My bedroom door opens. ‘Jenny?’ Sid sticks her head around the door. ‘Are you okay?’

I sit up. I think I might hurl. ‘No. What is that noise?’

‘There’s somebody at the door.’

We look at each other.

‘Somebody at the door? Who would be at the door?’

‘I don’t know! But there IS somebody. AT THE DOOR.’

‘Dear god! Are we to have no privacy? Why are people so determined to intrude all the time? Who would come to a door and knock on it?’

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK

We both jump.

I get up and grab my dressing gown. I open the bedroom door to see Frances and Moon peering over the bannister.

‘Who is it?’ Frances shrieks.

‘I don’t know! I’m not expecting any callers!’

‘Whoever would? Who knocks on a door in this day and age?’

‘It’s outrageous!’

‘So rude!’

‘Such an affront!’

‘I need a lie-down.’

‘You know I read they’re developing an email system,’ says Sid, ‘whereby you get an email when someone is at the door, and then you reply to them, via email.’

‘We need this in our lives.’

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK

‘I peeked through my blinds,’ says Moon. ‘It’s a woman.’

‘A woman?? What does she look like?’

‘Sturdy. Middle-aged. Lots of jewellery. Sort of … fancy and tough, like a celebrity sportswoman.’

Oh my sweet dear god Jesus. My heart pounds in my chest. My head pounds in my head.

‘It might be Amazon,’ Sid says. ‘Looks like there’s a van. Have you ordered anything?’

‘No …’ I pull on my dressing gown on and tie the cord tight. ‘I mean, I don’t know! Who ever knows? I can’t be expected to keep track of all that! That’s what the tracking link is for!’

I tiptoe halfway down the stairs.

The letterbox flaps open again. ‘I know you’re in there!’

‘Is it that smackhead again?’ says Moon.

‘It might be a bailiff,’ says Sid.

‘It is not a bailiff,’ I say. ‘Things are not quite that bad.’

Moon says, ‘Well, whoever it is, let’s just open the damn door and ask her what she wants.’

Sid starts to pass me on the stairs. ‘No!’ I shout. ‘No.’ I pull her to one side. ‘Do not answer the door. She might go away.’

But I know that’s not true. This is the woman who read my diary every day and replaced the hair trap on top – I caught her, tweezers poised, tongue-tip poking out. She is relentless. She is alien blood.

Frances looks at me, confused.

The letterbox flaps again. ‘Who is that? I know someone is there! I can see SHAPES.’

Frances joins me flat against the wall.

A hand comes through the letterbox and waves. ‘This is my daughter’s house and I demand to be let inside!’ The hand stays there.

Frances gasps. ‘Jenny, is it … your mum?’