‘But I thought you understood. That they’re just using you. They’re trying to draw you in.’

‘For what, Petra?’

‘I don’t know exactly.’ It was exasperating, not knowing what to believe. If she could just allow herself to channel Rose Devriendt’s paranoid fervour, she could convince him, but it was all a mountain of bullshit, lie on top of lie. If she didn’t know how deep the danger lay, how could she keep Vincent safe? ‘But what I do know is that Beccie is not here. That’s not possible. They’re only using your grief to control you.’

‘I know they are. I’m not stupid. I wanted to trust in rational sense. I’m not religious, I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in ghosts. But I believe my eyes. When I saw her at Cabinet, I doubted myself, but I can prove to you that Beccie’s here. Right now.’

‘How?’

‘She’s standing over there.’

She turned towards the glass door where the girl from the picture stood, her ringlets tied back in a red ribbon. The narrow horizontal blue and white stripes looked blood-washed, red and black, in the unearthly glow beaming from behind the door. Her vague smile looked slightly out of focus. She tried to squint her eyes but the photo would not resolve.

‘See?’ he said.

That’s a facsimile of the girl in the picture. She hasn’t changed at all. It’s a clever projection. Why can’t Vincent see that this isn’t his living daughter?

Fuck this. ‘Gloria’s asked me to bring you home, and that’s what I’m doing. Come.’

She grabbed his hand again and pulled, and this time she caught him off balance and he stumbled after her. She tugged him towards the main stairwell, not looking down as she felt the attention shift her way, as if she was putting on a scene for the assembled audience.

Vincent was too light, like a hollow model of himself, and she tugged him too hard, tripping on the first step and almost plunging face-first down the swirling staircase. She only just gained her footing, skip-tripping down the first four steps. Gasps below, someone laughing.

‘You can’t do this,’ Vincent said. ‘This is not your role.’

‘Shut up,’ she pressed though gritted teeth. ‘Come with me.’ There was only one objective, there had only ever been one: find Vincent and bring him home.

But Vincent was right: superhero was not her role.

They were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs and would not let her pass. She judged Jessica the weakest and tried to push her aside, distantly hearing a cheer coming from the audience, but she felt Vincent lose his grip, and then a twist and a pressure in her arm, and—

24

24 ‘I’m still waiting for my drink.’