Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Title Page
- Intoroduction
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EITHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- CLIMATE EMERGENCY
- Copyright
Back home again, Mum opens the front door and I stagger in with arms laden. The blue skies of the last few days had been giving way to cloud while we drove, and now it’s a race to unpack the car before the rain starts, bitter and cold.
A few trips each and we manage it, the first pellets of sleety drizzle landing against the kitchen window as Mum puts the kettle on. I take a few bags of my things upstairs, then take a seat at the kitchen table.
‘Something there. Your name on it.’
I pick up the care-worn envelope, see my name on the front, and open it. A Christmas card – sparkly, laughably ugly – falls out. It looks like something that’s been kept under a mattress for a decade or two.
‘Tasteful,’ says Mum. ‘Who’s it from?’
I open it. A simple message. Communicate on this from now on. A SIM card is sellotaped to the inside.
‘Dana. You know, that girl who came over to revise a while ago.’ I’m almost shocked at how easily the lie comes.
‘Yes, I remember. She seemed nice. Did you send her one?’
‘No.’
‘Well, maybe you should send her a New Year’s one.’
‘They don’t do New Year’s cards.’
‘No, I suppose not. Just kisses at midnight.’ Mum gives me a wink and takes her tea through to the living room.
*
In my room, I struggle against the panic taking hold. The face of the old woman in the charity shop looms up again; the feel of Vince’s boots against the side of my face; Carl. If I don’t plug this SIM into my phone and show I’m listening, ready, then something will happen like last time.
My hands are quivering as I unplug the battery, place the small plastic card in the slot. They’re shaking so much I drop my own SIM, and then hit my head on the edge of my desk trying to retrieve it.
It gets no better as I wait for the phone to turn on again.
Almost as soon as it does so, a new message alert pops up. It’s an invitation to join a closed group. I agree, and a wall of messages fills the screen. Everyone is identified only by phone number, and I guess that – like me – they’re all using SIMs that they’ve been sent.
I scroll through, but it’s just people greeting each other, just pictures and slogans.