Or was it . . .

I thought of Sandra’s remark at my interview: The whole house is wired up . . .

It couldn’t be a camera . . . could it?

But no. That would be more than creepy. That would be illegal surveillance. I was an employee—and I had a reasonable expectation of privacy, or whatever the legal terminology was.

All the same, I got up, wrapped my dressing gown around myself, and dragged a chair over to the carpet beneath the egg-shaped thing in the corner. One of my socks was lying on the floor where I’d stripped it off before getting in the shower, and I picked it up, climbed onto the chair, and stood on tiptoes to fit it over the sensor. I could just reach. It fit perfectly, and the empty toe of the sock hung there, flaccid and slightly disconsolate.

Only then, comforted, though with a feeling of slight ridiculousness, did I get back into bed and finally let myself fall asleep.

* * *

I awoke in the night with a start, and the vague feeling of something wrong—without being able to put my finger on it. I lay there, my heart pounding, wondering what it was that had woken me. I had no memory of having been dreaming—only a sudden jerk into consciousness.

It took a minute, and then it came again—a noise. Footsteps. Creak . . . creak . . . creak . . . slow and measured, as though someone was pacing on a wooden floor, which made no sense at all, since all the floors up here were thickly carpeted.

Creak . . . creak . . . creeeeak . . . The sound was hollow, heavy, resonant . . . a slow tread like a man’s, not the scamper of a child. It sounded as though it was coming from above, which was ridiculous, as I was on the top floor.

Slowly I sat up and groped for the light, but when I turned the switch, nothing happened. I flicked it again and then realized with a curse that I must have overridden the lamp at the main panel. I couldn’t face grappling with the control panel in the middle of the night and risking turning on the sound system or something, so I grabbed my phone from where it was charging and switched on the torch.

My chest was tight, and as I took a pull at my inhaler I realized suddenly that the room was extremely cold. No doubt when I had changed the temperature settings I had overdone it. Now, outside of the warm cocoon of bedclothes, the chill was uncomfortable. But my dressing gown was on the foot of the bed, so I pulled it on and stood there, trying not to let my teeth chatter, the thin beam of torchlight illuminating a narrow sliver of wheat-colored carpet and not much else.

The footsteps had stopped, and I hesitated for a moment, holding my breath, listening, wondering if they would start up again. Nothing. I took another puff at my inhaler, waiting, considering. Still nothing.

The bed was warm, and it was tempting to crawl back under the duvet and pretend I hadn’t heard anything, but I knew that I wouldn’t sleep well unless I at least tried to check out the source. Pulling my dressing gown belt tighter, I opened the door of my room a crack.

There was no one outside, but nevertheless I peered into the broom cupboard. It was, of course, totally empty except for the brushes, and the winking charge light of the Hoover. No possibility of anything bigger than a mouse hiding in here.

I shut the cupboard and then, feeling a little like a trespasser, I tried Rhiannon’s door, resolutely ignoring the scrawled KEEP OUT OR YOU DIE. I had thought it might be locked, but the handle turned without resistance, and the heavy door swung wide, shushing across the thick carpet.

Inside it was pitch-black, the blackout curtains firmly drawn, but it had the indefinable feel of an empty room. Still, I held up my phone and swung the narrow torch beam from wall to wall. There was no one there.

That was it. There were no other rooms on this floor. And the ceiling above was smooth and unbroken by so much as an attic hatch. For although my memory of the sounds was fading fast, my impression had been that the sounds were coming from above. Something on the roof maybe? A bird? It wasn’t a person prowling around at any rate, that much was clear.

Shivering again, I returned to my own room, where I stood for a moment, irresolute, in the middle of the carpet, listening and waiting for the sounds to come again, but they did not.

I turned off the torch, climbed back into bed, and drew the covers up. But it was a long time before I slept.

“Mummy!”

The Tesla wound its way along the driveway and towards the main road, with Ellie running in its wake, the tears streaming down her face as Jack’s driving speed outpaced her short legs.

“Mummy, come back!”

“Bye, darlings!” Sandra’s head leaned out the rear window, her honey-colored hair whipping in the breeze as the car picked up speed. There was a cheerful smile on her face, but I could see the distress in her eyes, and I knew that she was keeping up a happy facade for the sake of the children. Bill did not turn around. He was bent over his phone in the back seat beside her.

“Mummy!” Ellie shouted, desperation in her voice. “Mummy, please don’t go!”

“Bye, sweeties! You’ll have a wonderful time with Rowan, and I’ll be back very soon. Goodbye! I love you all!”

And then the car rounded the bend in the drive and disappeared from sight among the trees.

Ellie’s legs slowed, and she stumbled to a halt, letting out a wail of grief before she threw herself dramatically to the ground.

“Oh, Ellie!” I hitched Petra higher on my hip and jogged down the drive to where Ellie lay, face-first on the gravel. “Ellie, darling, come on, let’s go and get some ice cream.”

I knew from Sandra’s instructions that this was a big treat, something not allowed every day, because it made both girls rather hyper, but Ellie only shook her head and wailed louder.

“Come on, sweetheart.” I bent down, with some difficulty—as I was holding Petra—and took her wrist, trying to pull her up, but she only let out a scream and wrenched her arm out of my hand, slamming her little fist onto the gravel.

“Ow!” she screamed, redoubling her sobs and looking up at me with angry, red, tear-filled eyes. “You hurt me!”

“I was just trying—”

“Go away, you hurt me, I’m going to tell my mummy!”

I stood for a moment, irresolute over her angry, prone form, unsure what to do.

“Go away!” she screamed again.

At last, I gave a sigh and began to walk back up the drive towards the house. It felt wrong leaving her there, in the middle of what was, basically, a road, but the gate at the foot of the drive was shut, and it would be at least half an hour before Jack returned. Hopefully she would have calmed down long before then and I could coax her back into the house.

On my hip Petra had begun grousing, and I suppressed another sigh. Please, not a meltdown from her as well. And where the hell was Maddie? She had disappeared before her parents left, flitting off into the woods to the east of the house, refusing to say goodbye.

“Oh, let her go,” Bill had said, as Sandra flapped around trying to find her to kiss her goodbye. “You know what she’s like; she prefers to lick her wounds in private.”

Lick her wounds. Just a silly cliché, right? At the time I hadn’t dwelt on it, but now I wondered. Was Maddie wounded? If so, how?

* * *

Up in the house I sat Petra in her high chair, strapped her in, and checked the red binder in case it gave instructions for what to do if the children disappeared off the face of the earth. The whole thing must have been at least three inches thick, and a cursory flick-through after breakfast had told me that it contained information on everything from how much Calpol to give and when, through to bedtime routines, favorite books, nappy-rash protocol, homework schedules, and which washing capsules to use for the girls’ ballet uniforms. Virtually every moment of the day was accounted for, with notes ranging from what snacks to serve, right through to which TV programs to choose, and how much they were allowed to watch.