‘No,’ she said.
The image vanished.
She shivered and rubbed the last of the tears away with the corner of her pillow.
‘I need a wee,’ she said, to nobody. Because Lee had obviously decided he didn’t want to come to bed yet, even though she was clearly upset. No, he wanted to sit up on his computer and relist his bloody stupid premium golf tees on Gumtree instead of eBay. Like that was a revolutionary business move. He’d normally have caught her vibe and be up here now, holding her and telling her it was okay. He must be getting really desperate now, because he was never this late, normally. He was an idiot, sometimes. A kind one, with a beautiful smile, but an idiot sometimes.
She couldn’t even call for Seren, or slip into her room and lie alongside her, like Jo sometimes did at night. Since all this craziness had started, Jo had asked Seren’s grandad to look after her for a bit, just until this whole thing died down. He’d love the company.
She clicked on the light and gasped when she saw the black figure out of the corner of her eye.
Her funeral dress, hung from the wardrobe. Already picked out and ironed, ready for Steph’s service. They’d announce that any day now, she assumed, so she’d best be ready. She’d bought that dress four months ago for her mum’s heart-attack-induced funeral. And now she’d wear it again for one of her best-ever friends, barely into her thirtieth. God, getting older was so, so shit.
She trudged to the bathroom, where her yellow fleecy cleaning uniform was hanging on the dryer, then she dropped her Tartan pyjamas to the floor, hissing at the cold of the toilet seat as it pressed into her legs. She felt embarrassed for some reason, at how loud the flow sounded. Like a hose smashing into a river. She wondered if maybe—
Click.
She frowned at the faint, odd sound coming from downstairs.
Click, click.
It must be Lee, she thought. Tapping his cordless little mouse like a moron.
But this … this …
Click.
This wasn’t that, actually.
She sat upright, almost stopping the flow.
She called out, ‘Lee? Come up to bed.’
Nothing.
Probably had his headphones on. That flipping Grime music pounding his brain to mush.
She pushed the rest out as fast as she could and stood up, desperate to get her bottoms pulled back up. She skipped washing her hands and crept back to the hallway. Perhaps the clicking was something to do with that energy bulb that she’d just put in the hallway. Maybe the cheap ones took a while to acclimatise? Maybe.
She leant over the banister; downstairs was full of shadows.
‘Lee?’
Click, click.
Now the sound was sharp and distinct enough for her to decide something. It probably wasn’t clicking after all. In fact, that sounded like flicking, not clicking. Yes. Quite right. Full marks Jo, she thought, madly. That’s flicking.
A word popped into her head.
Fingernails.
She clutched the front of her pyjamas hard, tartan deforming, and raced across the landing, trying hard not to clomp. She wanted to turn the light on but she chose not to. Maybe whatever was clicking/flicking didn’t even know she was there.
Click, click.
It’s Lee, idiot. He’s doing something you can’t figure out.
Then a light-bulb moment.
Ha! He’s watching porn and he’s getting busy down there. That’s what’s happening. That’s not clicking, or flicking, it’s good old-fashioned skin slapping! And that’s why he stays up so late. He doesn’t even own any golf tees! Ha ha. This is hilarious. My problems aren’t supernatural, they’re blissfully norm—
Click.
Click, click.
Louder now. Closer.
Her heart hammered against the bones in her chest, and she flung herself back from the banister because she didn’t want to see.
Click.
Click, click, click.
It’s porn, idiot. And that’s okay, even though it’s not. Because a porn-hungry mouse click is infinitely preferable to the flicking of long finger—
Click, click, click, click.
Louder. Louder. Coming up the stairs.
‘Jesus,’ she rushed to her room and pushed the door wide. The door bounced open and she saw her mobile phone lying on the bedside cabinet. Dead as a bloody brick, from all that pointless Facebook browsing of what people had for dinner tonight. She flung the door shut and raced into the room, aware of having not taken a breath for at least one minute.
Click, click.
Muffled through the door, but definitely somewhere near the top of the stairs now.
Don’t do this, Jo. Just don’t. It’s the central heating. It’s a dripping tap. It’s an adorable hedgehog tapping against the patio doors for a bowl of fruit.
She had a vague sensation of pushing her bedroom window open and looking down at the garden. Of taking it all in, in a single shot. At the white plastic patio chairs and her sad attempt at a vegetable patch. And the old rabbit hutch by the fence where her own pet Six should be sleeping. Only the hutch door was open and it was empty inside.
Her hands were shaking.
She whimpered when she saw something out of the bottom of her eye. A tiny wisp of white directly below that looked like the flash of a girl’s dress. A specific little girl rushing into the house, and leading the way for her dark friend. But actually it was the white net curtains from the lounge downstairs. The breeze was blowing them out into the back garden.
The patio doors are open. That’s all—
… why are the patio doors open?
She turned back to the bedroom door and stared at it.
‘Holly?’ she whispered, and couldn’t believe she’d just said that.
She had the weirdest sensation of itching all over. Like tiny flies had dropped from the ceiling and were sliding all over
