I get off the tube at Notting Hill and walk towards home, my neck seeming to hold my head a little higher than it has recently. I experience a trampoline of emotions with every step, bouncing from high to low then back again, before the mixed bag of feelings seems to collapse in an exhausted state inside my tired mind. I have an audition with one of my all-time-favorite directors, my agent is not dumping me, and despite all the problems in my personal life, there is a lot to be grateful for. This misunderstanding with Ben will get all cleared up. He’s trying to hurt me, but he can’t vanish forever, and I can’t be accused of a crime that never happened.

I turn the corner onto my street, feeling as if everything might just be okay after all.

The feeling doesn’t last long.

The two police vans that were sitting outside the house this morning are still there, but now they are empty. My front door is wide open. There is a steady stream of police officers going in and out of the building, and blue-and-white police tape forms a cordon between it and the rest of the street. I guess Detective Croft got her warrant.

This has to be a bad dream. Surely by now she must have realized that I’m telling the truth. I don’t know where my husband is, why he said the things he did, or why he is doing this to me. I expect he just wanted to teach me a lesson, but enough is enough. I certainly didn’t do away with him the way she keeps seeming to suggest. I might have been diagnosed with trauma-induced amnesia as a child, but the doctors were wrong, and either way, I think I’d remember if I’d done anything as dramatic as that.

I start walking towards the police tape. They’ll have to let me in, it’s my house, and besides, I need to get ready for the wrap party tonight, I can’t go dressed like this. The wind in my newly hoisted sails dies an instant death when I see two men dressed in white forensic overalls. They are carrying what looks like a stretcher out of my front door. Something, or someone, is on it, hidden beneath a white sheet.

At first I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing.

The image seems to burn itself onto my mind, leaving a permanent mark, and snuffing out my last remains of hope.

They can’t have found a body, because that would mean that someone was dead. And if someone really was dead, then that would mean that someone else had killed them. I spot the shape of Detective Croft coming out of the house; she’s pointing at something I can’t see. If she really has found something, she’ll never believe me about the stalker now; she didn’t believe me in the first place. I can’t make out the expression on her face from this far away, but I imagine that she is smiling. I turn and I run.

Thirty-five

Essex, 1988

I sweep and mop the shop floor every night now. I listen to my Walkman while I do it and practice saying things like, Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers or Red Lorry Yellow Lorry, or things about the rain in a place called Spain. Each evening, when I’ve finished sweeping, I refill the little plastic holders with new betting slips and blue mini-pens, ready for the next day. The betting slips are two pieces of paper stuck together, but when you write something on the top white page, it appears on the bottom yellow one, like magic. When people place bets, they give the whole thing to Maggie or John, then they get the yellow bit back along with their change. If they win, they take the yellow bit to the counter and collect their money. If they lose, they tend to screw the yellow bit up and throw it on the floor, along with their cigarette butts and other rubbish. Then, when the shop closes, I sweep them all up. This is what we do every day, except Sundays.

When Maggie yells that the shop is closed for the night, I take the broom and drag it behind the counter. She and John are still putting elastic bands around today’s bundles of notes, and filling tiny plastic bags with coins, before throwing them all in the safe, which is almost as big as me, and very heavy. I tried to lift it once and it didn’t budge, not even a little bit.

“Why aren’t you married?” I ask, watching them count the money. I’ve just read about a princess marrying a prince in my Story Teller magazine. I know Maggie and John aren’t married because they don’t wear rings, and the envelopes that come through the letter box at the bottom of the stairs have different names on them.

Maggie looks up from a pile of twenty-pound notes. “Because marriage is a lie, Baby Girl, and we don’t lie to each other in this family. I’ve told you that enough times for you to know it now.” I don’t understand what she means, but I don’t ask again because Maggie is wearing her happy face tonight and I don’t want that to change. John points at something I can’t see over the counter. When I reach the shop floor, I see two great big fruit machines, side by side.

“What are—”

“English,” says Maggie. I’m not allowed to speak like her at all anymore. I still have to think before making myself sound like someone else.

“What are they?” I ask with the right-sounding words.

John smiles, his gold tooth sparkling. “Bait.”

“Shut up, John. They’re for you.”

“But what are they?”

“Well, one of them is just a plain old fruit machine, and the other one is … Do you know, I can’t remember, can you, Maggie?” says John.

“I think it might be … Pac-Man!” she says.

Pac-Man is my new favorite thing. I play it every Sunday at the pub while they talk to the man who looks like Maggie and calls himself my uncle. They look the same and sound the same and say the same things. It’s as if they are the same person sometimes, but he is a boy and she is a girl.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I run back behind the counter to hug Maggie’s legs.

She says that I’m only allowed to play on the machines after I have swept and mopped, so I do it extra quick. Then John gives me a bag of change from the safe and lifts me up onto a stool.

“Now then, I know all you really want to do is play Pac-Man, and I don’t blame you, the little yellow chap is rather addictive. But first you have to play this machine, and you need to play until you win. All you do is put the coin in the slot and press the button. When you get three lemons, lots of money comes out the bottom of the machine. After that you don’t touch it again, at all, until tomorrow. Understand?” I nod. “Good girl. When you get the money out of the fruit machine, you can use it to play Pac-Man. I can empty that one anytime.”

I play on the first machine for so long that my finger starts to feel sore from pressing the buttons, but then three lemons appear in a row and lots of money comes out the bottom, just like John said it would. He says the machine works best during the day if we empty all the money out of it at night, so perhaps that’s why I have to play it. When I win, it makes a big crashing sound that seems to go on forever. I jump off the black leather stool and slide it across to Pac-Man, before climbing back up again. I play ten times so that my name, the new one, fills the leaderboard.

Then I hear Maggie’s EastEnders program starting up in the flat, and she shouts down the stairs, “Dinner is ready in five minutes and you need to clean the hamster cage out first, like I told you.”

I had forgotten about Cheeks. He does the same thing every day: eats, sleeps, and runs in circles. I don’t know why Maggie hates him so much, but I’m hoping her TV program will cheer her up a little bit. I can smell the Deep Fat Fryer, so I know we’re having chips. We have chips all the time now, with everything. Eggs and chips, sausage and chips, burgers and chips, cheese and chips. On Sundays we have chips with Bisto gravy on top, that’s my favorite! I like eating chips every day, but I just got to Level 5 for the first time on Pac-Man, so I ignore Maggie for a little while.