Norah felt as if she were in a museum looking at a brightly coloured picture painted especially for her.

She couldn’t see the faces of the two men with their backs to the window, but that didn’t stop her from recognising Max and Paul—Paul who was supposedly in bed with a high temperature. She was surprised by the intensity of the pain she felt and for a moment she simply stood there, letting it wash over her. Then her phone buzzed and after ignoring it for a little while, she took it out.

I’m sorry, it said. Norah looked about her, but there was nobody watching her.

She stood and stared at the painting for a moment longer, then turned and let the cold and darkness swallow her up.

20

On the way home, Norah bombarded the owner of the unknown number with texts. What was all that about? How did you know? Who are you? But she got no reply.

For once she was glad to be back in her flat; the city was beginning to spook her out. Soon she’d have things nice and cosy and could start to fill the rooms with life—buy some plants, ask her friends to dinner, maybe even get herself a pet.

What friends? something whispered in her head, and she bit her lip hard.

Norah had never known her father and was a teenager by the time she found out that he’d been dead for some years. Since her twenty-seventh birthday she had been motherless too, and she had no brothers or sisters, no close family. Now that Alex was gone, her small circle of friends was all she had.

She had just closed the flat door behind her when another text from the unknown number came in on her phone.

Are you okay?

Norah jabbed at the screen.

Where did you get this number?

The answer came immediately.

All your friends have your number.

Someone was playing with her. Norah decided not to answer anymore. One day she’d find out who was writing the texts—maybe Werner could help. Until then she didn’t want to encourage this stranger, whoever he—or she—was. She’d been stalked once and that was enough for her. It was one reason she was so careful about giving people her mobile number.

She was about to go and sit in the kitchen when she heard someone on the stairs and recognised Theresa’s voice.

‘No, sorry,’ she was saying. ‘I don’t mind seeing to the rest, but you’ll have to take care of the birds.’

A male voice said something Norah didn’t catch, then both were out of earshot.

Norah stood there, her hand on the door handle. She’d hoped to bump into Theresa on the stairs some time, because she felt bad about turning down her invitation so brusquely and would have liked to apologise. She heard the footsteps growing fainter and eventually a key being pushed into a lock, a door opened and closed. Soon afterwards, music came through the ceiling, fast and rhythmic. Usually it would have annoyed Norah, but today she was glad of any sign of life.