First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Electric Monkey,

an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2018 Penny Joelson

First e-book edition 2018

ISBN 978 1 4052 8616 9

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1782 3

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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For Cherry

‘There’s no one coming to look for me because no one even knows I’ve gone missing.’

Unrest (2017)

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

USEFUL CONTACTS

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No one sees me. I am a ghost. I am invisible. Life for me stopped still, one day – when I was not expecting it. Out there, I know that life goes on, that time moves forward, but it does so without me. I know I shouldn’t but I want to look once more – to take a peek out through the window at a world that is not mine. Do I dare?

1

It’s dark when I see her. I’m closing my curtains, ready for bed – and there’s a woman hurrying along our street towards the bus stop. There’s something intense about the way she’s moving. She darts like a bird. It’s as if she’s rushing to catch a bus – but there’s no bus there and no one waiting. The street is quiet. I’m not sure why I keep watching but I do. She’s skinny – with long, dark hair, maybe in her late teens, early twenties. She’s barely more than a silhouette in the darkness, but as she passes the street light, it casts her elongated shadow across the road. The glow highlights the long, thin cardigan she’s wearing. She pulls it tight around her, head bent against the chill November wind, but she goes past the bus stop without slowing down.

I see her glance round briefly as two cars pass. Now a silver car’s coming. It swerves and stops alongside her. Her head turns sharply. At the same moment, a man jumps out from the passenger side. He grabs the woman by the arm. She pulls away. They’re struggling – at least, that’s what it looks like. Within seconds, he’s opened the back door of the car and she’s in. He bangs the door shut and jumps back in the front. The car drives off, disappearing around the corner.

It happened so fast – but I’m certain she didn’t want to get into that car. The man was dragging her – forcing her in. I think he even had his hand over her mouth. I can barely believe it. I keep replaying it in my mind. My heart is thudding like a bass drum.

I’m staring out at the now empty street, still in shock, when a movement catches my eye. I look up at the house across the road, the window opposite mine. The curtain moved, I’m sure it did. Someone was looking out. Did they see what I just saw?

Should I call the police? There’s a couple in that house across the road – if one of them saw, maybe they’ve gone to call the police right now. But even so . . .

‘Mum!’ I yell, grabbing my phone. ‘Mum!’

She’s watching TV downstairs and I don’t think she heard me. Anyway, I don’t need her to tell me what to do, and I shouldn’t wait. I shouldn’t let them get too far away.

I sit on my bed and call 999. My hand is shaking. I’ve never done this before – never dealt with a real emergency. I ask for police.

There’s a calm voice at the end of the phone – a man’s voice. He listens and then starts asking me questions.

I give my name, Kasia Novak, and address, 47 New Weald Lane.

‘Did you get the car registration number?’ he asks.

I feel instantly devastated. Why didn’t I? ‘I’m sorry. No. It was all so fast,’ I tell him.

‘Don’t worry – you did the right thing to call. Any information you can give us will help. Can you describe the car?’

‘It was silver – a hatchback . . . I’m not sure what kind.’

I can describe the woman but I didn’t see the driver and only have a vague impression of the man who jumped out. I’m a useless witness.

‘Silver hatchback,’ he repeats, as if he’s writing it down. ‘We’ll get someone on to it straight away.’

‘Oh, and I think someone else might have seen it – across the road,’ I tell him. ‘I think there was someone at the window upstairs. They might even have called you too. It was number forty-eight.’

‘We’ll speak to them. Thank you for reporting the incident. Please call us if you remember any other details.’ He gives me another phone number and a case number, which I write on a scrap of paper.

I have a sinking feeling as I put the phone down. I wish I’d got the car reg. Maybe whoever was watching across the road did. I hope so.

‘Mum! Mum!’ I call again. She still doesn’t hear. I want to tell her. I need to tell her. I stand up, holding on to the window ledge for support, and then walk slowly out into the hallway, one hand pressed against the wall. My glands are throbbing in my neck and my legs are throbbing too – a constant dull, familiar ache.

‘Mum!’ No reply. I clutch the banister and put one foot gingerly on the top step. I’ve been thinking about trying to go downstairs for a few days, but I know now isn’t really the right moment. I’m too shaken up – on top of everything else.

‘Kasia! What are you doing?’ Mum appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with concern.

My legs give way and I sit down on the top step. ‘I was calling you. You didn’t hear. I thought I’d come down . . .’

Mum’s up beside me now, tutting and holding out her arm. ‘You look very pale, mój aniele. Come on, time for bed. How many times do I have to tell you to take it slowly, not do too much too quickly? Just getting out of bed is a big achievement. You’re clearly not up to trying the stairs. You should text me if I don’t hear you.’

I’m too tired to argue, but I want to prove her wrong. I’m so fed up with being in my bedroom all the time. Tomorrow, I think to myself. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow. But I still want to tell her what just happened.

Mum helps me into bed and sits on the edge as I tell her all about what I saw. She’s really shocked.

‘Kasia, how awful! Are you sure?’

‘I think so . . .’

Mum touches my hand gently. ‘You did the right thing to phone the police. Now settle down and get some sleep. You look exhausted.’

She goes back down and I lie in my bed, staring at the same four walls. It’s ten weeks since I’ve been downstairs.

2

I’m sitting by my bedroom window, waiting for Ellie to come round after school like she promised. She’s the only one of my friends that still does. The street is busy with cars on the school run and kids walking home. It looks so normal, it’s hard to believe what I saw last night actually happened. I’ve been playing it over in my mind all day. It feels like a bad dream, not something real. Where is that woman now – what happened to her? I wonder if someone has reported her missing.

I glance at the house across the road. Have the police spoken to them yet? Was someone looking out last night, or did I just imagine I saw the curtain move?

At the bus stop, groups in school uniform stand chatting. A toddler in a buggy has pulled off one shoe and is chewing it. I watch as she takes the shoe out of her mouth and flings it under the bench. Her mother is sitting staring at her phone and hasn’t noticed. The bus comes, blocking my view, and when it pulls out the people, including the woman and the buggy have gone, but I can still see the purple shoe sticking out sadly from under the bench.

A man in his twenties with dark hair and glasses arrives at the bus stop and kicks at the shoe curiously. I start making up a kind of Cinderella story, where the man takes the shoe and puts a photo of it on a Facebook group, and the woman comes forward gratefully to claim it. Turns out they’re both single and when they meet to hand over the shoe, it’s love at first sight.

I see a police car coming along the road and it pulls into a parking bay further down the road. Is this to do with last night? At first I think they want to ask me more questions but the police officer walks quickly up to the door of number forty-eight. I watch eagerly and see the front door open. The policeman talks to the woman and I can see her shaking her head.

Once the door closes, the policeman knocks on the doors of the houses on either side, but no one is home. Then he crosses the road. He’s coming here! The doorbell rings. I wish I could run down and answer it but I have to wait for Mum to do it. I hear her talking to the policeman and I wonder if she’ll bring him upstairs, but she says goodbye after only a minute and then comes up.

‘What did he say?’ I ask eagerly.

‘They haven’t found out anything about an abduction, Kasia,’ Mum tells me. ‘No one has been reported missing and no one else contacted them about it. He said the people at forty-eight saw nothing. They were both downstairs watching television.’

‘I thought someone was there, watching,’ I say, ‘upstairs – in the room opposite mine. I saw the curtain move, like someone was peeping out.’

Mum shrugs. ‘The police are looking into it. If there’s anything to discover, I’m sure they’ll find it.’

Mum goes back down and I’m still waiting for Ellie. Where is she? I’m suddenly worried she won’t turn up. I’m dying to tell her what I saw. Maybe I should have texted her, so she’d know I had something to talk about for once.

Just when I think she’s really not coming, I finally spot her, hurrying along the pavement, her ponytail bobbing up and down. I can see she’s trying to be quick but it feels like a hundred years before she turns into our gate and rings the doorbell. I hear Mum’s footsteps on the hall floor as she goes to let Ellie in, and then more, lighter steps as Ellie pads up the stairs.

She comes into my bedroom with a beaming smile and two plates of Mum’s apple cake. I take a deep sniff of the lovely cinnamon smell that has been drifting through the house, making my mouth water.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late – it’s all been happening today!’ she says, plonking herself on the edge of my bed and handing me a plate.

‘Tell me!’ I say. I like hearing what’s going on at school. It makes me feel more part of it, although it also sometimes makes me sad.

‘At lunchtime Serene got into a fight with Bethany,’ Ellie tells me. ‘A proper punch-up – Bethany pulled Serene’s hair and a whole clump came out! I saw it in her hand! It was over some boy. I don’t even know who.’

I feel a pang. I hope it wasn’t Josh. He’s a boy I like in the year above – a boy with ocean-blue eyes and a husky voice. I can’t imagine him with Bethany or Serene, though.

‘Then,’ Ellie continues, ‘Dimitri and Rafi were messing about in maths and Mr Treaker completely lost it and slammed a ruler on the desk so hard it flipped in the air and hit Serene in the face! She had to go to the medical room and now she’s got a massive black eye, too!’

‘Ohhh, poor Serene!’ I exclaim, though I can’t help laughing.

‘We shouldn’t laugh,’ says Ellie, giggling too, ‘but she’s always so obsessed with how she looks – and I’m sure she started that fight!’

‘Anyway, listen,’ she says, when we’ve both finally stopped laughing. ‘I have news you’re going to want to hear!’

I want to say, ‘So do I!’ but she’s made me curious. Her eyes are shining, her smile even broader. It must be something good, really good.

‘What?’ I ask. I take a bite of cake and lean forwards. ‘What is it?’

‘Guess,’ she says. ‘It’s about you . . .’

I hesitate. For one crazy moment I wonder if it’s something to do with Josh. Maybe he asked after me . . .

‘I can see your dreamy eyes!’ she teases. ‘No, it isn’t about Josh, Kasia!’

‘OK.’ I feel myself blushing. Ellie knows me too well. ‘I can’t guess – you’ll have to tell me.’

‘You’re going to love this!’ she insists, stuffing rather too much cake into her mouth. ‘Ooh, your mum makes the best cake!’

‘Tell,’ I demand, rolling my eyes because now she can’t speak. She swallows and grins at me.

‘Remember that story you wrote – that one that was like a mash-up of Hunger Games and Titanic ?’

‘Sort of. That was ages ago – before I was ill. What about it?’

‘It was sooooo good – Miss Giles said she might enter it for a competition. Do you remember?’

It’s weird thinking back. I was first ill in June so it must have been May when I wrote that story. I remember the bustle of our English class and the way the room went silent as I started to read my story aloud. I remember even Rafi and Dimitri had their eyes fixed on me as I read. They clapped too at the end, along with everyone else. Miss Giles was full of praise, saying I could be an author one day.

But that was six months ago, when we were all in Year 9. Now the class have moved up – they are Year 10s, with a different English teacher, working for their GCSEs. I don’t even know which classroom they are in or what time the lesson is.

‘Kasia?’

I realise I haven’t answered her. ‘Yes,’ I tell Ellie. ‘I remember.’

Well, listen to this . . . she did enter it – and you won! First prize!’

‘What? You’re joking!’

‘Look – here’s the proof.’

Ellie scrabbles in her rucksack and pulls out an envelope that has already been opened. It’s addressed to Miss Giles at school. She slips the letter out, unfolds it and hands it to me, pointing.

‘See – First Prize awarded to Kasia Novak.’

‘Wow!’ I say. I’ve never won anything before in my life – except a tiny rubber duck at a tombola when I was five. It used to glow in the dark.

‘Miss Giles is well chuffed,’ says Ellie. ‘She came running up to me in the corridor.’

‘What did I win?’ I ask, scanning the text. I’m hoping it’s money, though I know it’s unlikely to be much. With Mum not working, every little helps.

‘You get to go to an award ceremony in a theatre,’ she tells me. ‘Oh . . .’

Her voice falters and she looks at me, her hand covering her mouth.

‘When and where?’ I demand.

‘It’s not until February – and it’s in central London somewhere. Maybe by then . . .’

I’m conscious of my throbbing glands and my heart’s pulsing too. I feel weak but I also feel a surge of determination. I look Ellie in the eye and tell her, ‘I will be better. I can’t miss something like that! And I’m going to get back to school, Els.’

‘Have you been downstairs yet?’ Ellie asks.

‘No, but I’m going down for dinner today. Don’t tell Mum – she doesn’t know! I want to surprise her.’

‘Really? That’s great!’

Ellie’s being a supportive best friend but I can see she still looks doubtful. She knows how long it is since I’ve been downstairs.

We read the letter again, together. I still can’t take it all in. ‘Oh, look, you get fifty pounds worth of book tokens too, and a hundred pounds’ worth of books for the school,’ Ellie tells me.

‘Miss Giles will be pleased about that!’ I smile.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ says Ellie. ‘Tons of homework. I’ll try and come again on Thursday.’

It’s only after she’s gone that I realise I forgot to tell her about last night.

3

My words to Ellie may have sounded brave and determined but I know it’s not going to be that easy. I am not in Year 10 with all my friends but, back in September, I did try to be. Nobody knew I was going to be so ill for so long.

I remember Ellie waiting for me at the school gate, a beaming smile spreading across her face when she spotted me.

‘I’m so glad you made it!’ she told me. ‘I didn’t want to start the new school year without you!’

‘Same here,’ I said, waving Mum off in the car. I meant it too. I’d always been determined to be well by the end of the summer holidays. I knew that I wasn’t OK, though. I was achy, weak and in pain. I’m sure Mum knew it too but we both wanted to believe that once I got to school I’d feel better and everything would somehow, magically, go back to normal.

‘Come on, let’s get in,’ said Ellie. ‘Don’t want to be late on the first day!’

We walked to the main entrance. I felt so weird and wobbly, as if the ground underneath me was moving. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my legs and the swollen glands making my neck stiff and uncomfortable.

Inside, everything seemed different. The corridor looked so much longer. Erin and Tilly rushed up to say hi, and Tilly tried to hug me. It hurt, but I didn’t like to say so. They were clearly pleased to see me back, chattering and asking me questions.

‘I thought it was just tonsillitis,’ said Erin. ‘How come it took you so long to get better?’

‘The doctor said I had post-viral fatigue,’ I explained. ‘I still felt ill even though the infection had gone. No idea why. It just happens sometimes. Did you have a good summer?’

‘We went camping in France,’ she told me. ‘The first week was amazing but then it rained the rest of the time! I never want to go camping again.’

She kept talking, telling me about all the other things she’d been doing. I zoned out. People were talking all around me too. I couldn’t take the noise. Surely school never used to be this loud? As we reached the stairs to our form room I looked up and was overcome by panic. It was a flight of stairs – a flight I’d climbed every day for years but now it looked like a mountain. How would I ever get up there? And the crowds – I couldn’t bear all the people swarming around me. I suddenly felt so fragile, as if I was a delicate flower about to be trodden into the ground.

‘You are OK, aren’t you?’ Ellie asked.

‘Not really,’ I told her.

‘You can use the lift if you need to.’

I did, but I felt weird, embarrassed, standing waiting for it. The lift is for disabled students. I’m not disabled. When I got out on the first floor, I was sure everyone was staring at me.

I sat down with relief in my form room, listening to more holiday stories, with people coming up to say they were so happy I was better and how I looked fine. I didn’t feel fine, even sitting down. When I looked at my Year 10 timetable, I had a sinking feeling. I even asked Ellie, ‘Have they put more lessons in this year?’ and she looked at me like I was mad.

‘French first!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Look, we’ve got Madame Dupont! She’s the best.’

I like Madame Dupont and I like French, but I didn’t smile back because the room was on the other side of the school. The thought of having to stand up and walk down more corridors, packed with students, already felt too much.

I made it to French but within minutes I felt so ill I couldn’t sit any more – I had to lie down. Ellie took me to the medical room. The nurse called my Mum straight away.

I’d lasted thirty-seven minutes in Year 10.

Now, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down. I imagine I’m an Olympic skier at the peak of a challenging slope. The previous contender has been taken off in an ambulance. I don’t know the extent of her injuries but, after checks, the organisers have declared the course safe. I am not so sure.

I cling to the banister, aware that I am holding my breath as I put one foot tentatively forward. Then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, but halfway down I feel light-headed and my legs feel like they’re going to give way. I haven’t been downstairs since that day – the first day of term, 2 September, when I tried to go back to school. But I am starting to improve.

When I didn’t get better after tonsillitis, Mum and Dad were constantly trying to get me to do more and I had to make them understand that I couldn’t. Dad actually thought I’d got lazy from being ill in bed. Mum thought it must be depression or anxiety, especially when she took me to the doctor who did blood tests that all came back clear. The doctor said it was possible I had post-viral fatigue, and mentioned chronic fatigue syndrome or CFS, though it’s more often known as ME. It stands for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. That was probably the reason I was taking so long to recover. But I don’t think Mum and Dad realised exactly what that meant, or how long it might take. I didn’t either. I know now, though.

I. Know. Now.

People can be ill for years with this. Some people never get better. I’m not going to be one of them. I can’t.

I’ve been thinking about trying to come downstairs for a couple of weeks – but I’ve been so scared of getting stuck halfway, or not feeling well enough to go back up again, that I’ve been too frightened to even try. I know I have to get over this fear, but it’s based on real experience. I only have to do the smallest thing and it wipes me out completely. Already I need to sit down, but that’s OK. Now it is as far to go back up as it is to keep going, and down is definitely easier.

I start going again, before I panic. And then I’ve made it! I’m down! I’m a little giddy, but I’m here.

I wait for a few moments to get steady, then I take a deep breath and stroll casually into the kitchen. I’m almost surprised that it looks exactly the same. I feel like so much time has passed that Mum might have a new tablecloth or kettle or something. She’s busy at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The smell is like a life force to me. I feel stronger just being close to it.

‘Hi, Mum! That stew smells delish.’

She nearly drops the spoon in the pan.

‘Kasia!’ She rests the spoon on a plate and flings her arms around me. She knows to be gentle. She lets go of me and rubs her eyes.

‘Don’t cry, Mum!’ I tease.

‘It’s onions, just the onions,’ she says with a smile. ‘You should have told me you wanted to try coming down. I would have helped you, mój aniele! Do you feel OK? Are you sure it wasn’t too much? Come – sit. After all those stairs you must sit. Let me get you a drink.’

She brings me a cushion for the hard, plastic chair. My whole body is so sensitive these days. I’m already starting to feel weak, but I don’t say anything about it. I hope Dad gets home soon. I’m not sure how long I’m going to last.

I glance at the photos on the fridge. Me and Dad making silly faces, Mum posing on a bridge, a picture of my aunt and uncle in Poland. There’s one missing – the one of me and my brother Marek. I’m sad, but not surprised. Dad and Marek haven’t spoken since he dropped out of uni and went off around Europe.

Dad is home early to my relief – and the expression of delight on his face as his large frame and bald head fill the kitchen doorway makes it all worthwhile.

He’s still in his work clothes, dirty from his day at the building site, but he does his funny version of a traditional Polish celebration dance round the small kitchen. Mum hastily moves crockery and pans out of the way so nothing goes flying and I am laughing so much it actually hurts.

‘Moje kochanie,’ he says, gently stroking my hair. ‘It’s so lovely to have you down here and not exiled upstairs. I hope this is a sign of good things to come.’

‘I only wish Marek was here to see you too,’ Mum says, sighing.

‘So do I,’ I tell her, getting a pang as I imagine my brother here too, grinning and high-fiving me.

Dad tuts scornfully.

‘Dad!’ I protest.

‘Let’s not spoil the evening talking about him,’ Dad says firmly. ‘Give me two ticks to get changed and when I come down, we’ll talk about something else, something happier.’

Mum winks at me when he’s gone and picks up her phone from the worktop. ‘I’ll take a photo of you at the table and we’ll WhatsApp it to him,’ she says quietly. ‘Marek will be so pleased.’

Dad comes back down and Mum serves up.

‘Well, what’s new?’ Dad asks.

‘We had a visit from a policeman,’ Mum says. ‘Very handsome he was!’

‘I hope he didn’t stay long then,’ Dad teases. ‘This about what you saw the night before, Kasia?’

I nod and Mum tells Dad what he said.

‘I hope they find the woman,’ I say. ‘I just want to know she’s OK.’

‘Well, you did the right thing reporting it,’ Dad says to me. ‘The rest is up to them.’

I know Dad’s right. There’s nothing else I can do.

‘I thought we were going to talk about happy things,’ says Mum.

‘Hey, yes! How about this for a happy thing?’ I say, smiling.

I tell them about winning the writing competition and they are both thrilled. Dad gets up to do another celebration dance but Mum tells him to stop or he’ll get indigestion.

‘I want to get well enough to go the award ceremony,’ I tell them. ‘And I want you both to come with me.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ says Dad, ‘but you know how things are. It isn’t always easy for me to get time off. It’s a big project, this sheltered housing, and we’re a month behind already. Hopefully by then we will be back on track.’

Although I want Dad to be there, I’m mainly pleased that he’s not even questioning the idea that I’ll be able to go myself.

‘It’s exciting Kasia, but you need to be careful,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll have to see how you are nearer the time.’

Mum may be more realistic, but I prefer Dad’s optimism. Although as she speaks I realise that the room is starting to spin. I don’t want Mum to be right, but in the end I have to tell her. ‘I need to lie down.’

‘Let me help you back up to bed,’ she says. ‘You’ve done really well, but that’s enough for now. I can bring you up dessert if you’d like some.’

As I stand up, panic rises in my chest. ‘Mum – I don’t think I can do it – I don’t think I can get back upstairs. I need to lie down now!’

‘Lie on the sofa for a minute,’ Dad suggests. ‘Here – take my arm.’

He helps me into the front room where I collapse on to the sofa. I still feel like I’m on a boat in a storm and the panic is overtaking me. I want my bed – I want to be in my room.

After twenty minutes, I don’t feel any better. Dad sits down beside me.

‘I want to go to bed,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll help you, kotku.’ He holds out his arm.

I shake my head. ‘I can’t stand up, Dad.’

‘Lucky you have a strong father then,’ he says. He’s standing now, smiling and holding out both arms.

‘Dad!’ I exclaim. He hasn’t carried me anywhere since I was about five years old.

‘I’ve carried heavier weights around the site today,’ he assures me. ‘Look at these muscles.’

Before I can protest he has me in his arms and is lifting me. Much as I hate being treated like a child, I enjoy feeling safe and warm and held and I am more grateful than anything when he lowers me gently on to my bed.

4

I can’t get up the next day or the next and, apart from crawling to the bathroom next door, I don’t try to do much else. The only other thing I stand to do is draw the curtains – open in the morning and closed at night. I know Mum would do it, but I want to look out – remind myself that there is a world out there.

This evening I look across the road and I can see a light on upstairs in the room opposite mine at number forty-eight. Someone is drawing the curtains there too. I briefly catch a glimpse of the figure but it doesn’t look like the man or woman who live there. It’s someone skinnier – a girl, I think. Was it her I saw in the window the other night, when the woman was abducted?

Now that I’ve been downstairs, my small bedroom is feeling even smaller than it did before. Lying in my bed, all I can see is the pale pink walls, painted when I was six, matching pale pink curtains, my wicker chair by the window, and a white desk and white wardrobe against the wall. On the wall is a small picture – a Polish village scene with a girl outside a church – that once belonged to my grandmother. And I have a tiny bedside shelf for my glass of water, phone and clock.

My duvet cover makes my room look more grown up – it’s silky pink with splashes of purple on it. There’s no room for my cello in here and maybe that’s for the best. It’s downstairs in the corner of the lounge and I am glad not to have to look at it and be constantly reminded that I can’t even pick it up, let alone play it.

Marek’s room is a little bigger than mine and Dad asked if I wanted to swap when Marek went to uni. But I didn’t – his room is painted black and orange, which would have taken many coats of paint to cover. And anyway, I didn’t want to think of Marek as having left home. I thought he’d be back in the long holidays, and even when he’d finished uni. I’m still glad his room is as he left it, waiting for him to come back.

I lie in bed, sleeping, listening to podcasts and audiobooks on my phone, meditating and thinking of ideas for stories. Then my mind turns to Josh. I like him so much. Only Ellie knows how I feel. I wish I’d had the courage to say something to him while I was well. I kept hoping he’d speak to me, but maybe he’s shy. He’s in the year above me but we were both in the orchestra – I could have said something then, but I didn’t. He’s probably going out with someone else by now and I wouldn’t blame him. He has no idea how I feel about him, so it’s not as if he’d be waiting for me to get better.

I get a message from Marek. He’s seen Mum’s photo of me sitting downstairs, and his message is full of excited smiley emojis, along with a photo of a frozen pizza, with the caption ‘My job is cheese sprinkling!’

Dad had better not see that!

I reply, telling him about the writing competition, and get more excited smiley emojis back. I think about telling him about the abduction, but I’m too tired to text that much.

I lie back and think about the award ceremony again. I just have to get well enough to go. I must.

A few days later, I’m feeling a bit better. I don’t feel like attempting the stairs again but I’m mostly OK being out of bed. I sit on the floor and open my chest of drawers, just for something to do. There I find the Get Well card with the cheerful yellow sunflowers on it. I open it and run my finger over Josh’s signature. I wonder if he ever thinks about me now. The card is also signed by the other twenty-four members of the orchestra but his is the only name in there that really matters to me. He’s an amazing violin player and when we’d finished orchestra practice he used to meet my eyes sometimes and smile. I’m sure something would have happened between us one day.

I put the card back in the drawer. My legs are hurting from sitting on the floor but I don’t feel too bad otherwise so I stand stiffly and sit on my wicker chair by the window, looking out. I still feel like I’m on a boat – but it’s a gentle rowing boat now. I watch as the woman at number forty-eight comes out, bumping the grey buggy with a rain cover over it, down the steps to the street. She hurries off up the road and I glance up to the window above. There’s no one there.

It’s raining heavily now – big drops streaking down my window like bars, reminding me of the prison my room has become. It’s hard to see through the rain, but I try. There’s no one looking out across the road. Cars splash past in the big puddle by the bus stop. The haziness makes everything seem unreal. It’s like the rain is trying to wash away what I saw – washing it all away, wiping the slate clean, a fresh start.

I can’t remember it clearly now. Maybe none of it happened at all. But if it did, what happened to that woman? I can’t help wondering about her.

It’s a week later when I pluck up the courage – and have the energy – to go downstairs again. And it’s fine! I stay for a whole meal, and also get back upstairs by myself too. I do it again, each day stretching it out a little longer, and I don’t have any ill effects.

I feel full of hope – I’m finally getting better – and I want to do more.

Mum comes into the living room, waving a parcel at me. ‘I’m just popping next door,’ she tells me. ‘The delivery man left it here this morning, when he couldn’t get an answer.’

‘I could take it,’ I offer.

Mum looks at me in surprise. ‘Are you sure you feel up to it?’

‘It’s only next door. And it would be good to get outside. Let me, Mum. I’ll be fine.’

‘OK,’ says Mum, but she’s looking very doubtful.

‘Is it forty-three?’ I ask her. ‘Won’t they be at work?’

‘No – forty-seven,’ says Mum. ‘Mrs Gayatri.’

‘How did she manage to miss a parcel?’ I comment. ‘She never goes out.’

‘She does sometimes,’ Mum says with a shrug. ‘Perhaps she was having a nap or just didn’t hear the door.’

‘OK. I won’t be long,’ I tell Mum.

It’s weird putting on outdoor shoes when I’ve worn nothing but slippers for months, and I’ve rarely been out of bed enough to even need them. My shoes feel hard and uncomfortable in contrast.

‘Put your coat on,’ Mum fusses. ‘And your scarf.’

‘It’s only next door!’ I say, but I do it anyway.

I take the small package and step out of the house – so happy to actually be outside. I wonder what Mrs Gayatri has ordered. It’s rectangular but not heavy. We don’t see our neighbours very often. There’s a young couple on the other side, at number forty-three. We only know their names because they sometimes have parcels delivered while they’re at work, and Mum takes them in. I don’t remember Mrs G ever having a delivery before, though.

We don’t see her much either, though I used to sometimes see her weeding her front path. She’s the only person round here who has pots and flowers and bushes out the front. She’s not very chatty, but she always has a smile and says hello if we pass her. Of course, since I’ve been ill I’ve only seen her from my window, on her rare walks up the road to the shops.

The cool breeze makes my cheeks tingle as I stand on Mrs G’s front step and ring her bell. I feel a buzz of excitement and breathe in deeply. It’s one step closer to normal life. There’s no answer and I wonder if the bell is working. I wait a few moments, try again and then resort to the old-fashioned lion’s head knocker. I listen but can hear no sound from inside. The lion’s face is snarling at me and I’m about to turn back home because my legs are beginning to throb, which sometimes happens when I’m standing still. Then I hear a small sound – a definite movement from inside.

‘Mrs Gayatri?’ I call. ‘It’s me – Kasia from next door. I have a parcel for you.’

The door opens and Mrs Gayatri peers out nervously. She seems more shrunken and wrinkled than I remember, but her eyes are soft and kind.

She smiles. ‘Hello, dear. I haven’t seen you for a long time. I wondered if you’d gone away to college.’

‘No. I’m fourteen.’

People often think I’m older because I’m tall for my age. I have Dad to thank for that. Mrs G is short – shorter than me.

‘I’ve been ill – I am ill. It’s ME – Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,’ I tell her. ‘I get exhausted after I do anything.’

‘How awful for you,’ she says.

‘This is the first time I’ve been outside for months,’ I tell her.

‘Goodness, is it really? You poor girl! So, what can I do for you?’

‘I’ve just come to bring you this.’ I hold out the parcel. ‘The postman left it with us. I’m sorry, I can’t stand for very long and I’ll have to get back now.’

‘Thank you, dear,’ she says. ‘It’s nice to see you. And if you ever fancy a change of scene – or company – you are welcome to pop in. And I mean that.’

I nod and smile. I always thought she liked keeping herself to herself. She doesn’t seem to have many visitors. But there’s a look of longing in her eyes as she says, ‘I mean that’ and I think she is genuinely lonely.

‘Everything OK?’ asks Mum as I come back into the house. She’s standing by the door and she gives a big sigh of relief. She’s clearly been waiting for me, worrying. I made it. I went next door to deliver a parcel and came back again.

‘Don’t make a big deal of it, Mum,’ I beg.

‘It’s progress, Kasia – progress,’ Mum says softly.

I nod. I am mega pleased with myself, though I’d never admit it to Mum.

Back upstairs I rest in bed for a while and then go and sit by the window. A few people are walking along the pavement, each in their own separate world, though they are only metres apart. A man on his mobile, a woman with smart high-heeled boots, a teenage girl with a bobble hat. A silver car appears and slows down near the girl. There’s something weirdly familiar about the scene, and my heart skips a beat as I remember the abduction. Is this the same car I saw? Is it going to happen again – to this girl? I am frozen to the spot.

The car pulls over, parks and a man gets out. He glances towards the girl. I hold my breath. She’s still walking, she hasn’t noticed the car. Fear rises in my throat – but the man is walking the other way. He’s heading for the barber’s on the corner. He goes inside.

I look again at the silver car and realise it isn’t the same kind. It’s a three door and a completely different shape.

My eyes turn towards the upstairs window at the house opposite. The curtains are closed and there’s no one there – but then I see one curtain move. A hand – a face – dark eyes, looking out. Then nothing. Again, I didn’t see clearly, but I’m sure it’s the same face I glimpsed before and I’m even more certain now that it wasn’t the face of the woman who lives there. This face is narrower, younger. A girl. Who is she? She disappeared so quickly.

The couple have a baby, but I’ve never seen a girl come in or out of that house. If she’s the one who was looking out of the window, then why did the woman lie about anyone else living there?

5

‘Mum, did you know there’s a girl living over at number forty-eight?’ I ask. ‘As well as that couple and their baby. ‘I’ve never seen her go out. Don’t you think that’s weird?’

‘A girl? I’ve not seen a girl,’ Mum says as she picks up an empty mug from my bedside cabinet. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I tell her.

I start watching the girl’s window more closely. I’m certain she’s real. A couple of days later, I see her again, just as I hear Mum coming up the stairs. I call her urgently. I want her to see the girl – to prove that she exists. Mum comes running, thinking something’s wrong.

‘Mum – look! She’s there now! The girl!’

I only turned away for a second, but as Mum reaches the window and I turn back, the girl has gone.

Mum peers across the road. ‘I don’t see her, mój kotku. What’s so interesting about this girl?’

‘I think it was her,’ I tell Mum. ‘I think she was the one who saw what I saw, when that woman was dragged into the car. And the police didn’t speak to her, did they? Should I call the police again and tell them?’

‘But the police went and talked to the people in the house, and nobody saw anything. You know that,’ says Mum. ‘If a woman was abducted, surely someone would have missed her by now and reported it. They found no one missing, did they? Maybe you mistook what you saw?’

I shake my head. ‘I know what I saw – and there is a girl across the road. I’ve seen her too. And I never see her go out.’

‘Someone could say the same about you,’ Mum comments.

‘Yes. Maybe that’s it!’ I exclaim. ‘She could be ill like me – and that’s why she doesn’t go out. Perhaps the people across the road didn’t want her stressed with questions and that’s why they didn’t mention her to the police?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ says Mum. ‘If unlikely.’

‘I want to go across the road and ask them,’ I tell Mum. ‘Maybe we could even be friends?’

‘Oh Kasia. I don’t want you going round there annoying them. If you really think this girl exists and she might be stuck inside, ill like you, then perhaps I could go over and ask for you.’

‘Would you, Mum? Thanks! That’d be great.’

Mum goes downstairs and I sit at the window and watch her cross the road to number forty-eight. It’s the man who opens the door. I can see Mum talking, but she isn’t there long.

I wait eagerly for her to come in and back upstairs.

‘So?’ I ask. ‘What did he say?’

‘Well, I asked – you saw me. And the man had no idea what I was talking about,’ she tells me. ‘I felt embarrassed, Kasia.’

‘What did he say?’

Mum gives me a quizzical look. ‘He said there’s no girl there.’

‘What? Did he speak English? Maybe he didn’t understand,’ I say, bewildered.

‘He had an accent, but his English was clear enough,’ says Mum. ‘Perhaps you imagined her. Or maybe a girl was there and now she’s gone – I don’t know. But she isn’t there now and I think you should put your mind to other things.’

I go and lie down on the bed – but I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t understand what’s going on. The man must be lying – but why would he? I’m sure I saw her! Only glimpses I know, but why would I imagine it? If only she wouldn’t always vanish so quickly . . .

As I think more, prickles start running up my spine. And then I start having properly crazy thoughts, like, what if the reason she vanishes so quickly and that no one else has seen her, not even the people who live there – what if that’s because she’s . . . a ghost?

Today I looked out of the window – even though I know that I should not – and I was shocked. I saw the ghost of myself – looking back at me. A girl in the window opposite. She peered out, just as I did, her shadowy shape a mirror-image of mine, though her hair was light, her face pale. Is she a ghost, just as I am? Is the whole street perhaps full of ghosts like me, and we know nothing of each other’s plight, or why we can neither live nor our souls rest in peace?

6

I look out of the window as often as I can that evening and the next day, but she doesn’t reappear. Then, in the evening, I see the woman coming out of the house. She’s on her mobile. She walks up past the bus stop towards the shops, barely glancing left or right as she crosses the road.

She’s deep in conversation with someone and I can’t help wondering what they’re talking about. Perhaps she’s telling a friend how the house gives her the creeps – especially that small front bedroom. She gets a chill every time she’s in there and it makes her shudder. She wants to move.

I know this is just my imagination running riot but as I watch, the woman turns and walks back to the house, still speaking in an animated way into the phone. She isn’t going anywhere – she just came out to talk privately. Maybe she was nervous of speaking about the weird atmosphere in that room. She can’t tell her husband. He’d think she was crazy. And she can’t explain it but she feels as if she’s being watched.

She looks like she’s shouting into the phone now. She’s so loud I can hear a bit of it but I can’t make out the words and anyway, I don’t think it’s English.

The woman is back at her front door now. She glances up in my direction as she takes a key from her pocket, and she sees me. I pull back from the window, embarrassed, partly about being seen amd partly because of the story I’ve been making up. I wait a minute and then look out cautiously again. She must have gone inside.

The ghost theory keeps going round and round in my head even though I try to ignore it. I don’t think I believe in ghosts but right now I can’t think of another reason why I keep seeing a girl that nobody else sees – not even the people who live there.

When I feel up to it, I ask Mum to bring me my tablet so I can do some research. I can’t spend too long on it or I get headaches.

I start by looking up the address, forty-eight New Weald Road. Maybe I can find out who lives there, or even if anyone has ever died there. I don’t expect to find anything, but at least I’m doing something.

The first Google entries are property pages, house prices and homes for rent and for sale. Then there are the shops, the hairdressers. There’s a report on a burglary at number 249. A bus route being diverted. I keep scrolling through pages. It’s very boring and my head soon starts to hurt, so I stop.

I lie down and decide to try meditating, which a doctor said might help me. Mum wasn’t impressed with the suggestion, but I found I quite like it. I have an app on my phone and it is definitely relaxing and something I can do without effort. Mum is baking downstairs. The smell wafts up and I start by visualising a piece of cake in my mind, focusing on that and nothing else.

Thoughts keep drifting back, though, even as I try to let them go. Maybe I need to think of another way to research, like asking someone who knows the area. I wonder if Mrs Gayatri could help – she’s lived here a long time.

‘I was thinking I might go next door and visit Mrs Gayatri,’ I tell Mum next time I’m well enough to be downstairs.

Mum glances up doubtfully. ‘Are you up to it? And I’m not sure you should go bothering her. I think she prefers her own company.’

‘Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have any other option,’ I suggest. ‘Anyway, she invited me – when I took that parcel round. She sounded like she really wanted me to come.’

‘OK, if you want to.’ Mum smiles. ‘Don’t stay too long, though – you don’t want to tire her, or yourself either. Here – I’ll give you some apple cake to take with you.’

Like last time, Mrs Gayatri takes ages to come to the door.

‘Another parcel?’ she asks, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t remember ordering anything.’

‘No, this is some of Mum’s apple cake,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve come to visit, if that’s OK? But say if you don’t feel like company. I won’t mind.’

‘How lovely!’ Mrs G smiles, her wrinkles briefly ironed out with pleasure. ‘Come on in, dear. Do you mind taking your shoes off ?’

Even though we’ve lived next door to Mrs Gayatri for ten years, I’ve never once stepped inside this house and it feels weird following Mrs G into the hallway. I take my shoes off and put them on the mat.

‘I don’t get many visitors,’ she says, sighing as she leads me into a rather dark living room. She points to the red velvet armchair. ‘Sit yourself down. Can I get you a tea or coffee? Will you help me eat this cake?’

While she makes the tea, I sit looking around the room. There’s a slight smell of incense and a small statue in the corner that is part elephant, part man. There are photos – some very old sepia ones of people that look like they were taken in India. There’s one black-and-white wedding photo and I wonder if it’s Mrs Gayatri’s own wedding picture. I go closer to look.

Mrs G comes back in with flowery teacups and saucers on a tray. She sets it down on a small, dark, wooden table and then goes back for the cake slices on two matching china plates.

‘I was just looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind,’ I say.

‘That was my wedding – so, so many years ago.’ She smiles. ‘My darling husband Vijay. He died ten years ago and I still miss him so much. These are my parents – they of course died many, many years ago – and my five big brothers too.’

‘Do you have no other family – no children of your own?’ I ask.

Mrs G’s mouth turns down, her eyes look suddenly glassy and I wish I hadn’t asked.

‘I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I say.

‘It’s fine,’ she assures me. ‘Just hard when everyone I love has gone.’ She sighs again. ‘Life must be hard for you too, being stuck at home so much.’

‘At least I have my mum,’ I say. ‘She’s had to give up her job to look after me, though. And Dad’s working harder than ever.’

‘Are you not going to school at all?’

‘Not since last June,’ I explain. ‘I have a tutor who comes once a week. I have constant pain in my arms and legs and I just get so tired when I do anything. It’s really frustrating. But I think I am improving now.’

‘What is the cause?’ she asks. ‘Do they know why it started?’

I shake my head. ‘I had tonsillitis and I just didn’t get better. No one knows why it happens.’

‘And is there treatment for it?’

‘There’s a bit of research going on, but they know so little about it, there isn’t much on offer. I’m on a waiting list to see a consultant. The doctor just told me to try to pace myself.’

‘But you will recover?’

‘I hope so.’

There’s silence for a moment. I don’t want to think about my illness – about the possibility that I’ll be like this forever. I change the subject.

‘Mrs Gayatri, I wanted to ask you something,’ I say now. ‘I’m interested in the history of our street and I know you’ve lived here a long time. I wondered if you have any memories to share of anything that has happened here?’

‘What kind of thing?’ she asks.

‘Any memorable events, things that shocked you, tragedies?’

‘That’s a strange question!’ Mrs G shakes her head. ‘Surely you are better to focus your energies on happier things. Let me think . . . now there’s Amir and Zainab, of course, across the road. Their daughter died. That was most certainly a tragedy. She was so young. Their only child. That must have been twenty-five years ago. But that’s probably not the sort of thing you mean. Now, what else . . .’

‘The girl across the road – can you tell me any more?’ I ask, leaning forward. ‘What happened to her?’

Mrs G shakes her head. ‘Really, it is upsetting for me even to think about it. Let’s talk of happier things and leave the past behind. It will do your health no good to focus on such sadness. Shall I show you what came in that parcel the other day?’

I nod. I’m frustrated. I am desperate to know more but I don’t want to push her if it’s upsetting her. She walks slowly back into the kitchen and returns with a bird feeder.

‘I love my garden but I’m not up to tending it like I used to,’ she tells me. ‘I like to watch the birds, though. I wondered, as you’re here, whether you might do me a favour and hang it outside for me – on the silver birch. I have the seeds to fill it with. Then I can sit by the back window and watch for the birds. They’ll be grateful now the weather’s getting colder.’

This sounds sad to me – having nothing more interesting to do than watching birds, though maybe it is no sadder than watching the street like I do. I nod again and follow her to the back door, which she unlocks. The garden, which looked overgrown when I last glimpsed it from my parents’ bedroom window, looks far wilder from down here. Neglect has turned it into a jungle.

‘This garden was beautiful once,’ Mrs G says wistfully. ‘My husband and I – we were both keen gardeners. But now I don’t have the strength for it, nor the money to pay a gardener.’

‘I wish I could help,’ I tell her, ‘but I don’t have the strength either.’

Actually, it’s the last thing I’d want to do, even if I did have full strength. Gardening isn’t my idea of fun at all.

‘Of course you don’t, my dear, but it’s a kind thought.’

She seems so sad, I struggle for something positive to say. ‘I guess it’s good for wildlife?’

‘True,’ she says, but I sense this is little consolation.

I fill the feeder and find I can easily hang it on a branch. Mrs G’s house is on the corner and it’s the only one in our row that has a decent sized garden. I’ve never been very interested in gardens, but I do vaguely remember it being much neater in the past. I used to be envious as a young child because we only have a small paved back yard with no lawn or plants at all.

‘Thank you so much!’ she says. ‘That’s wonderful. I’d have to stand on a stool to do that and I knew it wasn’t a good idea.’

‘No, you mustn’t go doing things like that,’ I agree. ‘It’s nice to be able to do something helpful for a change. It’s usually me who needs the help.’

‘Well, I’m very grateful,’ she says.

‘I’d better go now,’ I tell her. I suddenly feel so tired – and she is looking tired, too. She doesn’t protest and I wonder if I have already outstayed my welcome.

‘I hope you will come again,’ she says. ‘It’s been so nice to have some company.’

I’m relieved. I was worried I’d upset her asking about tragedies, and that she wouldn’t want me back. I’m glad I came, though – Mrs G did seem genuinely pleased to see me, and I even learned something about the girl over the road. At least, I may have done. I learned there was a tragedy, and it involved a girl who died. Does that mean the girl I see really is a ghost? I wish I knew the whole story.

7

‘A gummy bear factory! My son is making gummy bears?’

Dad has somehow seen Mum’s latest WhatsApp message from Marek, who has moved from sprinkling cheese on pizzas to making gummy bears. Dad is reeling off a torrent of Polish insults.

‘Why my son? Why me? We bring him here for a good life, he has a good education and he throws it all away to make teddy bear sweets! What did I do to deserve this useless child?’

‘Don’t say that, Dad,’ I protest. Dad has a tendency to be overdramatic, but to me this seems unfair.

‘Sorry, moje kochanie, I don’t want to upset you.’ Dad gently strokes my hair. ‘But gummy bears! Pah! ’

A few days later I get a package from Germany. Marek has written a card saying how much he misses me and enclosed five packets of gummy bears. I wish he’d come home.

I have a bad day for no apparent reason. That’s what it’s like. I spend the morning in bed eating gummy bears and then the afternoon sitting up, looking out of the window. I’ve been looking out every day, but I haven’t seen the girl again.

Mum is worrying that I’m seeing things – as in imagining them. I overheard her telling Dad. I get brain fog sometimes. I can’t think straight and I struggle with the school work my tutor leaves for me, but hallucinations are not a symptom of ME. I know that because I looked it up online. Even so, the more I watch from the window and don’t see the girl, the more I doubt my own memory. I’m wondering if I really saw her at all or if it was a trick of the light. It’s easier to think of her as a ghost than as a real person – but if she was real, perhaps she was staying there and now she’s gone. I hope so, but either way, I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish I could.

It’s almost a relief when my home tutor, Judy, gets here and I can think of something else. She sits on the wicker chair in my room, runs her hand through her thick dark hair and adjusts her big glasses as she checks my attempts at some maths problems. I’m panicking that I’m getting so far behind at school.

‘I want you to give me more work, Judy,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not doing enough. How am I ever going to catch up?’

‘You can only do what you can do,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to give you too much. It will stress you out and that’ll set you back further. But you’re doing OK, and you are getting better. You couldn’t have done maths like this a few weeks ago.’

‘My head is less fuzzy,’ I agree, ‘but, Judy, I’m so far behind! I’m meant to be taking ten GCSEs. Even if I get back to school, how will I do it?

‘Maybe you could cut down on the number of subjects? she suggests.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t want to give any up.’

‘Or you could perhaps stay in Year 9, repeat the year.’

‘Never,’ I say emphatically. ‘Can you imagine how awful that would be? I want to be with my friends.’

‘Don’t think about it now,’ Judy tells me. ‘Keep working like you are and get plenty of rest too. Just focus on one day at a time.’

It’s easy for her to say but the thought of staying down a year, while my friends all do their GCSEs next year and then go into the sixth form without me, is more than I can bear. I won’t let that happen. I have to get better and back to school as soon as possible. If Judy won’t give me more work then I will get it from Ellie.

Once Judy’s gone, I work hard on more maths, but I’m exhausted and I don’t manage as much as I’d hoped. My eyes are drooping. I wish I had more energy and could concentrate better. But Judy has said that I’m improving. So that gives me hope.

The next day, Ellie is due to visit and this time I’m determined to remember to tell her about the girl, as I’m sure she’ll be able to help me think it through. But when she arrives she’s with Lia, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Lia’s in our form group but I don’t know her that well. We’ve never been friends.

‘You were moaning that no one else comes to see you, so I brought Lia,’ Ellie tells me. ‘We’ve been working together in drama. We’ve done this sketch – you really should see it. It’s hilarious! We might even do it in the show next term!’

She exchanges glances with Lia and they both start giggling. They’re clearly waiting for me to ask them to perform it for me. I feel a tingle of jealousy that they seem so close. I wonder if Lia’s trying to replace me as Ellie’s bestie – but I am also curious about this sketch.

‘You going to show me then?’ I ask.

‘OK – with any luck a laugh will do you good and not tire you out,’ Ellie says, grinning.

The sketch has me in stitches – I laugh so much that I ache. It may hurt physically but I do feel better inside.

‘Do you think you’ll be back at school soon?’ Lia asks, when we can finally speak again.

I shrug. ‘I hope so.’

‘You must be so bored stuck in here,’ she says. ‘Or have you been doing some writing? That story you wrote was so brilliant – it’s fab that you’ve won that competition!’

She sounds genuinely pleased for me and my feelings towards her soften.

‘I don’t really feel up to writing,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure I will get back to it soon, though.’

‘Lia and I are going to Dimitri’s New Year’s Eve party!’ Ellie says.

‘Dimitri’s? But you can’t stand him!’

‘Oh – he’s all right. Loads of people are going.’

‘Could be fun, I guess.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll tell you how it goes,’ Ellie says, laughing.

‘Who throws up where and when, you mean?’

Lia giggles.

Ellie turns to me. ‘Remember that time at Erin’s party, Kas?’ She grins. ‘When you had to rescue me?’

‘What happened?’ asks Lia.

It takes a few seconds but the memory comes flooding back. ‘Oh, yeah! You got locked in the loo!’ I laugh.

‘There was someone in the downstairs loo, so I had to go up,’ Ellie tells Lia. ‘Then the door wouldn’t open and I was yelling and yelling – but the music was so loud no one heard me.’

‘And I was dancing with Serene and Erin,’ I say, ‘and waiting for you, and you took ages, so in the end I came up to look for you and heard you shouting!’

‘So how did you get out?’ Lia asks.

‘Erin found a screwdriver and undid the door handle,’ I tell her.

‘I’d have been stuck there for hours otherwise,’ says Ellie. I thought I was going to have to climb out the tiny bathroom window and shimmy down the drainpipe!’

Now it’s me and Ellie laughing together, and Lia’s turn to join in.

After they leave, I feel glad that Lia came. Ellie will always be my best friend, but it was nice to talk to someone else for a change.

I turn my chair back to the window and sit looking out. It’s weird, thinking back to Erin’s party – dancing and laughing with my friends, having fun. It’s like that was another lifetime. But I will get better – I am determined to get back to these things. I see movement in the corner of my eye but when I look there’s nothing. Did the curtain move? Was she there, and did she fade away instantly, as always? I wanted to wave – to let her know I’m here. Perhaps she’d stay visible if she knew someone could see her.

I need to find out more. I don’t want to upset Mrs G, but right now she’s the only one who can help. I need to talk to her again.

I’ve knocked on the door and I’m waiting and waiting for Mrs Gayatri to come and answer it.

She looks surprised. ‘How are you, dear?’ she asks. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I thought I’d come for a chat, but only if it’s convenient,’ I say.

She smiles and holds the door for me.

‘I’m so glad you came again,’ she says. ‘Those hungry birds have got through all the food already. I’ve seen blue tits there, and great tits. If you could refill the bird feeder for me I’d be so pleased.’

‘Of course,’ I tell her.

‘You do that while I make some tea.’

When I’ve refilled the feeder, we sit on armchairs opposite each other.

‘Mrs Gayatri, you know you told me about the girl who died across the road? I don’t want to upset you, but I’d really like to know more about what happened.’

She frowns. ‘To lose your only child – it’s such a sad thing,’ she says quietly. ‘She was a sweet girl. Meningitis, it was. There’s nothing more to tell really.’

‘Meningitis?’ I repeat. ‘So she was ill?’

I was expecting something more dramatic – something that would give a reason for her to be appearing as a ghost.

Mrs G nods. ‘Nasty illness that – can still be a killer, even now. Her parents moved away in the end. I think it was hard for them to see . . .’ She pauses, her eyes glassy for a moment. ‘To see other children growing up in the street when their child was no longer there. It was empty for over a year after they went, number forty-six. I think people viewing the house could still sense the sadness.’

‘You mean forty-eight?’ I ask.

‘Forty-eight? No.’ Mrs G frowns. ‘What makes you say that? It was forty-six.’

‘Forty-six?’ I stare at her in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ She nods firmly. ‘Poor Shari, she was only five, you know.’

I am speechless, silent, as I try to take this in. This isn’t about my girl at all – it’s the wrong house, and the girl is the wrong age. So now I’m back to knowing nothing at all!

Mrs G looks so sad. I know it was a tragic thing, but I’m surprised that she is this upset.

‘I’m so sorry I asked you about it,’ I tell her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘Let’s say no more about it.’

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