‘Have you lost your dog?’ the woman asks, following my line of vision. ‘I thought a dog would be a great idea. He can come on runs with me, I said to my husband, but I think I’ll have to start leaving him at home. He’s a bugger for disappearing off into the bushes. I wouldn’t have heard you shouting if I hadn’t run back to see where he’d got to.’ She crouches down and picks a piece of bark from his fur. ‘You’re a bugger. Aren’t you? A little bugger.’

Chapter 22

I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me from the bathroom mirror. She has dark circles under her eyes, sallow skin and two deep ridges between her brows where, only six months ago, there were light frown lines. But when I gently tap my fingers against my cheekbones, checking for pain or tenderness, the woman in the mirror does the same.

I covered myself in Savlon and arnica before I went to sleep and the scratch on my face has faded overnight, leaving behind the faintest of red marks along the length of my right cheekbone. There’s a bruise on my collarbone too, where a branch smacked me straight in the chest, but it’s mercifully small. I apply make-up to both areas, dabbing concealer onto the purple blemishes, and set it with powder. There’s no disguising the deep scratches on my forearms – I look as though I’ve been in a fight with a wildcat – so I change out of the long-sleeved pyjama top I put on when I went to bed last night and pull on a pale blue shirt. Mark didn’t comment on my injuries when he slid out of bed this morning. My right cheek was buried in the pillow and the rest of my body was hidden by my pyjamas and the duvet.

I attempt a smile and the woman in the mirror curves her lips in response but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks tired and uneasy. I feel the same. I was an idiot for going out alone last night. I was lucky it was a group of teenage boys that I stumbled upon under the bridge, and not someone more dangerous. And what if I’d had another of my blackouts? No one knew where I’d gone. Anything could have happened to me.

The woman in the mirror shakes her head.

Liz was right. I need to stop looking for Billy and let the police do their job.

I reach for my phone, on the closed toilet lid, and reread the texts I missed when I was asleep.

Mum. 11.35 p.m.: