The doors of Iceworld opened, and a woman came out, pursued by the synthesised saxophone of Christmas muzak. She was laden down with carrier bags and struggled to open an umbrella. Through the window, Lou saw that the aisles were busy with seasonal shoppers pushing full trolleys. Mel was behind her till, chatting to a couple as she manhandled their bulbous frozen butterball turkey over the scanner. She laughed at something the customers said and the little Christmas puddings attached to her hair band jiggled. The supervisor joined her. Lou shrunk further beneath the canopy. What would she say if Mel or the supervisor saw her and demanded to know where the hell she had been for the last few days? If she told the truth, they would have her carted off in a straightjacket.

Keeping to the shadows of the deserted boulevards, Lou roamed The Arc, eventually emerging into the dim light of early afternoon. She walked further along the High Street. When she came to a familiar landmark, she checked that her purse was in her pocket before entering.

The sudden hot mass of people, the noise and the light inside The Hill House Arms, made her stop. She only managed one more step inside when she stopped again. A group of men dressed in green polo shirts, black cargo trousers and steel toe-capped boots stood at the bar. They picked up their drinks and downed at least half a pint in their first gulp. Stephen wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and smiled. In the midst of his workmates, and for the first time in weeks, he looked ... happy, not at all like a man driven to distraction by the disappearance of his sister. One of his mates patted him on the shoulder, and Lou backed away, timing her exit with a lone smoker huddled in the doorway, blowing out a stream of smoke. He apologised and tried to waft it away. But Lou was too distracted to respond. She was no longer in the pub car park. She was sitting beside an open fire. The man beside her tapped his cigarette on a silver case. He struck a match, lit his cigarette and gently laughed, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he made a quip about Shakespeare at her expense.

The thread gave a hard yank. She imagined the blue eyes, and it yanked again. Was this all a dream? Or was she actually going mad? With every ounce of determination, she once again froze all thoughts not of the twenty-first century. She took her phone from her pocket and scrolled through the call list. No missed calls. No messages, not even from work. No credit to make a call. She resorted to a text.

Haven’t seen you for a few days. You ok? xx

She waited for a few moments. A reply flashed up.

At a mate’s. Stayin here tonite. Why?

That was it. No Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. No kisses.