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up the remote, flicked through the channels. Finding nothing that grabbed my attention, I walked over and switched off the television.
    Bed. I'll go to bed. Sleep this off.
    I was probably still a bit jet-lagged. It'd only been a week since I got back, and I'd been working right up until two days before I left Sydney. And since I'd gotten back I'd been exploring Brockingham, had been acquainting myself with its transport system, winding side streets and little shops. I'd traveled to where I used to live in west London to have my plaits taken out and have my hair straightened. I'd also been into work for a couple of hours on Thursday and Friday. All of it—not easing myself into things—was probably adding to my ennui, my tension, my frustration. I hadn't slept a whole night through in weeks and tomorrow was the first day of my first full week back being a recruitment consultant. A good few hours in bed, listening to music, would be soothing.
    I lay on the bed, flat on my back, spreading out, turning myself into a human starfish under the white duvet, trying to fill as much of the bed as I could. Peter Gabriel's low, husky voice enveloped the room as “In Your Eyes” started. It was 5:30 p.m. and darkness had already bled into the sky, inking out the world beyond my blinds.
    Closing my eyes I started to float on the words of the song: emptiness. Running away. Going back to the place where you started.
    The memories started as frozen frames, images that imprinted themselves on my mind like clicks of a camera.
    Click. The feel of that soft patch of skin at the nape of his neck.
    Click. The warmth of his body under my fingertips.
    Click. The intensity of his eyes.
    I snapped open my eyes, thinking that would stop them, that would be the way to fight off the memories, return them to the darkness where they belonged. They kept coming. Slowly turning from frames to moving images.
    Click. The brush of his lips on the well at the base of my throat.
    Click. The curve of his mouth as he said, “I could be with you forever.”
    Click. His hands as they tugged my top over my head.
    Click. His slight gasp as his eyes ran over my seminaked body.
    I stopped fighting it, allowed the clicks of memories to keep flashing up behind my eyes. Memories of him. Mem o ries of us. Memories of who I was when I was with him.
    I surrendered myself to the remembering. It was easierthan fighting. And, right now, I had very little fight left in me.
    I woke up with a start, with a scream at the back of my throat and terror branded onto my heart.
    There was someone in my room. I could feel it.
    Or maybe someone had touched me. Either way, there was definitely someone there. My eyes snapped open when I was already half upright. It was still dark in my room so I had no idea what time it was. My heart raced as I reached for the bedside lamp to shed light into the room, to chase away the darkness and reassure myself there was no one there.
    The light came on and I jumped all over again, a strangled cry of shock escaping from my mouth. There was someone in my room. Someones.
    Summer. Jaxon.
    They stood about two feet away from the bed, near the open door.
    They were only recently out of bed, I realized as I stared at them: Summer was wearing an old- fashioned nightdress— greyed white flannel with frilly collar and cuffs and vines of tiny pink flowers crawling over it—and her hair was a sleep-mussed mass of black on her head. Jaxon was wearing blue and red Spider-Man pajamas that stopped a few inches shy of his wrists and ankles, his hair stood on end and his face was still puffed up with sleep.
    Twice in three days they'd broken into my flat. Twice they had scared the life out of me. I had definitely locked the front door—I'd triple-checked, like I always did. Moving the key in the lock again and turning the knob of the Yale lock to ensure that they were in place. That I was safe. Thatany danger was outside. Sometimes, like last night, I'd wake up,