And he does. Gram’s toyboy, the guy from the Priory View doorway, comes into the kitchen, and says, ‘What was all that about?’

‘Ethel is staying at a friend’s tonight. She’s … she’s not very well.’

It’s the first time I get a good look at him since I first saw him at Priory View.

‘We’ll have to do this another time, eh?’ he says.

‘Yes. Perhaps you could come round tomorrow?’

Toyboy grins: it’s a nice smile. ‘Sure thing. Gimme a call.’

Last time I saw him, he was dressed smartly: jacket, pressed trousers. Now he’s just in a T-shirt and jeans. To my surprise, I see that his arms are heavily tattooed, which makes me wonder. Body ink is so not Gram’s thing. Surely she can’t …

Then he turns. Meandering up his neck, from out of his T-shirt up to his hairline, is another tattoo. A distinctive, unmistakable twist of green ivy that I have seen before, somewhere.

I gasp out loud, and both he and Gram look round, but each probably thinks it is the other.

As soon as I have the thought, it begins to make sense.

The accent. It’s not a London accent at all. It’s a New Zealand accent.

It is all I can do – and I mean that: it takes ALL of my effort – not to call out, ‘Dad?’

But I cannot forget that I am standing naked and invisible. It’s not how I want my dad – for the first time in ten years – to see me. If you see what I mean.

I hear Gram at the door say, ‘Goodnight, Rick.’

I’m still standing in the kitchen, and I haven’t moved a muscle. I don’t think I have actually breathed. My heart is racing at least as fast as my mind, and I am definitely not going to have the invisible conversation now.

Gram comes back in to turn off the light before going to bed. A blue glow comes from the digital clock on the cooker. It’s 11.45.

I wait a few minutes for Gram to settle in her room, then I sneak upstairs and into bed as quietly as I can.

And a thought that has been nagging at the edge of my mind becomes clearer: shouldn’t I be starting to get the tingling feeling? The itch, accompanied by a headache, that precedes the return of my visibility?

For the moment, I try to put it to the back of my mind. I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. Besides, there’s a whole new thing I’ve got to think about now.

My dad? Ricky Malcolm?

I go over it again and again. The change in appearance is no mystery. From a guy with snaggled teeth, a long mop of red hair and a huge, dirty-looking beard to a clean, shaved man who could be a teacher or, well … anything but a rock rebel. The difference is astonishing, and I would not believe it anyway, if it weren’t for the tattoos.

In my room, I quietly open my laptop and search Google Images for Ricky Malcolm.

There he is: the hairy rocker.

I enlarge one picture in which, on stage, his hair is swept back, revealing the tattoo on his neck. It’s definitely the same.

And now I look at his eyes: the same grey-green. In this picture, he’s looking directly at the camera, and I enlarge it even more, till the pixels begin to show, and the eyes are life-size. I rotate the picture until the eyes are straight and I just stare and stare.

That’s the same look he gave me when we chatted about Lady at Priory View. He had peered intensely into my eyes, because he knew. He knew that his were the same as mine, and that I was his daughter.

Why hadn’t he said something?

I’m lying here, and there’s a part of me that knows beyond a doubt that I may not have another chance to show Gram that I am really invisible. Yes, I have the recording of me becoming invisible – it’s right there on my laptop, the thing I filmed in the garage. But will that be proof? I’ve looked at it and, well … I’m not sure.

I’m about to close my laptop when it pings softly with an incoming email.

From thomasknight@ringmail.co.uk. Tommy Knight is emailing me?

Well, no. It’s Jesmond and Jarrow, using their dad’s account.

V clever, Invisigirl. We’ll admit that. Is it you that’s done our laptops as well? Thing is, Invisigirl, how do you know we don’t have a copy of it all?

You have stolen my phone. I want it back, or it all goes on YouTube tomorrow.

Jesmond

It’s past midnight, but I text Boydy nonetheless, attaching the email.

He doesn’t reply. He must be asleep. On his front, presumably.

I’m on my own, and the mood I’m in is not one to start giving in to anyone.

So I email back.

Thanks for your dad’s email address. That’ll come in handy when I want to tell him about your dog and cat scam. Or perhaps I’ll call round in person and tell him myself – after telling the police, obvs.

I don’t believe you about the copy, BTW. But even if you have got one, I’d keep it to yourselves.

Ethel

x

I hit SEND. What do I have to lose? I have a feeling that this is the end of the whole affair.

I should know much better.