“What?”

“I said–”

“Oh God, this is ridiculous, I can’t hear a word. Let’s go outside for a bit.”

We squeezed ourselves through the crowd in the corridor and headed for the street outside. Becca’s firm had hired L’Amour for their Christmas party and she’d invited me along. Music was throbbing from the largest room, bouncing off the glittering white walls, shaking the enormous chandelier that hung from the ceiling in a frozen waterfall of crystal shards. We eased ourselves through the scrum of people hanging around the back door of the club, into the dingy back alley and stood teetering on our heels.

“Christ, that’s better,” said Becca. “Some fresh air at last.” She lit a cigarette immediately.

I felt better, despite the cold. The heat and the crowd and the noise inside had made me jittery; it seemed a long time since I’d been around so many people.

“How was your trip up north?”

I grimaced. “Weird. Sad. A bit stressful.”

“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Becca patted my shoulder. “Bound to be a bit strange going back to the house without your dad in it for the first time. Have you decided what you’re going to do with it yet?”

I shook my head.

“How’s Matt?” she asked.

I blinked and smiled. “Oh, okay.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“No, it’s not that–” I shrugged, suddenly flustered. “Well, he’s still not sure whether he’s got this thing at work. Whether he’s passed his probation. I think it’s weighing on his mind a bit.”

“Yes?”

“I think so. He’s not said anything, but I think it’s bothering him.”

“Oh well,” said Becca. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” I said. I thought back to last night, how I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. I’d gone to the study, knowing what I’d see; Matt, hunched over his laptop, smoking and frowning. He’d looked up when I’d appeared in the doorway and for a moment, his face had been the face of a young boy, vulnerable and innocent. This time it had been him who’d come to me for comfort; in bed, he’d clutched at me as if he were falling and I was the only thing holding him up. Even afterwards, in his sleep, he’d kicked and groaned and thrashed around, as if he were fighting his own version of the monster in the Men-an-Tol. At breakfast this morning, I’d hoped to hear him sing, and he did once, just one line, something about seeing a shadow and chasing it...

“You’re right,” I said to Becca, as firmly as I could manage. “He’ll be fine.”

We danced, swaying and sweating beneath the kaleidoscope lights.

"God, I'm hot," said Becca. "I'm going to get another drink. Want one?"

I knew I shouldn't. I already felt light-headed, a little blurred around the edges. But I needed something to soften me up, help me feel a bit more removed from the ragbag of emotions that made up my life. "Go on then."

Becca left me and I moved back to lean against the wall, feeling suddenly exposed. The drumbeat of the song currently playing thudded through my body like a giant pulse. I felt breathless. All around me people were shrieking and laughing and dancing. I looked up, searching for Becca's familiar face at the bar.

Then I saw her. Not Becca. Her. It was almost funny, the way the crowds parted for just that instant, long enough to allow our eyes to meet, just like a clichéd love song. The blonde woman stood there, her hands in the pockets of her long black coat. She was looking at me directly and, for a long moment, we both stared at each other. Her face was almost expressionless, the faintest touch of sadness in her eyes. She wasn't smiling or glaring. She just stood, and looked.

I shut my eyes. When I opened them again after a moment, she was still there, still looking at me. I felt a jab of fear hit me in the pit of the stomach. She continued to look steadily at me. I blinked again and she was still there, still looking me full in the face.

The pounding of the music, the noise of the crowd, it all faded away. For a frozen moment, her face was my entire world. Suddenly I wasn't afraid, anymore. As I watched, the woman raised her hand, a long, thin white hand, and began to beckon. Dazedly, I felt my legs begin to move of their own volition. She was a siren, drawing me in, trapping me with an unseen noose trailing from her long, sharp-nailed finger. I moved across the heaving dance floor, stumbling against people, pushing my way past them. Her gaze was a tractor beam, I had no power to resist.

I didn’t take my eyes off her. The music pounded at my ears. We couldn’t speak. She beckoned again and turned, moving through the crowd like smoke, one hip forward, another, the edge of her black coat flowing like water. I followed her, my mouth dry, mesmerised. I was lost.

We were out in the corridor, I think, I couldn’t see properly. She turned to face me and I looked at her, her face, her eyes, the fall of her bright blonde hair. I was dumb. I could scarcely breathe. It was like being opposite a lover.

“Who are you?” I said. I could feel my heart, punching away at my ribs like a small muscular fist. “Who are you?”

She was silent for a long while. The music pushed and throbbed in the background. Her eyes were so blue. I could feel recognition dawning, deep within me, something I’d known since I’d first seen her, something I’d not allowed myself to confront, something I’d pushed down and pushed down, unable to believe it. The impossible made real.

“Why, Maudie, don’t you know me?” she said.

I could feel my legs begin to shake beneath me.

“Don’t you know me?” she asked, again.

“No,” I said. I croaked it. It was a lie and I knew it. I knew her. I knew who she was.

“It’s me,” she said. “It’s me. I’m Jessica, Maudie. It’s me. Jessica.”

PART TWO

Chapter Thirteen

When I met Jessica for the first time, we were seven years old and she wore the most beautiful pair of red leather shoes. On the toe, a flower was appliquéd in blue and yellow petals and in the centre was a shining brass button.

"I like your shoes," I said shyly.

"Oh - thanks."

Jessica was taller than me, her hair was longer and she seemed altogether more grown up. She'd been assigned to show me around the school and by the set of her resentful shoulders, I guessed she would rather be out in the playground with all the other kids.

We walked a little further up the corridor.

"Why do you talk funny?" she asked.

I hung my head, stung. "I'm Scottish. Well, I was born there. My dad's really Scottish but he doesn't talk funny because he went to school in England."

"Oh," said Jessica and we walked on in silence.

We sat next to one another in the classroom. By then, she'd thawed a little. She showed me where she'd written her name in tiny red letters on the underside of the desk. I gaped in amazement at her daring.

"You can write your name there too," she finally said, conspiratorial.

Sweating with fear, I scribbled my name on the grain of the wood.

"Cool," Jessica said, and from then, on we were friends.

We sat together in the classroom, we played together at lunchtime. Jessica had two other friends, Sophie and Beth, who were giggly and friendly but didn't have the same force of personality Jessica exhibited, even at seven. She was the leader of our little group, the one who told us what we were going to play, the one who directed us, scolded us, encouraged us. When Robert Fallway made fun of my scar, calling me Frankenstein and making me cry, Jessica was the one who chased him off and punched him, just for added emphasis. She got a talking to by the headmistress for that and I loved her even more.