Part One

 

The Dolls House

 

The dreams returned the night following the visit to the car boot sale.

I awoke with a start, my sweat dampened t-shirt clinging to my body, chilling me. I could still hear the voice from my dream, a whisper that seemed to rush from my mind and reverberate around the room. I lay still for a moment fighting back a sense of panic and then got up and headed downstairs, much to Bob’s delight. He didn’t often get company at this inauspicious hour. Rising arthritically from his basket he tottered towards me to be petted. Leaning down I scratched him gently behind the ear and was rewarded with a rusty purr of appreciation.

Scooping him up I rubbed my cheek against his craggy face for a moment. “How about you and I have a little nightcap together, Bob, huh, how does that sound?” His cloudy orange eyes gazed at me approvingly and I gave a small laugh and set him back down on the floor.

Going to the fridge I got out the milk and poured some into a bowl, reasoning that at his age he was entitled to have a treat once in a while, and for that matter so was I. He greedily fell on the forbidden fruit while I just as greedily helped myself to a large measure of cooking brandy, the only available alcohol in the house, downing it in one. It was rough and really better suited to lighting a barbecue than quaffing neat, but still, needs must and all that. Just as I refilled the glass Bob let out a small mew of pleasure, alerting me to the fact our little party had been gate crashed by his favourite human being in the entire world. I didn’t echo the sentiment, especially not when said human smartly removed the glass from my hand and tossed the contents down the sink. I gave a mew of my own, one of indignation and protest.

“Thomas, I hadn’t finished with that!”

“I beg to differ.”

Oh how I hated it when he said that.

Re-corking the bottle with firm efficiency he put it back in the cupboard. “If you’re having trouble sleeping,” he tapped my rump, “the last thing you need is alcohol, it’s a stimulant.”

“Not if you drink enough it isn’t.” I glowered at him resentfully. “What are you doing up anyway, you usually sleep like the dead. Has Halloween come early this year?”

Ignoring both the comments and the dirty look he grasped my upper arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, switching off the light and saying calmly, “if that cat is sick because of the milk you gave him, you’re cleaning it up.”

 

He slipped a hand under my t-shirt smoothing it over my chest and belly as we lay in bed. “What’s on your mind, love? You were full of the joys of spring this morning, persuading me to go to that wretched car boot thing at the racecourse, and ever since you’ve been snapping and snarling like a dog with a tick in its tail. What’s bothering you?”

I rolled away from him, lying on my side. “Nothing, well,” I glanced back over my shoulder, “apart from the fact I fancied a little drink to help me sleep and you act like an outraged Salvationist.”

He let out a psychoanalytical sigh, “listen, when you get out of bed at two in the morning to drink cooking brandy, then clearly something is bothering you. Either you voluntarily come clean and tell me what it is or I don my Dom’s cap and make it a point of discipline until you do. I might start suggesting you go to bed straight after dinner each evening. How does that sound?”

“Huh,” I gave a contradictory grunt, “you can suggest all you like, but I won’t bloody go.”

He kissed my cheek, “oh, believe me, Andrew my honey, you’ll go, and if I catch you near that brandy bottle again, you’ll regret it. You know perfectly well that alcohol isn’t a problem solver.”

No, I thought sourly, but it’s a bloody good listener and it doesn’t nag. I kept my opinion internalised. Thomas was apt to be crabby if disagreed with on that particular point.

I graciously permitted his hand to slip inside my shorts and employ an altogether less alcoholic but still persuasive means of inducing sleepiness in me, and one at least guaranteed not to leave me with a hangover. The subsequent release of tension brought pleasure, but sadly it was transient and tension soon returned, and not in a good way. Cuddling into Thomas’s comforting arms I made a determined effort to block all anxious thoughts and make myself believe that everything was the same as it had been before the visit to the car boot sale.

 

Almost a week later, while turning the car in to the road on my way home from work, a ray of spring sunshine hit the chrome bumper of a passing motor, momentarily dazzling me. I closed my eyes for a split second against the glare and when I opened them, there she was. She was standing by the side of the road. I’d been expecting her. All the same it was a shock. My stomach gave a sickening lurch and I hunched over the wheel, fearful lest she see me. I managed to park the car on the drive without mishap, though my hands were shaking and my heart pounding so hard I thought I was going to pass out.

Thomas came into the hall, his homely features shaping themselves into a frown of disapproval as I slammed the front door hard behind me and hurled my bag aside.

“I take it you’ve had a bad day at work, Andrew, but is that really any reason...”

I didn’t give him chance to finish his sermon on the morality of door slamming and bag hurling. “I help pay the fucking bills, so I reckon I’m entitled to slam a door when I feel like it. In fact,” I opened the door and childishly slammed it shut again. “I’m entitled to slam it as many damn times as I like.”

“I can’t say I care for your attitude, how about you go out and come back in again, preferably in a more civil manner.”

“Look, Tom, I’ve had a shit day and I just want to go for a bath.” Evading his attempt to take hold of my arm I headed swiftly up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom.

Turning the taps on I sat on the loo seat bunching my lower lip between a thumb and forefinger and chewing at the skin as the bath filled, ignoring the index tapping on the door.

“Andrew, open this door please,” the index tapping turned to a four-knuckle knock. “I want to talk to you.”

Turning off the taps I stood up, leaning my hot forehead against the door’s cool grained wood. “I’m sorry for snapping your balls off, Thomas. I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you.”

“Unlock this door at once.”

Taking a deep breath I unlocked the door and opened it. He looked stern and I made haste to apologise again. “Sorry, Tom, I’ve got a headache. I’ve had a pig of a day at work. Alex has been on my back over bloody paperwork, I’m sick of her nagging. I just want to have a quiet soak in the bath and de-stress.”

His demeanour softened and he rubbed my arm, “take a couple of paracetamol, sweetheart, there’s some in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll make a start on dinner, don’t stay in there too long, okay?”

“Okay,” I managed to prevent my threatening tears from sounding an echo in my voice.

Closing the door I locked it again, leaning my back against it. The tears overflowed and I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Closing my eyes, I began rocking slowly back and forth as a scene insistently unfolded in my mind.

 

Mile upon mile they stretched out ahead of us, a great carpet of flowers, blue flowers reflecting the colour of the sky. It was breathtaking, like a painting. The whole scene was like a painting with the vivid blue wash of the sky, the brown barked trees with their fresh green leaves, the cast of gold shed by the shimmering sun, and then beneath the trees the bluebells. An Impressionist painting, that’s what she said. We’re inside an Impressionist painting. She enjoyed art and someone had given her a lush book about painters and their works for the Christmas that had just passed. She’d been enchanted with it, especially the section on Cubism, which for some reason fascinated her. She spent hours trying to draw and paint pictures and patterns in the same style, patiently explaining to mum and gran what they were meant to represent and getting cross when gran totally failed to ‘get’ the concept of drawing something from a different perspective. If you want to draw a vase then draw a vase, she would say, why try to make it into something else.

 

“Andrew!”

I jumped as Thomas knocked sharply on the door. From the tone of his voice it wasn’t the first time he’d called me.

“Coming.” Scrambling to my feet I pulled the plug in the bath, watching the unused water flow away, a small, absurdly sensible thought about waste of energy and resource inserting itself into my mind. Changing quickly out of my clothes I then splashed my face with cold water and pulled on my bathrobe before opening the door.

His verdant eyes surveyed me. “About time, I was beginning to fear you’d fallen asleep in the bath again and drowned in there. You’ve been told not to lock the bathroom door, do it again and I’ll punish you.” He followed me into the bedroom. “Dinner’s ready, so don’t bother getting changed. You can eat like that. The pasta will spoil if you dawdle much longer.”

I felt a flash of irritation. “Actually I’m not hungry, Thomas. I’m going to get dressed and go out for a walk.”

“If by walk you mean a walk to the pub to get plastered like you did the other evening then you can forget it. You’re staying in and you’re having dinner. I don’t expect for a moment you had anything at lunchtime. Hunger always makes you snappy and bad tempered, as the saying goes, a hungry man is an angry man, but not as angry as the cook whose offering is rejected. Resign yourself. I’ve made it now and it would be a crime to waste it.”

Slipping the robe off I walked across to the chest of drawers to get out fresh underwear and socks. My hands were trembling slightly as I fumbled among the chaotic mess looking for a pair of matching socks. As I fumbled my fingers brushed a small object, which was usually taped to the very back of the drawer. It had come loose. I stared at it, my stomach tightening.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Whirling round I snarled, “of course I heard what you said. I’m not deaf. It seems to me you’re the one with the hearing problem. I told you I’m not fucking hungry and I’m going out for a walk.” Turning back I savagely rammed the drawer home, dislodging a book that was resting on top of the chest.

“Would you like to tell me what this paddy is in aid of?” Thomas picked the book up from the floor, smoothed its pages and replaced it on the chest.

“No.” After tucking my attributes into clean briefs I sat on the bed to pull on a pair of odd socks.

Striding across to the window Thomas began to pull the heavy curtains closed, blocking out the evening light.

“What are you doing?” I halted sock pulling in order to scowl at him. I had a fair inkling of what he was doing, but still felt compelled to ask. I was masochistic like that.

“Drawing the curtains,” he said, stating the obvious in that infuriatingly calm way of his.

“Why?”

“Because, Andrew, in lieu of you being forthcoming about exactly why you’re behaving like a fractious toddler I can only draw the conclusion it’s because you haven’t been sleeping well lately and act accordingly. It seems to me you’d benefit more from an early night than a walk and if you don’t, then at least I will, because I won’t get mauled every time I open my mouth. I’m tired of being snapped at. I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can settle down.”

He briefly ruffled my hair as if I were indeed a tired toddler and then walked out of the room, leaving me seething. As soon as his footsteps began to descend the stairs, I defiantly flung the curtains back open and dragged on jeans and a heavy knit jumper. It might well be spring according to the calendar, but as yet there was still a hint of winter’s breath in the air.

 

We met on the stairs. He was halfway up carrying a tray while I was halfway down carrying nothing. He played the Grand old Duke Of York to my man at arms, marching me straight back up to the top of the hill. Well, not so much marching me back up as forcing me to retreat, as he had no intention of halting his intended journey and I couldn’t get past him on the narrow staircase. Like the staircase the upper landing was narrow and he positioned himself dead centre, elbows out, so I couldn’t squeeze past him, not without upsetting the contents of the tray.

To my annoyance I was pushed back faster than the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk though unlike those brave souls I had no opportunity to turn defeat into a glorious triumph of the human spirit over adversity. Using his right heel he closed the bedroom door behind him and swiftly set the tray down on a chair. I was, metaphorically speaking, stranded with the enemy to the fore and the unfriendly sea to the rear and not a rescue craft in sight. Oh how I hated being outmanoeuvred.

“Get ready for bed, Andrew.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t surrendering without a fight.

Forcing back a pout and an urge to leap up and down on the spot, I tried to make my voice sound reasonable and steady, like the adult I was and not the child I was beginning to feel like. “I’m not going to bed, Thomas. I know you mean well, but I’m not tired and I’m not hungry. I simply want some fresh air, is that asking too much?”

“No,” he gave an eloquent shrug. “Fresh air is no problem at all, my darling. Open the window and you can have all the fresh air you need. Close the curtains while you’re over there, a dim light is more conducive to rest.”

“I’m not budging on this, Tom, I mean it.” Folding my arms I stared at him stubbornly. We faced each other off for a few moments, and then he gave a small shrug suggestive of regret and moved across to his bedside cabinet. Pulling open the drawer he brought forth a certain beastly little bat and laid it on the bed, making plain we were now in an official discipline situation and he had his Dominant’s hat on.

“As you know, Andrew, I’m a fair man,” he gave a cool smile. “I’ll give you a choice. Bed without further ado or a bare backside paddling and then bed.”

“In other words, no choice at all.”

“Exactly, so do as you’re told please and do it quickly or you’ll find yourself over my knee.”

I angrily dragged my jumper over my head. “You always get your way don’t you? You’re a bully and a damn dictator.” Really, I had no grounds for such accusations. I knew the rules of the game well enough and I knew they applied whether or not I was in the mood for playing.

“Sticks and stones, my boy, sticks and stones.” He set about picking up my clothes from the four corners of the room where I’d flung them in juvenile pique, neatly folding them and putting them on top of the chest of drawers. “The end justifies the means. You’ve displayed nothing but ill temper for days now. I warned you the other evening I wouldn’t put up with much more of it. Rest. You can call me as many names as you like, as long as you wake up in a better mood tomorrow. Eat your pasta before it goes completely cold. I’ll be up presently to get the tray.”

He placed the paddle on top of his bedside cabinet where I could clearly see it. “Just to remind you that the sting is in the tail,” he wagged his index finger, “or at least it will be in yours if you attempt to defy the limitations just set.”

I pulled a face and stuck a hearty two fingers up as Mr Proverb man exited the room. “Bossy, bloody impossible, arrogant, overbearing...” I gave up muttering and opened the drawer of my own bedside table tipping the tagliatelle inside and closing it again. My copy of The Da Vinci Code would never be the same again, but then maybe that was a plus. It was a tedious read. I couldn’t understand why it was so popular.

Shoving the empty plate on the tray I leaned my aching head against the pine headboard and brooded. How had it gotten here I wondered, bringing her with it. What if he’d brought it? The thought I might see him as well as her made me feel sick and the vice around my head tightened further still.

 

“See, you were hungry.” Thomas smiled when he came back up for the tray and saw the empty plate. I felt a spasm of guilt at deceiving him. He cared about me and I really didn’t deserve him to. He compounded the guilty feeling by balancing the tray on his left hip in order to free his right hand to tenderly caress my face. “You’ll feel so much better after a rest, love.” He struggled heroically for a second his untidy brows bristling slightly with the effort, but gave into temptation, quoting another of his beloved proverbs. “One hour’s sleep before midnight is worth two after.”

“The darkest hour is before the dawn.” I countered sarcastically, “and there will be sleeping enough in the grave.”

“Much more mockery from you and we’ll be putting that last one into practice.” He sternly peered at me over the top of his half moon glasses though the effect was endearing rather than intimidating, “the trouble with you, Andrew, is you always have to try and have the last word and as you know, in this house, the last word belongs exclusively to me, so heed it and sleep.”

“I’m not a baby to be fussed over. I’m fine, I don’t need a rest.”

“You’re my baby, and I love you. Try to sleep, to please me if not yourself.” He made a kiss at me before leaving the room closing the door behind him.

The last thing in the world I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep opened the gateway to nightmares and I wanted to keep it firmly shut. Even without closing my eyes I could see the dolls house standing on that rickety bric-a-brac stall at the car boot sale. It was the same, the very same. I knew exactly what it would look like if I removed the curved claw hook from the eye and allowed the front of the house to swing open, revealing the rooms within. My skin prickled as I tried desperately to blink the vision away.

Getting out of bed I wandered across to the window pulling aside the curtains to stare outside, watching as the evening paperboy cycled down the opposite side of the street pedalling for all he was worth, keeping time with whatever music was blasting into his eardrums courtesy of iPod. The lowering sun caught the whirling spokes flashing spears of silver. I blinked and then felt my heart leap violently in my chest as she came into view again, standing on the edge of the curb…arms wrapped tight about her thin body. I hurriedly closed the curtains and thrust myself back from the window.

 

 

The brandy burned a path from my mouth to my stomach insulting my taste buds en route and making my eyes water into the bargain. Undeterred I slopped another generous measure into the glass, gulping it down in one. I perhaps should have sipped it more circumspectly, as my subsequent spluttering and coughing were not advantageous to secret drinking, a case of alcoholics not so anonymous.

“Andy?” Book tucked under his arm, bemused expression tacked on his face Thomas hurried into the kitchen. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

I quickly poured more of the firewater into my glass, “what does it look like I’m doing, picking fucking daisies? I’m having a little drink to help me sleep, that’s what I’m doing.”

He strode towards me. “Give me that glass, Andrew. NOW! Do you hear me?”

Even the fact he raised his voice, a rare occurrence, didn’t deter me from gulping at the contents of the glass again and just about gagging as the acrid liquid hit the back of my throat. Taken on an empty stomach the alcohol effect was almost immediate, making me reckless. I took another generous swig. “Know what, Thomas, You’ve missed your true vocation in life. You should have been an ear specialist instead of an optician, cos you’re fucking obsessed with whether or not I can hear you.” I pointed to my mouth, “read my lips…mind your own business.”

“You’ve got exactly three seconds to do as you’re told and put the glass down.”

“Whatever you say, Tom, whatever you say.” Draining the glass I spitefully hurled it across the room where it shattered against the wall with satisfying effect, spraying fragments of glass everywhere. “Hey, how about that, the glass is down and I’ve still got half a second to spare. Shame this isn’t a game show, I’d have won a prize. Who needs a glass anyway, not me.”

I tried to push past him still holding the bottle. Not a hope in hell. He’s always been able to handle me with ease. I suddenly found myself, sans bottle, nose to nose with Bob, who was sitting under the kitchen chair, which Thomas was now sitting on. Bob looked as astonished as I felt. I jerked up my head and let out a yell as a large palm powered down on my backside. Bob fled. I wish I could have joined him, but I sensed I was going nowhere for a while yet.

Thomas wasted no words. He simply concentrated on spanking my backside hard and fast. My sleep shorts offered little in the way of protection. All the same I mourned their loss deeply as he lifted me and tugged them down to my knees, exposing my buttocks to the full scope of his punishing hand. All temper had gone from me and I was almost in tears when he stopped smacking and began rubbing a soothing hand over my burning behind. Seeing as he’d made it hot and sore in the first place I didn’t really appreciate the gesture.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Not being able to have a drink when I want one and the pain in my bum.” I said facetiously, which was a mistake considering my vulnerable position, bare backside at three o clock high. I yelped as he sharply walloped it again.

“You don’t need the first,” he said sternly, “and you earned the second. I won’t tolerate the level of disrespect you’ve shown towards me this evening and I certainly won’t tolerate you throwing things. Drink isn’t a cure-all. Whatever is bothering you is best talked about and not temporarily drowned in alcohol. Is it work, has Alex been on your bones again?”

“Yeah,” I twisted my head to look at him, “it’s work. Why don’t we talk about it over a drink, you talk and I’ll drink.”

“If that’s going to be your attitude you leave me no alternative.” His hand left my backside and pulled open the drawer on the pine kitchen table.

Shit! I knew what was kept in that drawer and hurriedly tried to lever myself off his lap. “Let me up you sadistic bastard!” Perhaps I should have asked more politely. His arm tightened around my waist securing me more firmly and I let out a howl of grief as he whacked the wooden spatula across my already inflamed cheeks. “Oh God, please, Thomas, please no, I’m sorry...”

“I’ve had more than enough of your bad temper and foulmouthed rudeness for one night. It may have escaped your notice, but your destructive tantrum has cost me a cut to my foot. It’s not acceptable to cause injury to others just because you’re feeling bad about something you refuse to talk about.”

I cried out as the spatula contacted my bottom harder still. The damn thing hurt just as much if not more than the custom made paddle. He wielded it expertly, landing smack after stinging smack to my buttocks and thighs, stopping only when my frantic squirming became a hindrance and I half slid off his lap. Re-arranging me over his left thigh he pinned my right hand against the small of my back, trapped my flailing lower limbs with his right leg, and resumed punishment.

 

“I hate you, Thomas. You do know that don’t you?” I spoke thickly, my voice still tear thickened. The spanking he had given me had left me in no doubt as to his disapproval of my behaviour. It had been hard and it had hurt and given my already overwrought state I had quickly succumbed to tears that once started I found hard to stem.

“If you say so, honey.” There was a slight rustle as he turned the page of the book he’d been reading for the past half hour. “I’ll take comfort in the fact you’re at least speaking to me again.”

“Is your foot all right,” I momentarily swapped detestation for concern, “shall I look at it for you?”

“I’ve attended to it thank you.”

“What are you reading?”

“Justinian, The Digest Of Roman Law.”

“Sounds like real laugh an hour stuff.”

“It’s fascinating actually. Do you want me to read some to you?”

“No,” I kept my back turned to him. “I don’t want anything from you. I loathe and despise you.”

“Saying is one thing, doing another.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it means, my boy, is that you don’t mean what you’re saying.”

“I do. I really hate you.”

“Love me little, love me long.”

“I don’t even like you never mind love you. Thanks to you I won’t be able to sit comfortably for days.”

“That’s entirely your own fault.” The mattress raised a little as he got up.

I glanced back over my shoulder. “Where are you going?”

He removed his glasses and laid them on the bedside table along with his book, “does it matter if you despise me so much?”

“Yes, I like to have you close by while I’m hating you.”

“Now you’re calmer, I’m going to sweep up the mess you made in the kitchen. I’m also going to pour the remains of that brandy down the sink, so you’ll have nothing further to tempt you out of bed. Bourguignon is off the house menu from now on. Then I’ll let Bob out for his evening constitutional and do a little paperwork. I’ll be back up before you know it, then you can despise me to your hearts content.” He winced slightly and I felt a spasm of guilt.

“Is your foot badly cut?”

“I’ll live,” he said dryly.

“I really didn’t mean you to get hurt, I’m sorry. Are you sure it doesn’t need stitches? I wish you’d let me look at it.”

“It’s minor, so stop fretting,” he lightly patted the covers in the vicinity of my bottom, “the matter has been dealt with and you’re all forgiven, so let it go.”

He bent to kiss me, “please try to get some sleep, you really do look shattered. We’ll talk properly tomorrow and I’ll expect some clear answers. I mean it, Andrew. I don’t like to see you in these ugly moods. You’ll tell me what the problem is and we’ll sort it out, no more procrastinating.”

I watched him leave the room, feeling suddenly lonely as the door closed behind him.

I was shattered, but I stubbornly lay awake, fighting Hypnos every inch of the way. If only I hadn’t insisted we go to that damned car boot sale. I’d wanted a change, a break from the usual ritual and routine of Sunday mornings. I’d persuaded Thomas to come with me to the racecourse where people traded junk, their own and other peoples, from the boots of their cars. What is it they say; one man’s junk is another man’s treasure? Not the dolls house though. It had never been treasure, or if it had it was cursed treasure. The moment I’d set eyes on it again, it was as if someone had jerked aside a heavy curtain in my mind and all sense of peace I had vanished.

I was still awake when Thomas came to bed though I pretended not to be, feigning sleep, in case he started asking questions. He knew I was faking, but didn’t press, settling for stroking my cheek and placing a light kiss on my shoulder before settling down beside me. I lay wakeful long after he’d succumbed to slumber, bless him, he can sleep on a clothesline.

Sly Hypnos eventually outfoxed me and won the battle, my eyes closed and Morpheus took over from his father.

 

I could almost smell the flowers, the cool earthy scent of bluebells on a May breeze. I watched my child self, laughing and shouting, a typical eleven year old boy, brutally crushing the fragile blooms beneath my feet as I ran and played among the trees. Not her though. She picked her way delicately through the blue-green sea of flowers and grass to sit beneath a tree.

“The trees are whispering can you hear them?” She spoke to me as I flopped down beside her for a rest, “they’re telling secrets. Listen, Andy,” she put a finger to her lips, “listen and you’ll hear a secret.”

“You’re mad, Issy,” I teased her. “It’s just the wind rustling through the leaves.”

“Look,” she held out her hand. In it was a tiny doll, her counterpart from the dolls house. “She likes it here, she told me. She wants to stay here forever.”

“Well she can’t, we’re going home tomorrow.”

She gazed at me solemnly. “Did you know that you mustn’t pick the bluebells? If you take them away from the trees they fade and die, even if you give them water.” She paused and then whispered, “I’ll die if I leave here. I want to stay with the bluebells.”

I mocked her, “you’re weird, Issy, really weird, of course you won’t die.”

The dream shifted in that sudden way dreams do. The front of the dolls house swung slowly open, revealing the rooms within: sitting room, kitchen, a narrow flight of stairs, the bathroom and the bedrooms, all so neat and perfect, and then there were the dolls. I was shouting angrily. “You’re too old to be playing with dolls now. Why don’t you go out, make friends. Get a life!” She said nothing, continuing to play with the dolls house until I angrily pushed her aside, slamming the front closed. Only it wouldn’t stay closed. It bounced open again and again...whispers leaking from the walls, invading my mind.

 

I awoke with a jolt, wiping away the sweat trickling down my face, forcing myself to breathe deeply, using the soothing steady rhythm of Thomas’s sleep breathing as a template. She always turned up, always. Just when it seemed I’d successfully forgotten she reappeared, driving me on. Only this time, for the first time, I didn’t want to move on. I wanted to stay with Thomas, and conversely it was why I had to go. I didn’t deserve to be happy, that was the deal I’d struck with my conscience. He’d hate me anyway, if he knew, he’d hate me, just as I hated myself, just as Issy hated me because…because…the word echoed madly around my head, tantalising, daring me to complete the thought. She was closing in. I had to leave before Thomas discovered what kind of man he’d been sharing his life with.

I got up and dressed, wincing as I pulled jeans up over my tender backside. Carefully lifting a holdall from the top of the wardrobe I moved quietly around the room gathering a clutch of things together. I stood for a few moments looking down at Thomas’s sleeping form, drinking in the plain kind features that had come to mean so much to me. The time spent with him had been good, the very best. I crept from the room, closing the door silently behind me.

I left my mobile phone on the hall table, deliberately cutting myself off from easy communication and then I opened the front door, stopping Bob when he tried to follow. He looked up at me askance and I felt a pang of guilt, bending down to pet him one last time. “Take care of Thomas for me, Bobby,” I whispered, stroking his soft marmalade fur before pushing him back inside and closing the door on him.

I was crying as I drove away in the pearly light of early dawn. If this didn’t appease her, nothing would. I felt as if I’d given up my soul. Surely she could ask no more of me.