I try the light switch but it doesn’t work. So I use the torch on my phone to navigate a path through all the clutter, towards the back of the house. I stop in the kitchen, not sure what it is that I’m looking for, but shocked by all the mess. There are dirty cups and plates everywhere. Despite the dark, I notice the back door and the glass on the floor. Someone has smashed it to get inside.

I run up the stairs and open the door to Anna’s mother’s room, but there is nobody there. The bed has been neatly made, but unslept in. I close the door, wanting to leave everything as I found it. Then I backtrack along the landing to the bedroom that used to be Anna’s. It is empty too.

I’m about to leave when I hear the sound of footsteps crunching over broken glass down below. I move behind the bedroom door and stand perfectly still, then listen as someone slowly walks from the kitchen, through the dining room, and up the stairs. I feel inside my pockets and squint into the darkness, but can’t find anything to defend myself with.

I hear whoever is out there open the first bedroom door – it creaks in protest – then I wait as they creep along the landing towards me. As soon as they step into the room, I slam the door in their face and throw them against the wall, my height giving me a clear advantage. They fall hard onto the floor, I switch on the light, and am completely shocked by who I see. I wasn’t expecting it to be someone I know.

Her

Thursday 00:55

‘What do you mean I know your wife?’ I say.

‘Are you serious?’ Richard asks, his face full of disbelief.

‘Deadly.’ I regret my choice of response as soon as I’ve said it.

He shakes his head and laughs.

‘Wow. How is it that you never seem to know what’s going on in other people’s lives? Are you really that self-involved? I’ve known you for years, we’ve slept together, how can you not know anything about me?’

‘I do know things about you. You talk about your kids non-stop, I look at your endless pictures of them. Who is your wife?’

‘Cat.’

‘Cat who?’

‘Cat Jones. The woman who presents the One O’Clock News, like you used to? She just came back from maternity leave. We even have the same surname, although I appreciate it’s a little common, bit like me.’

‘You’re married to Cat Jones?’

‘I know she’s a bit out of my league, but there’s no need to say it like that.’

‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’

‘I… presumed you knew. Everyone else does. It isn’t a secret.’

Half the newsroom is either sleeping with or married to each other, and I’m not the best at keeping up with office gossip, but this still seems a little hard to believe. It’s her fault I’m here, not just because she has taken her presenting job back, but because it was Cat that suggested, in front of the whole team, that I should cover this story.

She insisted, if I remember rightly, as though she knew I didn’t want to go to Blackdown. But she can’t possibly have known my connection to the place. Nobody does. I never talk about my personal life with people at work; perhaps that’s why I rarely know anything about theirs.

‘You must have known about me and Cat,’ Richard says, shaking his head. ‘She had a stalker, and I found him in our back garden not long after our first little girl was born. I thought the whole newsroom knew this story. He was trespassing on our property, trying to take pictures of Cat breastfeeding, and when I punched him a couple of times, I got done for GBH. Can you believe that?’

I don’t know if I do believe it. I don’t know what to think about anything. All I know right now is that I don’t want to go inside that house.

‘Can I just use your phone to make a quick call, please?’ I ask.

I have a strange and sudden urge to speak to Jack.

‘I told you at the hotel, I can’t find my mobile. I expect Cat probably called to tell me she was driving down, but I didn’t get the message. Either I’ve lost my phone, or someone has stolen it. In any case, I still have my charger, so you can use it once we get in.’

He gets out, walks around to the passenger side, and opens my door.

‘Are you coming, or would you rather sleep in the car?’

I don’t answer, but reluctantly follow him towards the house.

It’s hard to see where we are going in the dark. A crescent moon does a half-hearted job of lighting our way as we crunch over dead leaves and twigs. It’s impossible to find the path because it looks like nobody has swept it, or tended to this garden for years. It’s as though the place has been left abandoned for a very long time.

‘That’s strange,’ says Richard.

‘What is?’

‘There is another car here.’

I see the sports car he is referring to but don’t say anything. Everything about this situation is strange.

We carry on along the path and I get a better view of the house. It looks like something from a horror film: an old wooden building, covered in ivy, with windows shaped like eyes. It’s pitch-black behind them, but then it is very late.

Richard opens the front door and we step inside. He switches on the lights and I’m relieved that they work. Then he unzips his bag and hands me his phone charger.

‘Here you go. I’m just going to go and check on Cat, hopefully we haven’t woken her. Make yourself at home, if that’s possible in this dump, and I’ll be down in a bit. I’m sure there must be something edible in the freezer, and I know there is something to drink – my father-in-law shunned DIY, but he was good at maintaining his wine cellar – I won’t be long.’

He’s trying to make me feel welcome. It isn’t his fault the hotel cancelled our booking; I’m being ungrateful and I feel the need to apologise.

‘I’m sorry, I’m just so tired—’

‘It’s fine. You’ve been a busy bee,’ he interrupts.

Something about the way he says it makes me shiver.

‘You know, bees aren’t as busy as people think. They can sleep inside flowers for up to eight hours a day, curled together in pairs, holding each other’s feet,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Who told you that?’ he asks.

‘My mother.’

As soon as I think about her I feel sad.

‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten your mum keeps bees,’ Richard replies, before disappearing up the old wooden staircase.

It’s odd because I don’t remember ever telling him that. But then I suppose there must have been a few drunken conversations over the years that I’ve forgotten.

I stand in the hallway for a moment, unsure what to do or where to go. I see a loose-looking socket in the wall, and decide to risk electrocution by plugging in my phone. It starts to charge and I begin to feel a little better.

I head towards the first door I see, and step into an old and dusty lounge. It looks like it was last decorated, and possibly cleaned, in the 1970s. There is a gothic-looking fireplace, which I can see has been used more recently; a few smouldering logs still glowing in the grate. I get closer for warmth, and notice the silver-framed photos on the mantelpiece.

Sure enough, there is a family portrait of Richard and Cat, with her shiny red hair cut into a razor-sharp bob. I stare at her pretty, heavily made-up face, big eyes, and perfect white smile, as she poses next to her husband, holding on tight to their two little girls. Now that I see them again, I recognise the children who came to visit the newsroom just a few days ago. They are the same faces that were in all the pictures on Richard’s phone. I was a fool not to see it before.