‘He suggested we might do lunch so I could advise him on investment opportunities.’ I avoided James’s hand which he stretched across towards mine. I was keen to leave, escape out into the cool night air. Yet a feeling that I might need James’s help in the future made me linger.

An hour later I stood up, expounding further on the fictitious headache. James stayed to finish the wine. I smiled when he commented that Arthur and I didn’t seem a likely pair. James knew I had better taste. As I was leaving the restaurant, he promised he’d call me if Mr Beck made further contact.

I’m being chased, running wildly from my pursuer. There are people hiding in the shadows but I can’t see properly. I try to open my eyes and through tiny slits can see flimsy curtains billowing in the wind. The window is open and I’m aware of a faint scratching sound and a cat meowing in the distance. Mitch and I are holding hands. I know it’s him because our fingers are intertwined; lock and key. His hands are smooth except for the light downy hair tickling my skin. I turn to look at him; my lover, my soulmate. He smiles with upturned lips but I see bared teeth behind the grin. His face keeps changing. It’s like a rubber mask. The mask doesn’t fit his skin properly. It’s much too large and his head seems to keep growing and growing…

My screams woke me in the silence. The small alarm clock ticked rhythmically and outside there was a faint hum of traffic. I wouldn’t get to sleep again and knew I no longer wanted to sleep alone.

I went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, making comforting noises with spoons and mugs. I had to see Mitch, sort things out. It wouldn’t wait any longer. Today the future would begin and we would start to make plans.

65

Arthur

Mr Flynn, Connor’s dad, used a red tie to bind my mother’s arms to the bedpost. With nervous laughter, my mother squirmed, naked and spread-eagled across the bedstead. A few moments later she was hysterical.

To stop from screaming, I gripped the rafters so hard that my knuckles turned white. A sense of foreboding told me he was going to kill her. Transfixed, I stared through the spyhole.

That afternoon I had sanded the hole wider so the diameter matched that of my eyeball. I used an old tape measure to match the dimensions and, with not a smidgeon of self-congratulation, I aligned the two apertures. My eyeball fitted neatly into the slot.