looked at me. I tried again. "There are some dates I don't understand, it's too complicated to go into the reasons."

"Too complicated?"

"Don't ask. You don't want to know, I promise. I just wanted to ask you when we met. The last time we met."

The phone rang behind him, and he swivelled round in his chair to pick it up. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "Rubber. No. No. That's right." He put the phone down and turned back to me. "You came here on Monday, three weeks ago, to tell me about concerns you had with the Avalanche contract."

"Thank you," I said. The back of my neck prickled for I was starting to feel that I recognized his voice. Not the tone of it, something about the intonation maybe. I dug my nails into my palms. "You're quite sure I came on that day?"

"Yes," he replied, in imitation of me. "It's too complicated to go into the reasons, but I'm quite sure."

I felt myself flushing. I got up and he stood too.

"I'm sorry to have taken your time," I said formally.

"Not a problem," he said. "Goodbye. And I hope you get better soon." "Better?"

"Yes. You've been ill, haven't you?" "I'm all right now," I said hurriedly, and left.

I had not seen Molte Schmidt, the plumber, on the fourteenth, but I had called him on the phone. I had been very helpful, he said.

I must have had quite a day of it on that Monday, I thought -and then it occurred to me that in fact today was its replica and I was playing Grandmother's Footsteps with myself.

I quite enjoyed my twenty minutes with Molte because he was young and beautiful and friendly, with long hair tied back in a pony-tail and startling blue eyes. And because, as he told me, he was half Finnish and half German, and had an extremely thick accent.

And here, in the half-dusk, was my final stop of the day. The thin drizzle had turned to spitting snow, which flickered down out of the grey sky. But the lights were all on in the greenhouses and when I entered I smelt resin and heard running water. Occasionally a wind chime jingled in a gust of air.

It was like stepping out of my world and into another dimension. The greenhouse wasn't vast, yet a panoramic view was spread before me, as if I could see for miles and miles. There were trees everywhere, old and beautiful, with twisted trunks and spreading boughs. I bent down and touched one delicately.

"Chinese elm," said a voice behind me. "Over a hundred years old."

I straightened up. Gordon Lockhart was stocky and balding. He was wearing bright red braces over a thick blue jersey.

"It's an indoor plant," he continued. "This one," he pointed to a tiny tree with leaves the colour of flame, 'that's a Japanese maple. Outdoor, except we've brought it in for winter."

"It's lovely," I said. "God, it's odd and lovely here. Peaceful."

"It is," he said. "I come in here and I step off the dirty, noisy street and I'm in another world. An ancient forest in the middle of London. See here, that's a banyan tree. See those aerial roots."

"Lovely," I repeated. "Like a dream."

"Take your time. It's not easy to choose the tree that's right for you. Or is it for a gift? Very popular gift, especially for weddings and anniversaries."

"I've really come here to ask you something," I said. "I think we've met before."

"I meet a lot of people."

"I'm from Jay and Joiner's. You provided twenty bonsai trees for the Avalanche offices at Canary Wharf. I think I came here to tell you that you should charge more for your labour."

"Abbie? Abbie Devereaux? You've cut off all your nice hair."

"Yes."

"I got more money out of them. And I gave you a present, if I remember rightly."

"Yes," I repeated, remembering nothing, not wishing to offend him. My head buzzed. Behind me, water gurgled like laughter. I said, "It was a Chinese elm, wasn't it?"

"An elm, because you wanted it for the inside, you said. Ten years old, as I recall. Nice fat trunk already. You said it was a present."

"A present," I repeated. "Yes. It was a perfect present. Well, I just came here to ask you if you could remember when we met. The date, I mean."

It turned out we'd met twice, on the Monday and then on Wednesday the sixteenth. I felt winded and elated at the same time. I had leapt two days on in my schedule. I thanked him and then, on an impulse, I bought the banyan tree. I could give it to Jo when we met.

Eleven

As I approached Jo's flat with the banyan tree, I saw that my car had been clamped. Apart from the original ticket, there was now a large sticker on the windscreen telling me not to try to move it. It also gave the phone number I had to call to get it released, on payment of a large amount of money. I felt in my pockets but I couldn't find a pen. The car hardly looked worth releasing. I'd deal with it some other time. At least I knew where it was for the moment.

I had more important things to do. The pregnancy-testing kit I had bought was on special offer, so that was some good news. Fifteen per cent off. First there was much fumbling with my cold, trembling fingers to get the polythene wrapper off. I looked at the end of the box. The expiry date was 20.04.01. That was why I had got it cheap. It was nine months past its sell-by date. Did this matter? Once it was past the expiry date, did it start getting the results wrong?

I went into Jo's bathroom and ripped open the inner wrapper. I pulled apart an object that looked like a pen with a giant felt-tip at the end. I looked at the instructions on the box. "Hold the pink urine absorber in your urine stream for at least one second." That was no problem. I replaced the stick in the cartridge. I looked at the instructions. "Now wait four minutes before reading the result." Four minutes. An irritating amount of time. After I'd pulled my knickers and trousers up, I didn't have long enough to go and do anything. I stared at the three holes. They duly went pink. Now I just had to wait for the pink to go away in the middle window. Who designs something like that? A man, probably. Someone like that Ben guy at the design company. What a way to earn a living. I could imagine all the meetings that had been held to decide on the optimum shape. I had spent the last couple of years going to meetings like that. I rotated it so that I couldn't see the window. It was an obvious scientific fact that if I continued to look at the pink stain in the middle window, then it would be unable to fade away and I would be pregnant.

It was possible. I had looked in my diary and found my period had been due around 24 January, when I was in hospital. Today it was Friday 1 February, so I was a week overdue. Of course, that might have been because I'd been practically starved for several days, and continuously terrified out of my wits. The body is quite wise. But what if I was pregnant? I devoted a huge psychological effort into not trying to imagine what that would be like. Obviously, putting an effort into not thinking about something is like having a hippopotamus in your living room and trying not to look at it but I only had to do it for about two minutes, or maybe even one minute. You probably didn't need the full four minutes, so I turned the cartridge round and I wasn't pregnant. I checked the package again just to make absolutely sure I was right. I was right.

I opened a bottle of Jo's wine to celebrate. With my first sip I wondered if this was wrong. The next day I would buy some wine to replace it. I still felt guilty and I thought of those red-edged bills. Men would be coming soon to cut off her gas, electricity and phone. I was living in the house. I had to take some responsibility. For all I knew I might have arranged with Jo to run the house while she was away. I imagined her coming through the door and finding a pile of unpaid bills and me sitting in the kitchen disposing of her wine. I topped up my glass really topped it up, almost to the rim and went to take responsibility for Jo's mail.

In the end, there really wasn't much to deal with. Once I'd thrown away the envelopes, then winnowed out the magazines, the catalogues, the offers of insurance, the invitations to events that had already taken place, there was not much more than a handful of letters that were really for her. There were the bills: phone, gas, electricity, credit card. I flicked through. They were all very small. No problem. I did a rough calculation in my head and concluded that it would be less than a hundred pounds to pay the lot of them. I'd even pay her credit-card bill, since that added up to a measly twenty-one pounds. Among her other talents, Jo clearly had a Zen Buddhist control over her finances. No store cards For the rest there were three letters with handwritten addresses and two postcards. I didn't look at these, just propped them up on the mantelpiece.

The phone rang. I didn't answer. I'd thought about this and in the end I'd given Jo two more days. If she hadn't returned by then, I would start intercepting calls. In the meantime, I left the answering-machine on and listened as, every few hours, a friend left a message. Hi, I'm Jeff or Paul or Wendy, call me.

I went to sleep thinking of who I needed to see next. He was almost the last person I wanted to meet. Almost.

Todd Benson was visibly surprised to see me on his doorstep. I hadn't phoned ahead, but I thought he'd probably be home. "Abbie," he said, as if he was confirming that it was me, or hoping it wasn't.

"Carol gave me your address," I said. "I just rang her and told her I was coming to see you at home. To check if it was all right." That was untrue. "I was in the neighbourhood, I thought I'd drop by for a word."

That was untrue as well. Todd lived in a basement flat in a smart square just south of the river. It was a tube journey and a fairly hefty walk. I had got Todd's address out of the file and I had said nothing to Carol about coming to see him, or anything else. Pretending I had made me feel a bit safer.

Todd shrugged and asked me in. I thought he'd either be very rude to me or very depressed, but he was just polite. He asked me if I wanted some coffee then made it while I stood and looked at him.

In a grey T-shirt, purple tracksuit bottoms and moccasins, he wasn't exactly dressed for the office. The last trace of Jay and Joiner's was his designer spectacles, so thick-framed they looked like welder's glasses. He handed me a mug of coffee and we stood together, awkwardly, in his kitchen. I held it in both hands they were still cold from the northerly wind outside.

"You look worse than I do," he said.

"I've had a bit of a bad time," I said. "I went on leave."

to8

"Like me," he said.

I wasn't sure of the extent to which he was joking. "Sort of," I said warily. "That's not why I'm here. Somebody attacked me."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Nobody's been caught. I was quite badly hurt and one result of that is that I've got very vague memories of the last few weeks."

He sipped his coffee. "I don't take pleasure in that," he said.

"Well, of course you don't," I said, alarmed rather than reassured.

"I don't feel any anger against you."

"I'm sorry about what happened'

"No," he interrupted. "You did me a favour. I think I went mad."

"I'm not sure'

"In the last weeks I was almost outside my body looking at myself as I laid waste to my life. You see I've always wanted to be a success, and to a certain extent I've always been a success. I've been thinking about it in the last couple of weeks and I've come up with an answer. I felt that people would only love me if I succeeded. Love was a reward for achievement. I think that I needed to make a complete fuck-up in order to make a total separation between my work life and my emotional life. It's me who should apologize to you. I put you in the position of having to do my dirty work for me. So I'm sorry, Abbie, I'm so sorry."

And standing there in his own kitchen, Todd cried until his face shone with tears. I put my coffee mug on his kitchen table. I wasn't going to hug Todd, I just wasn't. It would be hypocritical. On the other hand I couldn't just stand there. So I took a couple of steps forward and put my hand on his shoulder. The problem was quickly resolved because he threw his arms around me and held me tight to him, sobbing. One side of my neck was wet with his tears. It was impossible for me to avoid some sort of reciprocal embrace. I didn't give him a full hug. I moved my arms round and gave him not much more than a light tap on his shoulder-blades.

"Todd," I said feebly. "I'm sorry about this."

"No, no, Abbie," he sobbed. "You're really a good person."

I slightly increased the pressure of my hug then eased myself free. I went over to his sink and tore off" a bit of paper towel. I handed it to him and he blew his nose and dabbed his face with it. "I've been doing a lot of thinking," he said. "It's really been a positive time."

"That's good," I said. "I'm glad about that. But if it's all right with you, I'd like to talk to you about what I was saying about these really vague memories of the last few weeks. For example, I remembered nothing at all about taking time off from Jay and Joiner's. What I'm doing is talking to people I know and seeing if they can tell me anything about that time. Stuff that I've forgotten." I looked Todd in the eyes. "Some people might say that we parted on pretty bad terms. I wondered if we had any contact after you .. . well, left."

Todd rubbed his eyes. His face was puffy and red. "I felt pretty bad for a few days," he said. "I was bitter. I felt I'd been shafted. But then, as I thought about it, I felt different. By the time you got in touch I was fine."

"Got in touch? What do you mean?"

"You rang me."

"When was this?"

"Two, three weeks ago."

"I mean, exactly."

Todd stopped and thought. He ran his hand over his stubbly hair.

"It was one of the days I go to the gym. They kept up my membership, you know. That was good. So it must have been a Wednesday. Afternoon."

"Wednesday afternoon, right. What did I say?"

"Nothing much. You were being nice. You rang me to ask if I was all right."

"Why?"

"Because you were being nice. You said you had things on your conscience and you wanted to sort them out. I was one of them."

"Did I say anything?"

"You talked about your time off. You told me about the Avalanche job. You were lovely. You sounded happy. I mean in a good way."

I stopped for a minute, thinking, going over the lost days in my head. Then I looked up at Todd. "You mean there's a bad way of being happy?"

I rewrote my "Lost Days' very neatly, underlining dates. It went something like this:

Friday January 11: showdown at Jay and Joiner's. Storm out.

Saturday January 12: row with Terry. Storm out. Go to Sadie's for night.

Sunday January 13: leave Sadie a.m. Go to Sheila and Guy. Meet Robin for shopping spree and spend too much money. Meet Sam for drink p.m. Go back to Sheila and Guy's.

Monday January 14: see Ken Lofting, Mr. Khan, Ben Brody and Gordon Lockhart. Phone Molte Schmidt. Fill car with petrol. Phone Sheila and Guy to say not coming back for night.

Tuesday January 15: go to Sheila and Guy and leave note saying found somewhere to stay. Collect stuff from there. Phone Terry and arrange to collect stuff next day. Book holiday in Venice. Order Indian take away p.m.

Wednesday January 16: buy bonsai tree. Phone Robin. Collect stuff from Terry's. Phone Todd.

Thursday Tanuary 17:

But Thursday was a blank. I wrote, in capital letters, 'morning after pill', and then I wrote jo'. I made myself coffee and then I stared at my piece of paper and let it grow cold.

Twelve

As long as I had things to do, I was all right. I just had to keep busy, keep myself from thinking, from remembering, for then memories engulfed me like icy waters and I was back in the dark, and eyes were staring at me, fingers touching. No. I mustn't go there.

I tackled the fridge first, throwing out all the old food and wiping down the shelves. Then, of course, I had to do a shop to refill it. I walked to Camden high street, where I went to the bank and withdrew 250 from my account, which was shrinking rapidly with no immediate prospect of being replenished. Then I bought satsumas, apples, salad stuff, cheese, coffee and tea, milk, bread, butter, eggs, yoghurt, honey, two bottles of wine, one red and one white, six bottles of wheat beer, some crisps and olives. I didn't get any meat, because maybe Jo was a vegetarian. I got washing powder as well, and toilet paper. Even though I felt precarious and strange in Jo's flat, I was making myself at home there lying in the bath, washing my clothes, adjusting the central heating, cooking myself comforting meals, lighting candles as the dark closed in. But I was always waiting for a key to turn in the lock and for Jo to walk through the door. And I was always fearing that she wouldn't. She was like a ghost in her own home and she haunted me.

I staggered back there now, weighed down by plastic bags that bit into my gloveless fingers. I had to stop every now and then to rest and get a firmer grip. At one point, a man came up and offered to help me as I stood bent over the bags, getting my breath back.

"I'm fine," I snapped, and watched the benign expression on his face fade.

Back in the flat, I took three envelopes from Jo's desk, and put fifteen pounds into one, for Terry, fifty-five into another, for Sheila and Guy, and a further ninety into the third, for Sam. Later, I promised myself, I'd make a pilgrimage, paying off my debts and saying thank you.

It occurred to me that I should report my mobile phone missing; I should have done it immediately. I started to dial a number, but another thought clamped itself round my guts and I banged down the phone hurriedly, as if it might bite me.

I went outside again and walked up Maynard Street, then down another road, until I came to a public phone box that was working. Inside, it smelt of piss and the booth was covered with cards offering massages and very strict French lessons. I inserted twenty pence and dialled. It rang three times, and was picked up.

"Hello?" I said.

There was no answer, but I could hear breathing at the other end.

"Hello, who is this, please? Hello. Hello."

The breathing went on. I thought about wheezy laughter in the darkness, a hood, hands lifting me off a ledge on to a bucket. Suddenly, the realization of what I was doing winded me. I managed to stutter out, "Can I speak to Abbie, please?"

The voice at the other end a voice I didn't know whether or not I recognized replied, "She isn't here now." Sweat trickled down my forehead and the receiver felt slippery in my hand. The voice continued, "I can say you called. Who's speaking?"

"Jo," I heard myself say. I was going to be sick. Bile rose in my throat.

The line went dead. I stood for a few seconds, holding the phone in my hand. A man on crutches stopped outside the booth and tapped on the glass with the end of one of them. I put the receiver down, pushed open the door and ran back to the flat as if someone was chasing me. I'd put the bag of stuff I'd taken with me when I left the hospital the clothes I'd been found in, and the few odds and ends I'd picked up while I was there inside the wardrobe. I rummaged through it now, and to my relief found the card that Inspector Cross had given me. I dialled the number and he answered immediately.

It wasn't much fun talking to Cross again. He had been embarrassed and quite sympathetic at our last meeting at the hospital. Or perhaps compassionate is the right word but it was a compassion that had made me feel ill with rage and shame and terror then, and even now gave me a queasy feeling. I said I had something urgent to tell him, but that there was no way I could set foot in the police station, and could he come to me. He said that it was probably better anyway for him to see me when he was off-duty, which made me feel that I was illicit business. We arranged for him to come to the flat shortly after five in the afternoon.

The conversation lasted for about one gruff minute and when I put the phone down I felt so strange that I took two pills, drank a tumbler of water then went into my room and lay on the bed for a few moments, face down and eyes shut.

Had I spoken to him? I didn't know, but the sensation that I'd felt in the phone booth the kind of feeling you have in a nightmare just before you jerk awake, a sensation of falling, of wheeling through the darkness had been so strong that even now I felt dizzy and appalled.

I had two hours before he came. Two hours is a long time when you feel ill with dread and loneliness. I poured myself a glass of wine, then poured it down the sink before I could drink it. I made myself a piece of toast and spread it with Marmite. When I'd finished that, I spooned yoghurt into a bowl and stirred in some honey. It was soothing. I finished off with a large cup of tea. I decided to change my clothes. I should wear something understated and respectable something that would make me look rational and sane, not a woman who'd go around making up stories about being grabbed and held underground by a murderer. I picked out some beige trousers and a cashmere V-necked sweater the outfit I used to put on for meetings with the financial department.

The trouble is, I wasn't the same person any more. My clothes still hung off me, making me look a bit like a child dressing up in adult things. My haircut was emphatically spiky and short, and neither its colour nor its style went with cashmere and smartly creased beige. I stared at myself in the mirror, nervously dissatisfied.

In the end, I put on an old pair of jeans, with a belt to keep them up, and a red flannel T-shirt that I'd found hanging in the cupboard, though I had no recollection of buying it.

I wondered about my mobile phone. Should I cancel it, or should I leave it, knowing that perhaps the person who now had it was him? I couldn't decide. In my mind, it was an invisible thread stretching between us. I could snap it or I could try to follow it -but was I following it out of the labyrinth, or back in again?

I examined the pieces of paper that I had stuck to the wall. At the very earliest, I had been grabbed on Wednesday late afternoon or evening. Where did that get me? Nowhere. I called Sadie, just to say hello, really, just to hear a friendly voice from a life that seemed to have gone, but she was out and I left no message. I thought about calling Sam, or Sheila and Guy, but didn't. Tomorrow; I'd do it tomorrow. I went to the window and stood there for a few minutes, just gazing out idly at the people who walked by. Perhaps he knew where I was, because perhaps this was just where I'd been before. Was I hiding in the only place he knew to look?

I didn't know what to do with myself until Cross arrived. I needed to keep busy, to keep on the move, to give myself urgent tasks and unmissable deadlines, to persuade myself that I was one step ahead of him. I wandered into Jo's room. It was very well ordered. I opened her chest of drawers and everything was folded neatly. Even her knickers were laid out, one pair on top of another. I opened the square leather box on her chest of drawers and looked at the few pairs of earrings, the thin gold necklace, the brooch in the shape of a fish. There was a square piece of white card as well; when I turned it over it had a four-leafed clover Sellotaped to it. I looked at the books on her bedside table. There was a Thai cookbook, a novel by a man I'd never heard of, and an anthology of 101 Happy Poems.

There was a video as well, with a blank label. I went back into the living room and inserted it into the video-machine. Nothing, just a blank. I pressed the fast-forward button. A blurred shoulder appeared, then the camera jerked to a leg. It was obviously a home video made by a first-timer. I leant forward and waited.

I saw Jo's face, half smiling. It gave me the most peculiar sensation. Then the camera moved backwards and she was standing in the kitchen, by the oven, stirring something, looking back at the camera and making a face at whoever was behind it. She was wearing the dressing-gown that was hanging on the back of her bedroom door, and her moccasin slippers. Maybe it was morning, or late in the evening, it wasn't possible to tell. The screen went blank again, then fuzzy. A few lines ran down it, and then, suddenly, I was looking at me. Me before it happened. I was sitting cross-legged on the armchair, and had a glass of wine in my hand. I was in a pair of sweatpants, wearing no makeup, and my hair my old, long hair was piled up on top of my head. I was grinning. I raised my glass in a toast and blew a kiss. The camera moved towards me until my face went out of focus.

The screen was blank for a few minutes, and then I was watching a black-and-white film, with a woman in a plumed hat riding a horse side-saddle. I reeled fast forward, but the film just went on until the credits. I rewound and stared once more at Jo's smiling face. Then at mine again. I looked happier than I could remember having been for a long time. I put my fingers up to my cheek and found that I was crying.

I turned off the television, ejected the video, and put it back in Jo's room, on her book of happy poems. I saw that on top of her wardrobe there was a video camera, as well as a pair of binoculars and a tape-recorder. In the living room, the phone rang twice, before it was picked up by the answering-machine. After a pause a voice said, "Hi, Jo, it's me. Just checking about tonight. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume it's still on." He didn't leave a name. Somewhere, someone would be waiting for Jo to turn up; a friend, or a lover. On an impulse, I dialled 1471, but couldn't find out the caller's number. He was probably phoning from an office.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again, and I picked it up at once.

"Hello?" I said.

"Jo?" said the voice at the other end. Then, before I had time to answer, it gathered in strength and anger. "Jo, it's Claire Benedict.

As you probably know, I've left dozens of messages by now and you haven't replied, but'

"No, it's-'

You realize that your work should have been sent to the printers by now."

"Listen, this isn't Jo, it's a friend. Abbie. Sorry."

"Oh. Can you tell me where Jo is, then? As you probably gathered, I urgently need to contact her."

"I don't know where she is."

"Oh. Well, when you see her can you tell her I called? Claire Benedict of ISP. She'll know what it's about."

"Yes, but that's the thing. She seems to have just disappeared. When was she supposed to have delivered her work?"

"Disappeared?"

"Well, maybe."

"She was due to give us her formatted text by Monday the twenty-first of January, at the latest. She never said she was having a problem finishing it. She just went quiet on us."

"Was she usually reliable?"

"Yes. Very. Look, are you serious about her being missing?"

"I'll let you know what happens, OK? Give me your number."

I scribbled it down on the back of one of the unopened envelopes, and put the phone down.

Then the doorbell rang.

For a startled second, I thought Cross was someone else. I'd only seen him in a suit, with his hair neatly brushed, and an inscrutable air about him. Now he was in worn brown corduroys, a thick jumper, and a padded blue jacket, whose hood was pulled up over his head. He looked as if he should be out in the garden, poking a bonfire. Or playing with his children. Did he have children? But his frown remained the same.

"Hello," I said. I stood back to let him in. "I appreciate this."

"Abbie?"

"My new look. Don't you like it?"

"It's certainly bold."

"It's my disguise."

"I see," he said, looking uncomfortable. "You're looking better anyway. Healthier."

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

"All right." He looked around. "This is a nice place you've got yourself."

"I'm not quite sure how I got it."

Cross looked puzzled but didn't pursue it. "How have you been?" he asked instead.

"Scared shitless." I poured water over the tea bags, keeping my back to him. "Among other things, of course. But that's not why I asked to see you. I've got some new information. Do you take sugar?"

"One, please."

"I should offer you a biscuit but I don't think there are any. I could make you some toast."

"I'm fine. Have you remembered something?"

"It's not that." I handed him the tea and sat down opposite him, in my armchair. "The thing is, well, there are two things, really. First, I think I've just talked to him."

His expression didn't alter. "Him?" he said politely.

"The man who grabbed me. Him."

"You say you talked to him."

"On the phone."

"He rang you?"

"No. I rang him I mean, I rang my mobile phone, because it's gone, and someone answered. I knew at once. And he knew I knew."

"Let me get this straight. You rang the number of your lost mobile phone, and someone answered and you're now saying that the person who answered is the person who you claim grabbed you."

"I don't claim," I said.

Cross sipped his tea. He looked rather tired. "What was his name, the man who answered?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask well, he wouldn't have told me, and

I felt all of a sudden so very terrified. I thought I was going to keel over. I asked to speak to myself."

He rubbed his eyes. "Oh," was all that he managed to say.

"I didn't want him to know it was me, but I think he did anyway."

"Abbie, mobile phones get stolen all the time. It's a crime epidemic'

"And then he asked me who was calling, and I said, "Jo."

"Jo," he repeated.

"Yes. You see, this flat belongs to someone called Jo. Josephine Hooper. I must have met her, but I can't remember that. I just know I moved in here when she was here too. In that week, just before I was grabbed and held prisoner." I said this last fiercely. He just nodded and looked into his tea. "And that's the second thing: she's gone missing."

"Missing."

"Yes. She's gone missing and I think the police should take it seriously. I think it may have something to do with what happened to me."

Cross put his mug of tea down on the table between us. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a large white handkerchief. He blew his nose loudly, folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. "You want to report her missing?"

"She's not here, is she?"

"You say you can't remember meeting her?"

"No."

"Though you're living in her flat."

"That's right."

"Presumably this woman has family, friends, work colleagues."

"People keep ringing up. I've just spoken to someone she was doing a job for. She was some sort of editor, I think."

"Abbie, Abbie," he said, infuriatingly, as if he were trying to calm me down. "In what sense is this woman missing?"

"In the sense that she's not here and she should be."

"Why?"

"She hasn't paid her bills for a start."

"If you haven't met her, then how the hell did you come to be here?"

So I told him. I told him about Terry, and the car in the pound, and the receipt and the key; about the rotting garbage, the dead flowers, the cross publisher shouting down the phone. My story didn't sound as authoritative as I'd expected it to, but I didn't falter. I ended with the video footage of Jo and myself.

"Perhaps you're flat-sitting for this woman you can't remember," he said.

"Maybe."

"Perhaps she asked you to deal with the rubbish and the bills."

"I have dealt with them."

"There you are."

"You don't believe me."

"What's there to believe?"

"She's gone missing."

"Nobody's reported her missing."

"I'm reporting her missing now."

"But .. . but.. ." He seemed baffled and unable to find the right word. "Abbie, you can't report someone missing if you don't know anything about who they are or where they're meant to be or anything."

"I know," I insisted. "I know something is wrong."

"Abbie," he said gently, and my heart sank. I forced myself to meet his eyes. He didn't look irritated or angry, but grave. "First you reported yourself missing, with no evidence. Now you are reporting Josephine Hooper missing." He paused. "With no evidence. You're not doing yourself any favours, Abbie."

"So that's it, is it? But what if I'm right and she's in danger, or worse?"

"I tell you what," he said kindly. "Why don't you let me make a couple of calls to establish if anyone else has expressed concern over her disappearance? All right?"

"All right."

"May I use your phone?"

"Jo's phone. Go ahead."

I left the room while he was making his calls, went into Jo's bedroom again and sat on her bed. I very badly needed an ally;

someone who would believe in me. I'd called Cross because I thought in spite of everything that had happened he might be on my side. I couldn't do this on my own.

I heard him put down the phone and went back to join him. "Well?"

"Someone has already reported Josephine Hooper missing," he said.

"See?" I said. "Was it a friend?"

"It was you."

"Sorry?"

"You did. On Thursday January the seventeenth, at eleven thirty in the morning, you rang the Milton Green station."

"There you are," I said defiantly.

"Apparently, she hadn't even been gone for a full day then."

"I see."

I did see I saw several things at once: that Cross wasn't going to be my ally, however nice he was trying to be to me; that in his eyes, and perhaps in the eyes of the world, I was hysterical and obsessed; and that I had still been free on Thursday, January the seventeenth. Jack Cross was chewing his lip. He looked concerned but I think he was mainly concerned about me.

"I'd like to help," he said. "But.. . look, she's probably in Ibiza."

"Yes," I said bitterly. "Thanks."

"Have you gone back to work?" he asked.

"Not as such," I said. "It's a bit complicated."

"You should," he said. "You need some purpose in your life."

"My purpose is to stay alive."

He gave a sigh. "Yeah, right. If you come across anything I can really deal with, call me."

"I'm not mad," I said. "I might seem mad to you, but I'm not."

"I'm not mad," I said to myself, as I lay in the bath with a flannel over my face. "I'm not mad."

I put my baggy jeans and red T-shirt back on and wrapped my hair in a towel. I sat cross-legged on the sofa, with the television turned up loud. I hopped through channels. I didn't want silence this evening. I wanted other faces and other voices in the room with me friendly faces and voices, to make me feel I wasn't so all alone.

Then the doorbell rang again.

Thirteen

There was no need to be frightened. Nobody knew I was here except Cross. I opened the door.

Instantly I knew that I knew him and at the same time I just couldn't think where the hell I'd seen him before.

"Hi," he said. "Is Jo .. . ?" And then he recognized me and he saw that I recognized him and he looked completely baffled. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

I responded by slamming the door. He made a feeble attempt to push against it but I pushed hard and it clicked shut. There was a shout from the other side. I put the chain across and leant against the door, panting. I remembered where I'd met him now. It was Ben Brody, the designer. How had he tracked me down? They only had my office number and my mobile. I'd told Carol definitely not to give out my address to anyone. Anyway, she didn't have this address. Terry didn't know either. Nobody knew. Could I have been followed? Could I have left something behind that gave a clue? He was knocking at the door. "Abbie," he said. "Open up."

"Go away," I shouted. "I'm going to call the police."

"I want to talk to you."

The chain looked solid enough. What could he do to me through the six-inch-wide gap? He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and no tie. On top of that was a long grey coat that hung down below his knees.

"How did you find me?"

"What do you mean how did I find you? I came to see Jo."

"Jo?" I said.

"I'm a friend of hers."

"She's not here," I said.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know."

He looked more and more confused. "Are you st&ying here?"

"Obviously."

"So how come you don't know where she is?"

My mouth opened but I couldn't quite think of what to say. Then, "It's a complicated story. You probably wouldn't believe it anyway. Did you have an appointment to meet Jo?"

He gave a short, snappy laugh, and looked to either side as if he couldn't quite believe that he was having this conversation. "Are you her receptionist? I'm tempted to say that it's none of your business but.. ." He took a deep breath. "A couple of days ago I was due to meet Jo for a drink and she never showed. I left a couple of messages and she never got back to me."

"Exactly," I said. "That's what I told the police."

"What?"

"I tried to report Jo missing but they didn't believe me."

"What's going on here?"

"She might be on holiday," I continued incoherently.

"Look, Abbie, I don't know what it is you think I'm going to do, but could you let me in?"

"Can't we talk like this?"

"I suppose we can. But why?"

"All right," I said. "But we'd better be quick. A detective is coming to see me in a few minutes."

That was another of my feeble attempts at self-protection.

"What about?"

"To take a statement."

I unfastened the chain and let him in. He seemed remarkably at home in Jo's flat. He took off his coat and tossed it on to a chair. I removed the towel from my head and rubbed my hair with it.

"Are you and Jo ... you know?" I said.

"What are you talking about?"

"You seem quite at home here," I said.

"Not as at home as you are."

"I just need somewhere to perch."

He looked at me. "Are you all right?"

I gave an inward silent groan.

"I know that the all-purpose answer to the question "are you all right?" is "I'm fine". But the short answer is, no, I'm not all right. And the medium-length answer is, it's a long story that you don't want to bother about."

Ben walked into the kitchen area, filled the kettle and plugged it in. He took two mugs out of the cupboard and placed them on the counter. "I think I deserve to hear the long version," he said.

"It's really long," I said.

"Do you think you've got time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before your detective gets here."

I mumbled something unintelligible.

"Are you ill?" he said.

That reminded me. I extracted a couple of pills from the container in my pocket and swallowed them with a gulp of water from the tap. "I get these headaches still," I said. "But that's not really it."

"So what is really it?"

I sat at the table and put my head in my hands for a moment. Sometimes if I could find the right position for my head the throbbing eased a little. I heard a clattering sound. Ben was making tea. He brought the two mugs across to the table. He didn't sit down. He leant on the arm of Jo's big chair. I sipped at the tea.

"I've become this version of the Ancient Mariner. I trap people in corners and tell them my story. I've started to wonder whether there's really any point. The police didn't believe me. The more I tell it, the less I believe it myself."

Ben didn't reply. He just looked at me.

"Don't you have a job to go to?" I said.

"I'm the boss," he said. "I can come and go when I want."

So I gave him a faltering, fragmented version of my story. I talked to him about my problems with Jay and Joiner's, some of which he knew about because he had been on the edge of them. I told him about walking out on the job and walking out on Terry. Then I took a deep breath and told him about waking up in that cellar, wherever it was, and those days underground and the escape and the days in hospital and not being believed and being ejected back into the world.

"To anticipate your first question, the one thing I can be really sure about is the bang on my head." I touched it, just above my ear, very delicately. It still made me flinch. "So if the bang could erase bits of my life, maybe it could add bits as well. Do you know, I've never actually said that aloud before? I've thought it, late at night, when I wake up and my blood sugar is low and I think about dying. Maybe if you had an accident and banged your head badly, that might very well be the sort of hallucination you'd have. You might fantasize about being trapped underground and a voice talking to you out of the darkness. Don't you think?"

"I don't know," said Ben. He looked dazed. "What a nightmare."

"Perhaps I was mugged somewhere or run over. I might have just been lying somewhere for a few hours. Have you ever had dreams like that? You seem to be living for years, you grow old and then you wake up and it's been a single night. Have you ever had dreams like that?"

"I don't remember my dreams."

"That's probably a sign of psychological good health. But I do. You know that when I was there, if I was there, I slept and I had dreams and I remember those dreams as well. Lakes, floating in water, a butterfly on a leaf. Does that prove anything? Is it possible to go to sleep and have a dream, and then in that dream go to sleep and have another dream? Is that possible?"

"I design taps and pen holders I don't know much about psychology."

"It's neurology. I know. I've been seen by a psychologist and by a neurologist. The neurologist was the one who believed me. Anyway, that's my story. I've got this bit missing from my brain and I'm going around to see people who probably think I'm insane trying to fill in the gaps. At the same time I'm taking elaborate precautions to hide from someone who probably isn't looking for me. Did you ever do that as a child? You'd play a game of hide and seek and you'd find the most brilliant hiding place. You'd be there for ages, feeling triumphant at first and then bored, and you'd gradually realize that everyone else has given up the game. And furthermore I've got this feeling that I'm just babbling away like a lunatic and you're just standing there being strong and silent and not saying anything. You were wondering where Jo is and you were wondering what I was doing here. Well, I don't know where Jo is and I don't know what I'm doing here, so you can go back to your workshop now."

Ben came over and took my mug and walked over to the sink with it. He washed up my mug and his own and laid them upside down on the draining-board. He looked around for a dishtowel. But there wasn't one and he had to shake the water off his hands.

"I think I know what you're doing here," he said. "At least, I know how you met Jo."

"How?"

"I introduced you to her."

Fourteen

For a moment I felt a wave of excitement as another space of my terra incognita was mapped but it quickly became a sickening lurch. "What are you talking about? Why should you have done that? You didn't seem to know that when you arrived. You were as flabbergasted to see me as I was to see you."

"I was," he said. "But that must have been what happened." He paused. "Are you serious? Do you really have no memory of meeting her?"

"I just watched this video that we must have made together of me and her. We seemed to be getting on. I seemed happy. I wish I could remember it. I could do with some happy memories. But, no, I'm sorry, there's nothing there. How did you introduce us? Why?" Ben started to reply and then hesitated. "You're wondering whether to believe me, aren't you? That's great. The police and the doctors don't believe I was abducted. Now you don't believe that I can have lost my memory. Soon I'll probably meet people who don't believe I'm really Abbie Devereaux. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm just impersonating her. It may be a delusion. Maybe I'm really Jo and I'm hallucinating this person called Abbie."

Ben made an attempt at a smile but then he looked away from me as if he was embarrassed.

"So I met her on Monday?" I said.

"Tuesday," he said. "Tuesday morning."

"I thought you said before that we met on Monday. I'm sure you did."

"You came back on Tuesday," he said vaguely. "With more questions."

"Oh. And Jo was at your workshop?"

"We went and had a coffee down the road, in a cafe not so far from here that she goes to regularly. She was on her way to some appointment, I think. I introduced you. We talked for a bit, then I had to run off. If you want me to reconstruct your conversation, I suppose you told her about needing somewhere to stay. She must have said you could stay here. So there's one mystery solved. Nothing sinister."

"I see."

"And you think she's missing?"

"I told this detective I ... I sort of know. He thinks I'm mad. Well, not mad-mad, of course, but wrong. I hope I am too. I don't know what to do. And for some reason I feel responsible for her. Every time I look up and see her photograph, I feel terrible that I'm not doing more. When I was in that place, a prisoner, I kept thinking that people I knew, my friends, would be looking for me and making a great fuss and worrying all the time, and that kept me going. I had to believe it, it was crucial to feel I was alive in people's thoughts, and one of the worst things about coming back again was to realize that no one had missed me at all."

"I think' He tried to interrupt.

"No one had noticed I wasn't around, or if they'd noticed it didn't matter much. It was as if I was invisible. Had died. I mean, it wasn't their fault in the slightest, I know that they're good friends and I think they love me, really, and I'd have done the same in their place. I wouldn't notice if someone wasn't around for a few days -why should I? We come and go in each other's lives, don't we? But I just mustn't do that with Jo. Because I know what it feels like. But I don't know what to do not to do that, if that makes sense. And I'm talking too much and I have this horrible feeling that if I stop talking I may burst into tears."

I stopped and Ben leant forward and put a hand on my arm. I instinctively jerked away.

"Sorry," he said, sounding as if he meant it. "It must make you jumpy, having a strange man in your flat. I should have thought."

"Kind of, I mean I'm sure that .. . Look, I'm like a person stumbling about in the pitch black, if you see what I mean, with my hands outstretched, trying not to fall off the edge. If there is an edge to fall off anyway. Sometimes I think there's some kind of glimmer at the edge of my vision, and I look round and it goes away. I just keep hoping I'll come into the light again but I don't. Without my memory, it's as if I've lost my map, I'm blundering about and bumping into things, and it's not just that I don't know where I am, I don't know who I am. What is there that's left of me? Especially when other people don't know whether to-' I stopped abruptly. "I'm gabbling again, aren't I?" He didn't answer. He was staring at me in a way that made me nervous. "What was I like when we met before?"

"What were you like?" He seemed not to understand the question.

"Yes."

"Your hair was longer."

"Well, I know that since it was me who had it cut, but what did I seem like to you? What kind of state was I in?"

"Um." He looked uncertain and awkward for a moment. "You seemed quite animated."

"What did we talk about? Did I tell you anything?"

"Work," he said. "Problems at work."

"Is that all?"

"You said you'd just left your boyfriend."

"I said that to you?"

"You explained that you were of no fixed address, so you only had a mobile if I needed to call you on business."

"Anything else? Did I talk about people I'd met recently? Had I met someone else? Did I tell you?"

"Not exactly," he said. "But I thought you had. At least, I got that impression."

"You see, I'm thinking maybe the person I met was, you know, him."

"Him?"

"The man who grabbed me."

"I see," he said, standing up. "Tell you what, shall we go and have a drink? You'll probably feel safer with me in a crowd."

"All right," I said.

"Come on, then." He picked up his coat from the chair.

"Nice coat."

He looked down at it, almost with surprise, as if it were an unknown coat that had been put on him without his knowledge. "It's new."

"I like those long floppy coats."

"They're like long cloaks," Ben said. "The sort that people used to wear a couple of hundred years ago."

I frowned. "Why does hearing that make me feel peculiar?"

"Maybe you agree."

The pub was reassuringly crowded and full of the fug of cigarette smoke.

"I'm buying," I said, and fought my way to the bar.

A few moments later, we were sitting at a table, with beer and a packet of crisps between us.

"I don't know where to begin. You're Jo's friend, right?"

"Right."

"Does she go away a lot?"

"It depends. She does different projects for different publishing companies trade mags, things like that and some of them involve research. There was one I remember for a children's encyclopedia and she had to write brief paragraphs about British trees, so she went around visiting three hundred yews, things like that."

"And she's reliable?"

"Usually very. She depends on her editing work to make ends meet."

"Does she stand you up much?"

He looked thoughtful. "As I said, she's reliable."

"So, she's not here and she should be. She's not on holiday or anything. Something's wrong."

"Maybe not," Ben said quietly, staring into his beer. "She might have gone away somewhere to finish her work. She did that sometimes. Her parents own a cottage in Dorset. Very quiet, no interruptions

"Can you call her there? Have you got a mobile on you?"

"No interruptions, including no phone."

"What about her mobile?"

IOI

"I've called that number several times already."

"Oh."

"Or she might be with her parents. Her father's ill. Cancer. Perhaps he's got worse. Have you tried them?"

"I didn't know about them."

"And then she's got this on-off boyfriend, Carlo. The last I knew it was off, but maybe it's on again and she's there. Have you tried him?"

I took a deep breath. Was I all right? "No," I said. "I didn't know about him. Or, at least, I don't remember knowing about him. But she would have told you, if you were going to meet her."

He shrugged. "I'm just her friend. Friendships can be put on the back burner."

"Sometimes."

"Jo gets depressed," he said slowly, frowning. "I mean, really depressed, not just down. I thought she was coming out of it." He finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. "I'll go back to the flat with you and we can call the people who are close to her Carlo, her parents and find out if they've heard from her." He put his hand in the pocket of his coat and fished out a phone. "Use this. Ring someone, a friend, a colleague, the police, whatever. Say you're with me. Then we can go and make those calls."

"This is kind of you .. ." I began.

"It's not kind. Jo's my friend."

"I don't need to make the call," I said, while a voice inside me said, "Oh, yes, you do, you stupid, stupid, stupid woman."

"Suit yourself."

On the way back, I told him how I'd found Jo's flat because of the receipt and key in the glove compartment of my car.

"It was in the police pound," I said. "I had to pay over a hundred pounds to retrieve it, and now it's got a bloody clamp on it. Look." I pointed, then gawped. It wasn't there any more. There was just a space where it had been. "It's gone. It's bloody gone again. How is that possible? I thought the whole point of a clamp is you can't move it."

"It's probably back in the pound." He was trying not to smile.

"Shit."

I opened a bottle of wine. My hands were shaking again, so it took ages to pull out the cork. Ben dialled a number, listened, then spoke. He was clearly not talking to Jo's mother. He put the phone down and turned to me. "That was the woman who dog-sits for them. They're on holiday and won't be back until the day after tomorrow."

I poured him a glass of wine but he didn't touch it. He put on his glasses, opened the telephone directory and flicked through it.

"Carlo? Hi, Carlo, it's Ben, Ben Brody .. . Yes, that's right, Jo's friend .. . What? No, I haven't seen her lately, I was rather wondering if you .. . No, no, I won't tell her that from you. No."

He replaced the phone and turned to me. "Apparently it's off with Carlo. He wasn't in a very good mood."

"So what do we do now?" I said, then noticed the 'we' and took a hefty gulp of wine.

"Have you got anything to eat? I'm starving. Jo and I were meant to be going out for a meal tonight."

I opened the fridge door. "Eggs, bread, cheese. Lettuce. Pasta, I guess."

"Shall I make us scrambled eggs?"

"I'd like that."

He took off his coat and his jacket, and found a pan in the large cupboard, a wooden spoon in the top drawer. He knew where everything was. I sat back and watched him. He took a long time over it; he was very methodical. I drank another glass of wine. I felt exhausted, rather fragile, and a bit drunk. And I was fed up with being scared all the time, of always being on my guard. I couldn't do it any more.

"Tell me what Jo's like," I said.

"Hang on, one piece of toast or two?"

"One. With lots of butter."

"Here we are."

ICM

I sat at the kitchen table with him and we ate our scrambled eggs in silence. I drank some more wine.

"She's quite shy until you get to know her," he said, after his last mouthful. "Self-reliant. Frugal. She only buys what she needs. Never go shopping with her. She takes ages choosing the tiniest thing then has to compare prices in different shops. Neat, she hates disorder. Better at listening than talking. What else? She grew up in the country, has a younger brother who lives in America and is a sound engineer, is pretty close to her parents, has lots of friends, though usually sees people one-to-one. She doesn't like big groups."

"What about her relationship with this Carlo?"

"Hopeless, really. He's just a young idiot." He sounded harshly dismissive, and I must have looked a bit surprised, because he added, "She could do better. She should meet someone who adores her."

"We should all do that," I said, lightly.

"And she's a depressive, I'd say. She has terrible low patches when she can hardly get out of bed. Which is why I'm worried."

It was late. My day lay behind me like a long, laborious journey -Todd, that spooky telephone call, Inspector Cross, now this. Ben saw me give a giant yawn. He stood up and took his coat from the arm of the sofa. "I should go," he said. "I'll be in touch."

"Is that all?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, she's still missing, isn't she? More missing than ever. So what's next? You can't just leave it like that, can you?"

"No, of course not. I thought I should drive to the cottage in Dorset. I've been there before and I think I can remember where it is. If she's not there, I'll phone around her friends. Then if nothing comes of that, I'll go and see her parents. After that well, I guess I'll go to the police."

"I'd quite like to come with you to the cottage. If that's all right." I hadn't known that I was going to say that. The words came out in a rush, and he turned a surprised face to look at me. "When are you thinking of going?"

"Well, now."

"You mean, right this minute? Drive through the night?"

"I might as well. I'm not tired, and I haven't drunk much. And I've got an important meeting tomorrow afternoon, so I can't go tomorrow. And you've made me anxious."

"You don't hang about."

"You don't really want to come, do you?"

I shivered and looked outside, at the cold darkness. I didn't want to, but I didn't want to be here either, lying in bed bathed in my sweat, my heart thumping in my chest, my mouth dry, just waiting for it to be light again when unbearable fear became manageable. Looking at the clock. Falling asleep but then jerking awake a few minutes later. Listening for noises and scared by the wind. Thinking of Jo. Thinking of me. Of him in the darkness, watching me.

"I'll come," I said. "Where's your car?"

"Outside my house."

"Where's your house?"

"Belsize Park. A couple of stops on the tube."

"Let's get a cab." I couldn't bear the idea of being underground tonight. I'd had enough scares for one day.

"OK."

"I'll go and put some warmer clothes on. And this time I will ring someone, to tell them who I'm with and stuff. Sorry."

Fifteen

As far as I could tell in the darkness, Ben Brody lived in a nice house, just near a park. The street was wide and lined with tall trees that waved their empty branches in the lamplight.

"Why don't you just wait in the car while I grab a few things? You look all in."

He opened the car door and I climbed into the passenger seat. It was freezing, and the windows were frosted over. It was a very empty, tidy car, just a box of tissues and a road atlas on the floor. I huddled up in my thick jacket, blew curls of breath into the icy air and waited. A light went on in the upstairs room of Ben's house, then a few minutes later it went off again. I looked at the clock on the dashboard; it was nearly two. I asked myself what I was doing there, in the deep of the night, in a part of London I'd never set foot in before, in the car of a man I didn't know. I couldn't come up with an answer that made any sense at all, except that I'd reached breaking point.

"We can go now."

Ben had opened the door. He was dressed in jeans, a thick speckled jumper and an old leather jacket.

"What've you got there?"

"A torch, a blanket, some oranges and chocolate for the journey. The blanket's for you. Lie on the back seat and I'll cover you up."

I didn't protest. I clambered over and lay down and he draped me in a thick blanket. He started the engine and turned up the heating. I lay there with my eyes open as we slid away. I saw street lights flick by; tall buildings. Then I saw stars, trees, a distant aeroplane in the sky. I closed my eyes.

I slept and woke through the long drive. At one point I surfaced to hear Ben droning some songs to himself that I didn't recognize.

Another time I struggled into a sitting position and looked out of the window. It was still dark and I could see no lights in any direction. No other cars passed us. Ben didn't say anything, but he passed me a couple of squares of chocolate that I nibbled slowly. Then I lay down again. I didn't want to talk.

At half past five we stopped at a garage for petrol. It was still dark, but I could see a smudgy greyness on the horizon. It seemed colder than ever, and I could make out snow on the hilltops. Ben came back carrying two polystyrene cups of coffee. I climbed over into the front seat, dragging the blanket with me, and he handed one to me. I wrapped my hands around its warmth.

"White, no sugar," he said.

"How did you guess?"

"We had coffee before."

"Oh. How far is it?"

"Not long now. The cottage is a mile or so from a village called Castleton, on the coast. Take a look on the map if you want it's on the floor by your feet. I may need you to guide me a bit."

"Do you think she'll be there?"

He shrugged. "You always have dark thoughts in the early hours of the morning."

"It's starting to get light now. You must be tired."

"Not so bad. It'll hit me later, I expect."

"In the middle of your meeting."

"Probably."

"I can drive if you want."

"I'm not insured. You'll have to talk to keep me awake."

"I'll do my best."

"We passed Stonehenge. I nearly woke you. But we'll go back the same way."

"I've never seen it."

"Really?"

"It's amazing the things I haven't seen. I've never been to Stonehenge, or to Stratford, or to Hampton Court or to the Tower of London or to Brighton pier. I've never been to Scotland. Or the Lake District, even. I was going to go to Venice. I'd bought the tickets and everything. When I was in a cellar with a gag over my mouth, I should have been setting off for Venice."

"You'll go one day."

"I suppose so."

"What was the worst thing?" he asked, after a pause.

I looked at him and he looked ahead, at the road and the rolling hills. I took a sip of coffee. I thought about saying that I couldn't talk about it, then I thought that Ben was the first person I had met since I ran barefoot from captivity who wasn't looking at me with an expression of wariness or alarm. He wasn't treating me as if I was pitiable or deranged. So I tried to answer. "I don't know. I can't say. Hearing him wheeze and knowing he was there beside me. Thinking I couldn't breathe and was going to suffocate, going to drown inside myself. It was .. ." I tried to come up with the right word '.. . obscene. Maybe just the waiting in the darkness and knowing I was going to die. I tried to hang on to things so I wouldn't go mad not things from my own life, because I thought that would be a further way of tormenting myself, of going insane with loneliness and terror. Just images, really, like I told you before. Beautiful pictures of the world outside. I still think of them now, sometimes, when I wake in the night. But I knew I was getting stripped away, bit by bit. I was losing myself. That was the point -or, at least, that's what I think the point was. I was going to shed all the bits that made me into me and in the end I'd just be this ghastly object gibbering on a ledge, half naked, dirty and ashamed." I stopped abruptly.

"Why don't you peel us both an orange? They're in the bag between us."

I peeled two oranges and their aroma filled the car. My fingers were sticky with the juice. I handed him his, segment by segment. "Look," he said. "There's the sea now."

It was silver and empty and still. You could hardly tell where the water ended and the dawn sky began except to the east, where the sun cast a pale light.

"Tell me where I should be turning off," he said. "It must be about now."

We turned right, away from the sun, along a small road that descended towards the coast. Then left again, along an even smaller road.

"It's just about here, I think," Ben said, peering ahead.

There was a closed gate and a small track. I got out of the car and opened the gate, waited till Ben had driven through, then closed it again.

"Do Jo's parents come here much?"

"Hardly at all. He's too ill, and it's not very luxurious. So they're always glad to have people use it. It's pretty basic, no heating or anything, and beginning to get rather run down. But from the bedroom you can see the sea. There it is."

The cottage was tiny and grey-stoned. It had thick walls and small windows. Tiles had blown off the roof and lay smashed around the front door. It looked shabby and neglected.

"There's no car here," said Ben. "No one's here."

"We should go and look, anyway."

"I guess so." He sounded dispirited. I opened the door and got out, and he followed. Our feet crunched over the icy grass. I went up to a window and pressed my face against it, but could see little. I rattled the door, but of course it was locked.

"We have to get inside."

"Is there any point? You can see no one's been here."

"You've just driven for four hours to get here. What shall we do? Break a window?"

"I could try getting up to the upstairs window," he said dubiously.

"How? And, anyway, that looks all locked up as well. Why don't we just break the window that's cracked? We can get it repaired later."

Before he had time to object, I took off my scarf, wrapped it round my fist, and punched hard and fast against the cracked pane, bringing it back quickly as soon as I felt the impact so that I didn't cut my wrist. I felt rather proud of myself- it was just the way they do it in movies. I picked out the remaining shards of glass and laid them in a pile on the grass. Then I opened the window from inside.

"If I stand on your back, I can climb through," I said to Ben.

TOO

But instead, he put his large hands round my waist and raised me up to the window. The memory of being in the cellar, gripped and lifted down from the ledge, was so powerful that for a moment I thought I would gag or start screaming hysterically. But then I was through the window in an undignified scramble and inside the kitchen. I turned on the lights, noticed that the fireplace was full of wet ashes, and let Ben in through the front door.

In silence, we checked the whole house. It didn't take long -there was just a bedroom and a box room upstairs, a kitchen-living room and a lavatory and shower downstairs. The bed was not made up. The heater for the water was not turned on. The place was chilly and deserted.

"It was a fool's errand," said Ben dully.

"We had to do it."

"Maybe." He prodded the ashes with the toe of his boot. "I hope she's all right."

"I'll buy you breakfast," I said. "There must be somewhere, by the sea, where they do warm food. You need to have a rest and something to eat before you drive back."

We got into the car and drove through Castleton, which only had a post office and a pub, to the next small town. We found a little cafe that was probably full of tourists in the summer months but now was empty. It was open, and they did English breakfasts. I ordered the "Special' for both of us sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and fried bread and a large cafetiere of coffee.

We ate the greasy, comforting food in silence.

"We should go if you're going to be in time for your meeting," I said, after the last mouthful.

We didn't talk much on the way back. There was more traffic on the road, thickening as we approached London into a slow crawl of cars. Ben kept glancing at the clock worriedly.

"You can leave me at an underground station," I said, but he drove me to the front door and even got out of the car and saw me to the door.

"Bye," I said awkwardly. Our long journey together already seemed unreal. "Let me know what happens, will you?"

"Of course," he said. He looked tired and despondent. "I'll talk to her parents as soon as they're back from their holiday. I can't do anything else till then, can I? And maybe she's with them."

"I hope your meeting goes well."

He looked down at his clothes and attempted a smile. "I don't really look the part, do I? Never mind. Goodbye." He hesitated as if he was about to say something else, then changed his mind, turned and got back into his car.

Sixteen

I didn't know what to do with myself for the rest of the day. All my plans had petered out and there didn't seem to be any other trails to follow. I had a bath, washed my hair, did my laundry. I played back the messages on the answering-machine. There was only one new one. I opened my laptop and checked for emails. There was one, warning me about a computer virus.

I prowled around the living room, looking at my lists tacked to the wall and trying to focus on what I actually knew. I had been grabbed either on the Thursday evening or on the Friday, Saturday or Sunday. My mobile was being answered by a man. I had had sex with someone. I came to a decision: every time someone rang, I would pick up the phone and speak to them. I would open all her mail. I would try to contact her friends.

I started with the mail. I took the letters I'd left propped up on the mantelpiece and slit them open one by one. She was invited to take part in a time-share in Spain. She was asked to rewrite an educational textbook about the Gunpowder Plot. She was invited to a school reunion. A friend she hadn't seen for years wanted to get back in touch. Another friend sent a newspaper clipping about the pros and cons of Prozac - I wrote down her name and phone number on a scrap of paper, and the phone number of the man who'd sent her an estimate for a new boiler. I looked at the postcards, but they were just scribbles from foreign holidays or thank-you notes.

Then I went through all the messages stored on the answering-machine. I'd already talked to her editor. Few of the callers had left their last names or their numbers. I rang someone called Iris, who turned out to be Jo's cousin, and had a confused conversation with her about dates. She had last seen Jo six months ago. I rang the woman who'd sent the Prozac cutting. Her name was Lucy, she'd known Jo for years, through all her ups and downs. She had seen her on New Year's Eve, when she'd thought Jo had been subdued but more in control of her life. No, she hadn't heard from her since and, no, she had no idea of her plans. She started to sound worried, and I said it was probably fine, not to worry. The boiler-man was out and I left a message on his machine.

I went to Jo's computer, on her desk in the corner of the room, and turned it on. I looked at the files, and wondered if I should call her publisher to say that I was pretty sure that the project she'd been working on for her was here. I clicked on her mailbox and scrolled down the more recent emails. I considered sending out a standard message to all the people in her address file, asking if they had heard from her, but decided to wait for a day or two.

Ben had said Jo was a private person, and I'd invaded that privacy pretty thoroughly by now. I hoped she would understand. He had also said that she was neat. I decided I'd better have a thorough clean-up. I washed the plates we'd used the night before, scrubbed down the bath, put things away. I looked around for the vacuum cleaner and found it in the tall cupboard near the bathroom, along with a cat-litter tray and some unopened cat food, and a black bin-bag which, when I inspected it, had skiing stuff in it. I vacuumed my room and hers. The washing-machine had finished its cycle, so I hung clothes out on radiators. I made myself another cup of coffee, though I was already feeling twitchy with caffeine and strangeness. I put on some music and sat down on the sofa, but I was restless. Then I heard someone downstairs, shutting a door, and it struck me that I hadn't even done the obvious thing of asking Jo's neighbours when they'd last seen her.

I finished my coffee and went out of the flat and round to the ground-floor entrance. I rang the bell and waited. The door opened a crack and one eye peered out at me.

"Hello, I'm Jo's .. .Jo's flat mate Abbie, and I .. ."

The door opened wide. "I know who you are, my love. Jo introduced us. Remember? Peter. You said you'd visit me but you never did, did you?"

He was a tiny old man, much smaller than me. I wondered if he'd shrunk with age or if he'd always been the size of a pre-pubescent schoolboy. He wore a yellow jersey that was -unravelling at one sleeve, a checked scarf round his thin neck, and slippers. He had a small amount of grey hair and his face was crumpled and grooved. "Come inside," he said. I paused. "Come on, don't stand outside, come inside. I can make us tea. Sit down. There. Don't mind the cat. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You'll want biscuits too, I dare say. Sugar? Do you take sugar? You've been rushing around, haven't you? I've seen you come and go. I've got the time to notice these things."

The room was very hot and scrupulously tidy. Books lined the walls. He had all of Charles Dickens in leathery-looking hardback. I sat on the squashy leather sofa and took the tea he was holding out. The cat twitched in its sleep; it looked like the fat tabby I'd seen out of my window. "Thanks, Peter. Lovely. Remind me, when did we meet?"

"Wednesday," he said promptly. "The day you arrived. I happened to come out on to the pavement, just for a breath of air, when you were taking all your things in and Jo introduced us. I said you should visit if you ever felt at a loose end. But you didn't. And then you went away, of course."

"When was that? When did we go?"

"Lost your memory, have you?" He laughed cheerily. "I haven't seen you both around. Been on holiday together, have you?"

"Not exactly."

"Is Jo back too? Nice girl, Jo. Ever so helpful. She took me to the hospital when I fell over and broke my leg. And came and visited me. No one else did, but she came and she brought flowers."

"She's not back yet," I said vaguely.

"I'm eighty-six," he said. "Do I look it?"

"No," I lied.

"My mother lived until she was ninety-five. Ninety-five and then suddenly, one day, boom. She was gone. I still miss her. Silly, isn't it? I'm an old man and I think about my mum every day. I still have her hairbrushes, you know, lovely silver hairbrushes with ivory backs and real horsehair bristles. You don't get things like that nowadays. And her napkin ring, silver with her name on the inside. Pretty."

"That tea was just what I needed. Thanks a lot."

"Are you going already? Without a biscuit?"

"I'll come again soon."

"I'm usually here."

I was in a deep sleep having a dream in which a fire alarm went off. I couldn't see where the fire was and I couldn't see where the fire exit was. I was paralysed by this ignorance. If I had known where the fire exit was, I could have headed for it. If I'd known where the fire was, I could have run away from it. The fire bell rang again and woke me up. Dimly and stupidly I realized it was the doorbell. I reached for my dressing-gown. My eyes wouldn't open. That was the first problem. They felt as if they were glued together. I pulled the lids apart on one as if I were peeling a grape but even so I had to get myself to the door virtually by touch. Even sleepwalking I made sure that the chain was fastened. I opened the door and the face of a young police officer appeared in the gap. "Miss Devereaux?" he said.

"What time is it?"

He looked at his watch.

"Three forty-five," he said.

"In the morning?"

He looked behind him. It was grey and cloudy but very obviously daytime. My mind began to clear. "If it's about the car," I said, "I was planning to get it. It got a ticket, and then it got clamped. I've kept meaning to do something about it but I've been busy. You don't want to know."

He looked blank. "I'm not here about a car," he said. "Can we come in?"

"I want to see identification."

He sighed and passed a thin leather wallet through the door. As if I could tell a genuine police identification. "You can probably buy these on the Net," I said.

"I can give you a phone number to call, if you're still concerned."

"To some friend of yours sitting in a bed sit somewhere."

"Look, Miss Devereaux, I've been sent by DI Cross. He wants to talk to you. If you have some problem with that, could you take it up with him personally?"

I unlocked the door. There were two of them. They wiped their feet noisily on the doormat and removed their caps.

"If Cross wants to talk to me, why isn't he here?"

"We've come to collect you."

I had an impulse to say something angry but at the same time I felt relief. Finally Cross was coming to me. I wasn't the one creating trouble. Five minutes later I was in a police car heading south. When we stopped at traffic lights, I saw people staring in at me. Who was this woman sitting in the back of a police car? Was she a criminal or a detective? I tried to look more like a detective. When we crossed the river, I looked out of the window and frowned. "This isn't the way," I said.

"DI Cross is at the Castle Road station."

"Why?"

There was no answer.

Castle Road was a shiny new police station with lots of plate glass and coloured tubular steel. We drove round to the back and then I was led in quickly through a small door by the car park and up some stairs. Cross was in a small office with another detective, a middle-aged, balding man who offered me his hand and introduced himself as Jim Burrows.

"Thanks for coming," said Cross. "How are you doing?"

"Is this about Jo?"

"What?"

"Because I drove down to Dorset and she isn't at the cottage where she normally stays. Also, I've talked to this man who knows her and he's rung other people who know her and nobody knows where she is."

"Right," said Cross, looking at Burrows uneasily. It was a see-what-I've-been-talking-about kind of look. "But there's something else I wanted to ask you. Please sit down." He gestured me to a chair in front of the desk. "Do you know a woman called Sally

Adamson?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Who is she?"

"Have you been in touch with Terry Wilmott?"

I suddenly felt a current of cold nausea run through my whole body. It started at the top of my head and ran down to the tips of my toes. Something bad had happened.

"I went round to collect some mail a couple of times." A thought occurred to me. "Sally. Is that his girlfriend?"

"His girlfriend?"

"I don't know exactly what the situation is. I've run into her a couple of times. She was arriving as I left. I don't know her second name. I don't know if they're actually together. But I think Terry is one of those people who is psychologically incapable of not being in a relationship. I mean, when we first met.. ." And then I stopped. "Has something happened?"

The two men looked at each other and Burrows stepped forward. "She's died," he said. "Sally Adamson. She was found dead last night."

I looked from one man to the other. I had about fifty questions to ask, so I started with the stupidest one. "Dead?"

"That's right," said Cross. "And there's something else. Her body was found under a hedge just inside the front garden of number fifty-four Westcott Street. Strangled, by the way. This wasn't natural causes."

I shivered. Suddenly I felt cold. "Terry lives at number sixty-two," I said.

"Yes," said Cross.

"Oh, God," I said. "Oh, my God."

"Can we get you something?" Cross said. "Some coffee?"

I shook my head. "It's a nightmare," I muttered. "It keeps on getting worse. Dear God. Oh, poor Sally. But what do you want me for?" Cross didn't answer. He just looked at me and then more realization battered its way into my tired brain.

"No," I said. "No and no and no. There's lots of crime around there. A woman on her own, at night, leaving the flat. She could easily be mugged."

Cross walked across the office to a table in the corner. He returned carrying something in a clear plastic bag. He laid it down on Burrows's desk. "Sally Adamson's purse," he said. "Which we found in Sally Adamson's shoulder-bag, lying next to her body. It contains forty-five pounds in cash. Two credit cards. Several store-cards. It was untouched."

"No," I said, more to myself than to the two officers. "No. It doesn't make any sense. Does Terry know?"

"Terence Wilmott is downstairs," said Jim Burrows. "My colleagues are talking to him at the moment."

"What's he saying?"

"Not much. He has his lawyer with him."

"You don't seriously think .. . ? You can't .. ." I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes. Perhaps I could go to sleep and when I woke up this would all have faded away, like a dream breaks up into vague, half-remembered images.

Burrows cleared his throat and I lifted my head and looked at him. He picked up a typed piece of paper from his desk and looked at it. "On at least three occasions in November and December last year, you phoned the police about your boyfriend."

"That's right," I said. "And they didn't do anything about it. They didn't believe me."

"What did he do?"

"There was nothing complicated about it. Terry gets depressed. He gets angry. He gets drunk. Sometimes he lashes out."

"He hit you?"

"Look, if you think for a single minute that Terry would murder a woman'

"Please, Miss Devereaux, we can talk about your opinions later but first can you answer our questions?"

I shut my mouth in what was meant to be an eloquently contemptuous way. "All right," I said.

"He hit you?"

"Yes. But-'

"Slapped you?"

"Yes."

"Did he strike you with a closed hand?"

"You mean a fist? Once or twice."

"Do you mean just once or twice or that there were one or two occasions on which he used his fists against you?"

I took a deep breath. "The second. It happened a couple of times."

"Did he ever use a weapon of any kind?"

I threw up my arms in a wild sort of gesticulation. "This is all wrong," I said. "These yes and no questions aren't right. It was all messier than that."

Burrows moved closer to me, spoke quietly. "Did he ever threaten you with anything? Such as a knife?"

"I guess so, yes."

"You guess so?"

"Yes. He did, I mean."

"Did he ever hold you around your neck, with his hands or his arm?"

And then I took myself by surprise. I started to cry and cry, helplessly. I fumbled for a tissue but my hands didn't seem to be working properly. I didn't even know why I was crying. I didn't know whether it was because of the wreckage of my life with Terry. Or whether it was because of the fears I had for myself. And then there was Sally. Sally whose second name I hadn't known. I tried to picture her face and couldn't. She was a woman I had probably wished ill towards, if I had thought anything about her at all, and now she had had ill done to her. Did that make me in a small but definite way responsible?

When I came round from my fit of howling, I saw that Cross was standing there holding a paper cup in each hand. He handed me one. It was water and I drank it down in a gulp. The other was coffee, hot and strong, and I sipped at it.

"I want you to make a statement," he said. "If you feel able." I nodded. "Good. We'll bring in an officer and we'll go through it."

So, for the next two and a half hours, I drank cup after paper cup of coffee and I talked about all the things in my relationship with

Terry that I had wanted to forget. People say that to talk about your bad experiences is therapeutic. For me it was the opposite. I'm a person with good friends, but I'd never talked to them about Terry, not about the worst of it. I'd never spoken the things, never named them. Somehow when I said them aloud, they came alive there in Jim Burrows's office, and they frightened me.

For many months I'd simply thought of myself as being in a relationship with problems, where every so often things got out of control, where we had difficulty communicating. It sounded quite different when I put it into words. The woman typing out what I said was a young uniformed officer. But when I described the evening when Terry, drunk out of his skull, picked up a kitchen knife and waved it at me and then pushed it against my throat, she stopped typing and looked up at me, her eyes wide. He didn't mean it, I said. He would never have done anything to hurt me. WPC Hawkins and Burrows and Cross looked at me and at each other and they didn't bother to say the obvious, which was that he had hurt me and who was I trying to fool? Did I have a problem? Was I a natural victim? As I told the story, I began to wonder about the woman who had put up with this for so long. And I thought about the woman I couldn't remember, the woman who had said enough was enough and walked out.

I tried to imagine Sally Adamson, the woman who had told me that we weren't alike, lying cold in a cold front garden. And then I thought of her lying there dead, with Terry's semen inside her, and then I felt so ashamed that my cheeks burned and I thought that Cross would know the terrible thing that had been passing through my mind. I asked who had found her. It was the postman. I thought of her being found by a stranger while the people who knew her and loved her didn't know she was dead. I also started to think: Could Terry really have done this? And if he had, oh, God, if he had, what did that mean about me and my story? No one else had believed me, but until now, I had believed myself. It was all that I'd had to stop me going insane.

Seventeen

When I had finished my statement, I felt as if I had been flayed. The story I'd told was true in all its details, and yet, in a confused way, I felt it wasn't the story I had meant to tell. I felt I needed to add something important to it but I was just too tired. Cross looked through it with occasional nods, like a teacher marking some homework and finding it barely adequate. I signed the statement three times and then WPC Hawkins took the small bundle away. I was thinking about what I was going to do when Cross said he would drive me home. I protested that he didn't have to bother but he said he was going in that direction anyway and I couldn't muster the energy to protest.

For the first part of the drive, through high streets I didn't recognize, I just stared ahead of me and tried to think of nothing. But it was no good. I started to go over it in my mind and in a short time it was there inescapably in front of me.

"Stop," I said.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he said, looking around desperately. "Hang on, we're in a red zone. Wait, I'll find somewhere."

"You're a policeman, aren't you?"

"Wait, wait, if you're going to throw up, do it out of the window."

He turned off the main road into a side-street and pulled up at the kerb. I opened the door and ran out. There was a tall brick wall. It must have been the side of a factory or a warehouse. I put my hands on the rough surface, which was wonderfully cold to the touch. I leant forward and rested my forehead on it. I felt a hand on my back.

"Are you all right?"

A warm sour liquid rose in my throat but I swallowed it and took several deep breaths.

"It's been a difficult day," Cross said.

"No, no," I said. "Well, it has, but that's not it."

"What do you mean?"

I took a few steps along the pavement, rubbing my arms in an attempt to warm myself. It was dark and my breath was a vapour in front of my face. We were on the edge of an industrial estate. Behind barbed wire there were modern buildings that were already going grimy. Frazer Glass and Glazing Co. Leather Industries Centre. Tippin Memorial Masons.

"This is all wrong," I said.

"Get back into the car."

"Wait," I said. "You know that I haven't got particularly warm feelings towards Terry at the moment."

"I can imagine."

"He's a man with real problems and he probably needs all kinds of help but he didn't do this."

"Miss Devereaux, Abbie, get back into the car. I'm freezing out here."

"If we get back into the car, will you answer some questions?"

"Anything. So long as we get out of this."

We sat in the car in silence for a time.

"Am I keeping you from anything?" I asked.

"Not really," he said.

"I just have these questions that come into my mind and I can't stop them. I know that you're the expert and I'm just somebody who advises companies about where to put the photocopier and the coffee machine. But it doesn't make sense. For a start, Terry isn't a murderer. And if he was, I don't think he'd pick on a woman he'd just started seeing. And if he had decided to kill her, it would happen in his own flat or her flat. If he was going to go to the trouble of hiding her body, he wouldn't do it three doors down from where he lived."