In the kitchen, Emily shredded a lettuce and dropped it into a glass bowl, diced cucumber and tomatoes and added them, then cut an avocado in half, carefully removed the stone and sliced the flesh into the bowl, adding pine nuts, quinoa and chia seeds, an olive oil dressing, then salt and pepper.
She removed the cover from the pasta bake her mother had made, put it in the preheated oven and called up, loudly, ‘Supper will be ready in twenty minutes, darling!’
Next, she pulled a rhubarb crumble out of the fridge, put it in the microwave and closed the door, making a mental note to switch it on a little later, just to reheat it.
To her surprise, the machine suddenly began whirring. She was about to switch it off, when a shadow slid silently across the floor.
‘Oh, great, you’re down quickly! How hungry are you? I’ve got some garlic bread in the freezer – I could bung it in the oven if you’re—’
She turned around.
There was no one there.
She stared at the doorway to the hall. ‘Jason?’ Her voice came out small and scared. ‘Jason?’ Louder. ‘Jason?’
She walked over to the hall.
A shadow moved past her.
She spun around.
No one.
She looked at the television. It was off. She turned to the command box. The red off-light was glowing.
She stood still, scared, eyes darting in every direction. Staring out at the darkness beyond the windows. Feeling even more strongly the presence of an unseen person here in the kitchen with her.
Very nervously, looking over her shoulder every few steps, she went over to the cupboard where she’d stored the dinner plates, opened it and lifted out two. Halfway across to the refectory table there was a massive bang, like a gunshot.
Something hot struck her face, hard.
Screaming in shock, she dropped the plates, which shattered on the tiled floor.
Jason came running into the room. ‘What—?’
He stopped in his tracks.
His wife was standing in the middle of the kitchen. White stuff in her red hair. Blood pouring down her face. Smoke was belching from the microwave, its door open, swinging, the glass blackened. The walls and ceiling spattered with red splodges.
He ran over to her. ‘Em, Em, are you—?’
Then he saw to his relief it wasn’t blood, it was rhubarb juice. Her hair was covered in specks of crumble and rhubarb fragments, juice trickling down her cheek. He put his arms around her. ‘Jesus, are you OK?’
Sobbing, she said, ‘No. NO. I am not OK.’