We dealt with the paperwork quickly – there was very little to do. I could hear Mr. Fenwick begin to make tentative, preparatory enquiries into my state of health and headed them off by pretending not to hear. As decently as I could, I said goodbye and ran from the office.

She was waiting by the steps of the building, ten feet from where I’d emerged. Our eyes locked. She looked as pale as I had just seen myself to be. For a moment, I stood frozen, unable to move. Then I thought I’m damn – I’m fucking well not going to see you. I marched down the steps, not looking at her, not looking away from her. My neck felt stiff from the effort of not turning my head away.

When I drew level with her I thought she was going to reach out and grab me, but she didn’t. I turned my back to her and walked away.

I became aware I was holding my breath and let it out in a giant huff of air. I looked around for a taxi but there were no friendly yellow lights in sight on the roofs of approaching cabs. I could hear the ring of her high heels behind me, like steel pins going into the concrete. I turned blindly, down some side street. Almost at once, I realised this was a mistake. It was quieter on this road and I could hear her clearly behind me; her breathing, the flap and swish of her bloody black coat, the thud-thud-thud of her boot heels. Tears began to leak from my eyes.

Suddenly, she spoke. "Where are you running to?"

I didn't answer. I tried to walk faster.

"Always running away, aren't you?" she said. She sounded amused. "Never face up to anything in your life, do you?"

I stopped dead. I swung round. I pulled the knife from my pocket. She didn't notice it for a moment, not until I lifted it high. Her face went even whiter than it was already. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, turned away.

"Yes," I said. "Now who's running? Now who's running?"

Her blonde hair bounced as she scurried away. I started laughing; she looked so silly, running away like a scared little rabbit. She was scared of me. I started to run after her, waving the knife like a talisman.

"Not so brave now, are you? Not so brave now! Come back, Jessica! You came back once before... come back again. Come back! Come back! Come back!"

I stumbled over something as I took another step forward. Suddenly the pavement became six inches lower. I fell forward onto my knees, skinning my hands on the concrete. The knife fell onto the ground in a musical tinkle; it span around in a circle, skidding around, and the noise it made was drowned out in a horrible screech, a crescendo of noise that rose and grew and flowed over me like a wave. It must be Jessica screaming, I thought, before something slammed into me hard enough to knock the breath from my body. As I fell sideways I saw the knife on the dirty concrete road, glinting in the winter sun, a yellow star of light twinkling on the blade. The star grew until it filled my eyes, a sunburst of yellow light that blotted out the rest of the world.

*

When I next opened my eyes, white cotton had replaced the glinting knife. I blinked a couple of times. One minute I had been face down on dirty concrete and the next I was... where? I moved my head and a gigantic bolt of pain shot through it.

I may have slept for a little while. When I opened my eyes again, cautiously, I was conscious of time having passed. I managed to move my head a little. I was lying in bed. A hospital bed. For a moment I wondered whether I was dreaming but I could smell that hospital smell; the usual, nauseating mixture of antiseptic floor wash, canteen food and something underneath it all, something rank. Matt was sitting by the side of the bed, looking at me. His eyes were red.

"Door," I said.

He leant forward. "What's that, darling?"

"I said 'hi'," I said. My voice was croaky. "What happened?"

"You got hit by a car, darling," he said, speaking gently. "They think you have concussion."

I shut my eyes, trying to process this. I could hear a gentle creak but I couldn't work out if it was in my head or in the room. I felt as if the entire surface of my skin was covered in bruises and here and there were sharper areas of pain; on my knees, my right elbow, the palms of my hands. I managed to free my arms from beneath the clamp of the hospital blankets and looked at my hands - they were skinned raw.

“Your poor hands," said Matt. "You must have fallen in front of a car. Don't you remember?"

"Sort of," I said, vaguely. "I think I was-" I stopped, remembering Jessica's white face. "I must have fallen over."

Matt looked doubtful. "You gave the driver a hell of a fright. They thought they'd killed you."

"Killed me," I repeated. "No, they didn't. They didn't kill me. I wasn't killed."

He looked at me strangely.

He took my hand, carefully. "You poor thing. Listen, I'm going to leave you to get some more rest now, but the doctors say you can probably come home tomorrow. You're very lucky, you know, Maudie. I can't believe you got off as lightly as you did."

He kissed me on the forehead and I tried not to wince.

"Oh, sorry," he said.

"The door's open," I said.

"What?" Matt looked at me sharply. "What was that?"

"I don't know," I said. I was mumbling, falling backwards into sleep. "Doesn't matter."

I closed my eyes again, shutting out the light.

 When we got home, Matt wanted to carry me to the bed.

"I can walk," I said.

"Maudie, you're as white as a sheet," he said. "Just shut up and hold on for a moment, there's a good girl."

I put my arms around his neck. I felt dreadful, limp as a wet piece of paper. My head throbbed. "It's like we've just been married," I said, as he struggled over the threshold.

"Yes," he panted, lowering me to the bed. I couldn't sustain my smile any longer as my head touched the pillow. I felt so weak and awful, I began to cry.

"There, there," he said, pulling the duvet up around me. "Just rest. That's what you need."

"I know," I said, voice thick with tears. "I can't sleep while the door's open."

Matt gave me a strange look but he didn't say anything. He tucked the duvet under my chin and patted my shoulder.

"Just rest," he said. "I've got to pop out now to get some stuff; we've got no food in the house. I'll leave you to sleep. I'll be back later."

I heard the front door shut. Immediately, I pushed back the covers. Despite the pain in my head, I couldn't lie still any longer; I buzzed with adrenaline. I was terribly, horribly afraid.

I made my way to the door, hanging onto pieces of furniture to stop myself from falling. In the hallway, I gave up and went down onto my knees, crawling along the carpet. I reached the living room. I don't know where I was going, what I was trying to do; all I could do was try to get away, to crawl away from the fear. In my head, a door was opening and yellow light began to creep out, at first a narrow ribbon, a chink, widening to a strip that grew and grew and flooded my head with light. I could hear myself crying out. Stop it, stop it, crying out to an uncaring world, stop it, stop it... but it wouldn’t be stopped, it was too late. It was too late now, because the door was open.

It’s the door in the cottage in Cornwall. But it's not the front door with the abyss behind it, is it? It never has been. I creep along the hallway, I open that door and look out at the night beyond; the rolling black sky, the rustling, creeping countryside. And I close that door. It’s the door to the living room that stands half open, faint yellow light spilling into the hallway through the gap. I see the light as I creep back along the hallway. I hear the voices coming from the room; the voices of Angus and Jessica.