Chapter One
Enya Brown’s phone buzzed in the middle of the night.
Throwing back the duvet, she sat up straight, skinny legs dangling from the side of the bed, widening her eyes to help clear the foggy edges of sleep. She took a moment to centre herself with a long, deep breath through her nose and out of her mouth, just like the lady she had found on YouTube had suggested.
It helped, a little, in that her flustered pulse calmed and she was able to quietly locate her glasses, which were on top of the book on her nightstand. There was something about a text or call arriving in the dark when the world was sleeping that had the power to put the fear of God into her. Her first thought was for her son, was he okay, had something happened? Her second, a prayer that he was safe and sound. Then came the devastating prediction of utter desolation, knowing that if anything should ever happen to him, her life would lose all of its meaning.
It was daft really, the idea that bad news could only be delivered after office hours, or that the Grim Reaper preferred to work the night shift, understanding that the very worst news had far more impact when delivered to someone in their pyjamas. They might have a point.
She wondered what percentage of people died at night, not underestimating the powerful addition of booze, drugs, poorly lit roads, inclement weather:werewe more likely to die in the dark?
She wasn’t sure who she could ask.
Feeling far more alert, she reached for her phone. The house was quiet. She detested the silence of the empty hours. Similarly, small noises of irritation like the creak of a door, the whistle of the wind and the chirp of birds, as they only served to remind her that she had once lived in a home with so much noise, so much life, that she would never have noticed such an inconsequential thing! Whathadshe become?Whohad she become?
‘Sometimes, Jonathan, I feel that I’m no more than a trick of the light,’ she whispered. ‘Almost invisible.’
This she spoke as she opened the text, incredibly relieved to see it was a message from Jenny. Any contact with her friend triggered a thunderclap of joy that pulled her out of any potential panic.
Got Any Kitkats?
These three words from her best friend, akin to opening a window in a stifling room to welcome a breeze, or a warm hug on a cold day, were crucial reassurance when she needed it the most. Invisible people did not receive messages like this.
The text had been sent some five minutes previously, at precisely 3 a.m. She smiled.
No, But Ive Got A Twirl, Half A Toblerone And Those Chocolate Dipped Shortcake Biscuits From Marks That You Like. Oh And Half An Easter Egg
On My Way– the instant reply.
Throwing her kimono over her cotton PJs, she made her way down the stairs and opened her front door, taking a moment to look along the street, very much liking the pink-edged, lilac-tinged light that hovered over the terraced chimney pots, giving the place an etherealquality. It promised warmth tomorrow and she felt it a privilege to see this little corner of suburbia in its idling time, where only the scamper of tiny creature feet foraging, the flutter of leaves disturbed by breeze, and the thump-thump of her friend’s slippers as they made their way down the path of the house next door but one, cut through the quiet.
Enya smiled and waved. Jenny smiled and waved back. Their faces, devoid of make-up, crinkled in delight, shoulders raised, fingers on lips. The two more like excited kids who were sneaking out, breaking curfew, than grown women, who could, if they so desired, venture out and about whenever the fancy took them. Even at this hour.
Enya made her way into the kitchen and filled the kettle. What was a 3 a.m. snack without tea to accompany it? She heard the front door close, and the sound of her friend, babbling, as soon as she walked in, as if it were mid-afternoon, normal.
‘Who in the world hashalfan Easter egg hanging around? It’s nearly July!’
‘I am aware.’ Enya gave a slow blink as she plopped the teabags into the mugs, comforted by her friend’s presence, aware of how having someone else near her halted all feelings of despair.
‘I hate people who save their Easter eggs, it’s not natural! They’re designed to be shoved in your mouth, eaten in one go and then you have to dispose of the foil and cardboard as soon as possible, hide the evidence.’ Jenny took a seat at the kitchen table.
‘This actually speaks volumes about your secret chocolate habit, the fact you feel the need to hide the evidence! It must be hard being married to a police officer, does he check the recycling for dabs? And also, hate is a strong word. I don’thateanyone, but if I did, it wouldn’t be because I disagreed with how they did or didn’t eat their chocolate!’
She pulled the pretty tin with the chocolate stash in it from the shelf inside the larder and grabbed the biscuits, placing both on the table in front of Jenny.
‘That’s the difference between you and me.’ Her friend levered the lid from the tin with her thumbs and, with something close to urgency, ripped the wrapper from the Twirl, before stuffing a whole stick of the stuff into her mouth. She continued to speak with her gob full of chocolate. ‘I hate lots of people, and for the most ridiculous reasons, not that they’re ridiculous to me. I have a list.’
‘You have a list?’ Enya was shocked.
‘Yes! And don’t look at me like that, Angela gets it, she has a list too.’
She poured water into the mugs, fascinated, unaware that her sister also had a list. ‘Who does Angela hate?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to break any confidences,’ Jenny pulled a face and carried on, ‘but I know for a fact that woman who does the weather – too smiley, too keen, with undertones of smug.’
‘I can’t believe I’m last to know about this! So who do you hate and why?’
‘I hate Poirot,’ Jenny over-enunciated.
