She vaguely remembered dreaming. Something about Valerie, she thought. Wasn’t it? She tried to focus on the cosy warmth under the covers, on the reassuring knowledge that she’d had the lock changed—that she was safe in her own flat again. She strained her senses for some sign of Theresa, asleep in the flat above. But was she even at home? All evening, Norah had missed the familiar creak of the old floorboards overhead as Theresa moved from room to room. She was probably out again. Norah wondered what she was doing.

And by then she knew she wasn’t going to get back to sleep. Not this time.

She turned on the light and screwed up her eyes. The photo lay on the floor by her bed, blurred, faded and yellowing. A smiling teenager. Summer. Shorts and a singlet. Norah had forgotten all about the photo. Who had sent it to her? Why was Valerie suddenly all over the place? Theresa, who looked so startlingly similar. The stranger at the crossing who had called Norah by her name. The old dreams. And now the photo.

Barefoot and dressed in only briefs and a sweatshirt, Norah went into the kitchen for a glass of water and began to shiver almost immediately; she’d switched the heating off when she went to bed. She fetched her dressing gown, which had turned up the day before in one of the removal boxes, put it on, and opened the kitchen window. Breathing in the fresh night air, she had a kind of inspiration.

She grabbed her phone and began to write.

Was that you?

She raised her eyes to the window and looked out. Someone had put junk out on the pavement for collection: a bike, a bed frame, an old armchair, a guitar. Norah found herself thinking of Valerie again, but the dream that had woken her remained elusive, just out of reach.

Norah returned to her phone and was surprised to see three bouncing dots on the screen telling her she had a reply.

Was what me? she read.

Was it you sent me that?

This time she had to wait longer for a response, but soon the bouncing dots told her that at the other end—wherever that might be—someone was typing.

The photo? Yes.

Interesting. The fact itself, for one thing—that this someone had sent her the photo of Valerie. But also the disarming frankness of the confession.

Why? she asked.

Because I wanted you to remember.

Resisting the urge to reach for her cigarettes, Norah closed the window.

Who are you? Where did you get the photo? she typed.

And then, because she could bear it no longer:

What do you know about Valerie?

At first there was no response. Then the dots bounced up and down on the screen again.

May I ask you a question?

Norah thought for a moment. Then she typed:

Go ahead.

She waited, tensely curious. Nothing. After staring at her phone for several minutes, she put it down—and at that moment, the next text arrived.