ready to strike. I felt as though I was pitched against it, that if I could just
crawl into bed without making any sudden movements I might avoid its wrath, but if I tilted the thing into action, it would attack, knives slashing at my head without mercy.
In the bedroom, I turned back the duvet then lowered my head carefully onto the pillow and shut my eyes. Little pinpricks of light popped and fizzled around the edge of my vision, even though my
eyes were closed, and the nausea rose and fell, rose and fell. I lay there, motionless, grateful for the thickness of the curtains and the stillness of the afternoon, willing the pills to kick in.
So far, I still wasn’t feeling actual pain, but the tentacles were sliding ever nearer and I tried not to think about the possibility of a disabling three-dayer.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been lying there when the phone went, each ring jabbing into my poor fragile brain. I lay still and tense, willing it to stop and trying to remember how
many times it would ring before the voicemail kicked in. When it stopped, the silence sort of twinkled for a moment, and I felt my body relax. The phone rang again almost immediately, causing my
body to tense and the nausea to start swirling inside me. I held my breath and counted the rings, six, seven, eight. Then blissful silence, but only for a few seconds before it started again.
Slowly, I levered myself up using my elbow. The room was darker than before, but it wasn’t completely dark outside yet, which meant Duncan hadn’t been out for long. Maybe something was
wrong. The ringing stopped again, and this time I simply braced myself for it to resume, cursing the fact that I hadn’t brought the handset from downstairs and put it next to the bed. A
sequence of pictures flashed though my head: Hannah had collapsed with an unknown illness; the baby wasn’t breathing; Duncan had had a heart attack or slipped on the ice and broken his leg;
Monty had chased a squirrel into the road and been run over. Sure enough, the ringing started again. Still moving slowly, I swung my legs round and put my feet on the floor, then I stood up and
walked across the room.
‘Hello?’ I was aware that my voice sounded anxious. Duncan was always telling me off about it. He said I always sounded like I was expecting bad news.
‘Jo?’
I froze. No one had called me by that name for over thirty years. My fingers gripped the phone more tightly as another thick wave of nausea swayed inside me. I wanted to hang up but I was
paralysed. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be sick or if I was going to faint, but right at that moment I felt very, very ill, like I might die. I leant back against the wall as my knees
buckled and I allowed myself to sink down onto the carpet.
‘Jo?’ he said again. ‘Look, I know you’re there.’
I recognised his voice, even though it sounded softer, weaker than I remembered. So it
was
him I saw in Marks & Spencer’s that day.
‘Listen, please don’t be scared. I know your husband has gone out—’
I hit the
End call
burton and slammed the handset into its cradle, the sudden movement sending a missile of pain deep into my skull. He must have been watching the house. Oh dear God,
why? What did he want? I sat there on the landing with the warm carpet thick and comforting beneath me and I put my hands out to steady myself as though I was on a boat that might tip me into the
freezing water at any moment. I could feel my heart thudding and panic rising in my throat. The phone rang again. I stared at it until it stopped, eight rings. But then it rang again, and again. I
could have unplugged the main phone downstairs, but something told me he wasn’t going to give up, and if he knew where I lived . . . On the next ring, I picked up.
‘Don’t hang up,’ he said. ‘Please, Jo. We have to talk.’ He sounded desperate.
‘We can’t talk,’ I said. ‘Ever.’ And I was about to hang up again when he said, ‘Jo, for
crawl into bed without making any sudden movements I might avoid its wrath, but if I tilted the thing into action, it would attack, knives slashing at my head without mercy.
In the bedroom, I turned back the duvet then lowered my head carefully onto the pillow and shut my eyes. Little pinpricks of light popped and fizzled around the edge of my vision, even though my
eyes were closed, and the nausea rose and fell, rose and fell. I lay there, motionless, grateful for the thickness of the curtains and the stillness of the afternoon, willing the pills to kick in.
So far, I still wasn’t feeling actual pain, but the tentacles were sliding ever nearer and I tried not to think about the possibility of a disabling three-dayer.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been lying there when the phone went, each ring jabbing into my poor fragile brain. I lay still and tense, willing it to stop and trying to remember how
many times it would ring before the voicemail kicked in. When it stopped, the silence sort of twinkled for a moment, and I felt my body relax. The phone rang again almost immediately, causing my
body to tense and the nausea to start swirling inside me. I held my breath and counted the rings, six, seven, eight. Then blissful silence, but only for a few seconds before it started again.
Slowly, I levered myself up using my elbow. The room was darker than before, but it wasn’t completely dark outside yet, which meant Duncan hadn’t been out for long. Maybe something was
wrong. The ringing stopped again, and this time I simply braced myself for it to resume, cursing the fact that I hadn’t brought the handset from downstairs and put it next to the bed. A
sequence of pictures flashed though my head: Hannah had collapsed with an unknown illness; the baby wasn’t breathing; Duncan had had a heart attack or slipped on the ice and broken his leg;
Monty had chased a squirrel into the road and been run over. Sure enough, the ringing started again. Still moving slowly, I swung my legs round and put my feet on the floor, then I stood up and
walked across the room.
‘Hello?’ I was aware that my voice sounded anxious. Duncan was always telling me off about it. He said I always sounded like I was expecting bad news.
‘Jo?’
I froze. No one had called me by that name for over thirty years. My fingers gripped the phone more tightly as another thick wave of nausea swayed inside me. I wanted to hang up but I was
paralysed. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be sick or if I was going to faint, but right at that moment I felt very, very ill, like I might die. I leant back against the wall as my knees
buckled and I allowed myself to sink down onto the carpet.
‘Jo?’ he said again. ‘Look, I know you’re there.’
I recognised his voice, even though it sounded softer, weaker than I remembered. So it
was
him I saw in Marks & Spencer’s that day.
‘Listen, please don’t be scared. I know your husband has gone out—’
I hit the
End call
burton and slammed the handset into its cradle, the sudden movement sending a missile of pain deep into my skull. He must have been watching the house. Oh dear God,
why? What did he want? I sat there on the landing with the warm carpet thick and comforting beneath me and I put my hands out to steady myself as though I was on a boat that might tip me into the
freezing water at any moment. I could feel my heart thudding and panic rising in my throat. The phone rang again. I stared at it until it stopped, eight rings. But then it rang again, and again. I
could have unplugged the main phone downstairs, but something told me he wasn’t going to give up, and if he knew where I lived . . . On the next ring, I picked up.
‘Don’t hang up,’ he said. ‘Please, Jo. We have to talk.’ He sounded desperate.
‘We can’t talk,’ I said. ‘Ever.’ And I was about to hang up again when he said, ‘Jo, for
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