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About the Author

James Goodhand lives in Surrey with his wife and young son. A mechanic by day, much of his work has been written at an oil-stained workbench whilst ignoring a queue of broken cars in need of his attention. James is also a keen musician, regularly gigging as a rhythm and blues pianist.

Dedication

For Vikki

4.52 a.m.

I’ve slept for close to five hours. I almost congratulate myself. My sleep is black and it soaks the bedsheets, but it’s a mechanical necessity for a mind that’s screaming to rest. Being in constant fear for your life is every bit as tiring as you’d imagine.

I perch on the edge of the bed, clawing at the carpet with frozen toes. The first thoughts after waking are, of course, not to be trusted. Doubts have this way of worming themselves in during the small hours, leaving you to face each morning in the belief that you can’t achieve anything above the ordinary.

Can I really do this?

As I do every morning, I squeeze my eyes closed and picture Aunty Kaye’s face. Some days the image comes easily, sometimes so slow I panic that I’ve lost it. Today she appears with the clarity of a photograph almost immediately. My breathing steadies. Calm descends.

I begin my imaginary appeal to her; run through my reasons, one by one, as if we’re just chatting over iced lattes at that jazz bar overlooking the marina – the one we hung out at last summer. I explain to her why this is the best solution. The only solution. She isn’t fazed at all; her expression shows no judgement or shock. She just listens; she just understands. She always understood. I imagine her voice, still clear despite the time that’s passed. It’s the voice of birthdays, of Christmas Eve, the voice of the best memories.

‘Well then, you have no choice,’ she says, nodding, aware of just how huge the consequences will be.

Smearing my soles dry across the carpet, I stand and draw the faded floral curtains apart. A late May dawn has begun its rise over the slate roofs and chimneys that stagger down the hill from our house. The only hint of a woken world is the distant rush of a London-bound train. All the work vans are still parked in the shade. The place looks peaceful. You might even think it pretty in a rugged kind of way – pretty for the sort of estate people are born in and never leave.

For a moment, I can ignore thoughts of my fellow members of Class 11C, dotted about the town, enjoying the sleep they’ve long deprived me of. Instead, I think of Sophia.