As she lay back on the sofa she ran her hand down the cat’s back. Moisie started to make kneading movements on her leg. Suddenly one his claws dug a little too sharply into her skin. ‘Ouch, that hurts,’ she said, trying to pick him up and move him off her. But then she felt guilty for having left him with her neighbour for so many weeks. And he was having such a good time. So she let him be and endured the occasional scratch of skin.

Suddenly her cell rang. Clutching Moisie with one hand she reached down by her legs for her purse.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Cassie, it’s Kate.’

‘Oh, hi. I’m really looking forward to tonight.’

‘Yeah, that’s why I was ringing. I’ve booked a cab for you for six. Is that okay?’

‘That’s great.’

‘So it should be waiting outside. I’ve given him instructions and asked him to help you to the car if –‘

‘I’m not crippled,’ she said, laughing.

‘I know, I know. But if you had let me finish. I was about to say, if you need it, that’s all. Also, I told him what a stubborn piece of work you were as well.’

‘Well, thank you very much. And I could say the same about you as well.’

‘We’ll call it quits then, shall we?’

‘Deal.’

There was a pause on the line. The light-hearted conversation had come to an end. Cassie knew her friend was about to tell her something, something not good.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Walsh,’ said Kate. She refused to call him by his new name. ‘He’s had a complete mental breakdown. But it’s nothing to worry about – for us, I mean.’

‘So he won’t go to trial?’

‘There is that possibility. But Josh says whatever happens Walsh is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars – either in prison or in a secure hospital.’

The good mood that had enveloped her earlier disappeared in an instant. That familiar shadow of fear that had once cast its spell over her edged its way a little closer. Would she ever be free of Gleason?

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ said Kate. ‘We’re going to have a good time tonight, no matter what. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘And be ready at six. The guy’s from Courtesy Cars. They’re reliable. And you can stay overnight if you’d like.’

‘Thanks. But I think I’d better get back for you know who. He’s become like my stalker recently, you won’t believe it.’ He dug his claws a little deeper into her leg. ‘Hey, Moisie, cut it out!’

‘Great, that’s all you need. Anyway I’ll let you two enjoy whatever sick game it is you’re playing. See you later.’

After playing with Moisie for another fifteen minutes Cassie caught up with some reports from work, reading them in Braille, and made a few calls. A sponsor was dragging his heels on a potentially lucrative injection of cash into the charity. The rent agreement had still not been finalised. And she was having problems with one of her male employees, a blind man who claimed he had been discriminated against because of his gender in a round of recent staff restructuring. The truth was he just wasn’t very good at his job.

She fixed herself a bite to eat, a light salad of endive leaves, tomatoes, basil and tuna. She listened to some music as she ran herself a bath. She checked the temperature. Perfect. As she slipped into the warm water she felt herself relax. The sensation, she thought, was almost as if she was disappearing, as if she were being erased. She stayed immobile, hardly breathing, until the temperature of the water dropped. Then she quickly soaped herself, washed and rinsed her hair and pulled the plug from the bath. She stood up, reached for the towel on the side of the bath, stepped out and dried herself.

What should she wear? Even though she couldn’t see herself she always tried to be careful about her appearance. She hated to be one of those blind women who wore mismatched items – a pair of red socks with, say, a blue polka-dot blouse and a tan skirt. But years ago she had come to the decision to restrict the colour scheme of her wardrobe. When she went shopping she asked whichever friend she was with to pick out mostly navy blues, greys, blacks, whites, with the occasional – very occasional – splash of colour. Tonight, she might choose a pair of black pants with that new white blouse. There was that amber necklace which would work well with that. Or there was the option of blue jeans with that vintage blouse she had inherited from her mother.

She walked into her bedroom and opened her wardrobe door. She ran her hands along the clothes, enjoying the sensation of fabric brushing against her skin. She came to the vintage blouse – she knew it by the raised seams that ran down both sleeves – and brought it close to her face. Did it still smell like her mother or was she imagining that? As she fastened the pearl buttons – one at each of the cuffs, two at the neckline - she remembered a night from her childhood. How old would she have been? About ten? Her mother, a fashion editor on a magazine, was standing by the door of their house in Connecticut. She was wearing the same blouse. Her blonde hair was tied back and she was wearing red lipstick and a light covering of blusher. She thought her mom looked so pretty that night. It was the same night that she had walked out on her family.

For months – years - afterwards, Cassie couldn’t understand why her mother had left. As a child, she knew her dad had mood swings. He also seemed to stink of something strange. Later, she learnt that her father, a failed writer, suffered from depression and was an alcoholic. Dad tried to cope, but finally looking after two children – her and her younger brother, Robbie – had gotten too much for him. He started to drink more and one day he went into hospital and never came out again. That was the same week she saw her mother again, a woman she said she would hate until her dying day. Cassie didn’t have to wait long – six months later her mom died in a car crash.

As she ran a finger down the sleeve of the blouse she wished that, at the time, she could have felt it in herself to forgive her mother. The older woman had so clearly wanted to be friends. But Cassie had told her where to go. Nice one. And now she was dead. Perhaps it was this sense of guilt that lay behind her decision to keep, and wear, some of her old clothes.

Jesus. How on earth had she let herself get so morose? Only a couple of hours back she had felt so happy and carefree. And tonight she was supposed to be having fun.

She quickly took off the blouse and replaced it with a simple pale grey shirt. She pulled on some jeans, brushed her hair, stepped into some flat pumps. She pressed the talking clock by her bed. It was nearly six. Shit. And she still had to feed the cat.

She picked up the jar of dry food, expecting to hear him trill. She did it again. Nothing. She whistled, trying to keep the sound clear and steady. He wasn’t allowed out. There was nowhere for him to go.