Sixteen

Juliet Armstrong awoke in her neat small flat and consulted the clock on her bedside table: 7.45 a.m. She’d overslept. She turned over and groaned. Her mouth was dry and there was a pounding in her head. She sat up and felt the room lurch into a spin. She tried to swallow and was alarmed to find that her throat was so dry and swollen that it was difficult for her to breathe. It felt constricted, as if something malicious and scratchy, like a giant twig, had become lodged there.

Juliet had been a policewoman for more than ten years. During the whole of that time, she had never missed a day except to take annual leave or attend the occasional funeral. She was loath to break this record by calling in sick. She resolved to have a cup of tea and see how she felt before making such an extreme decision. She swung her legs out of bed and got slowly to her feet. She made a grab for the top of the chest of drawers as it disappeared into a blurred morass that jumbled together ceiling, carpet and door. Juliet collapsed to the floor, going down heavily, knocking her head on the side of the chest of drawers as she fell.