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and jolts made Evie cry, but this morning she endured them with what seemed like an air of benevolent curiosity, as if the discomfort was a price worth paying to experience the rich sensory bombardment that was ‘outside’.
    Alice pushed the buggy along the street until she found a gap between the parked cars. There was no traffic but still she paused before crossing, her gaze drifting to the houses opposite as she tried to place which one was likeliest.
    No. Too dangerous.
    She decided on a walk first. Once round the block: Port Hall Road, right into Exeter Street, then Buxton Road and back to Lavinia Street. It wasn’t a bad day for a stroll, milder than she expected, with the sort of blank white sky that brought to mind a dust sheet – as if behind it the real sky was getting a fresh coat of paint.
    Today’s dogshit count was disappointing: two fresh piles since yesterday morning’s walk. Alice thought last night’s torment might have given her a new perspective on such misdemeanours, but no: in AliceWorld there would be snipers on rooftops to counteract such disgusting anti-social behaviour. Clean it up right now, buster, or we open fire …
    At the corner of Port Hall Road, Alice glanced back and noticed a man at the far end of her street. He had something in his hand – must be a phone. He lifted it, turning away from her as if uninterested, but it seemed a slightly calculated move. He was about the right size to be one of the men from last night. The one with the knife.
    The one who’d threatened to slit my baby’s throat.
    Alice froze. She’d never make it back home before he intercepted her. She could run in the other direction, but to where?
    Her legs felt weak. To stay upright she had to lean on the buggy, which threatened to tip backwards. She took a step towards the house on the corner and rested against the wall while she fought to rein in her panic.
    A car drew up at the corner of Buxton Road. The man walked towards it and climbed in, never giving her a second glance.
    You’re a fool, Alice French.
    There was an impatient cry from Evie. Alice set off again, peering into every parked car, every doorway. By the time she’d completed the circuit she was convinced it had been nothing more than her overcharged imagination.
    Halfway along the street she stopped. Home was just across the road. She moved to the front of the buggy and knelt down, pretending to adjust Evie’s blanket while casting her mind back to Tuesday morning.
    41? 43? 45? What did she think?
    43, she decided, was the most likely address.
    Her heart was thumping madly. She took hold of the buggy and began pushing it towards the house, a couple of doors along. It felt unreal, as though she was floating. Was she really going to do this?

    N umber 43 had little to distinguish itself from any other home in the street. A narrow three-bedroom Victorian terraced house with the front door on the right-hand side and bay windows top and bottom on the left. White stucco on the wall, overdue a fresh coat of paint. Net curtains in the lower bay, and thick curtains drawn upstairs. No lights on, as far as she could tell.
    The short path was paved rather than tiled. A single step led up to the front door, which sat in a shallow recess. The door was solid timber, painted dark grey and in better condition than the rest of the property. A tiny letterbox sat neatly in the centre.
    After scanning the street again, she stepped on to the path, pulling the buggy behind her. She rang the doorbell and waited, her breath coming in quick gasps.
    There was no hint of movement within the house, so she knocked on the door. The sound echoed along the street and seemed to broadcast her presence to the world. But still no one answered. The net curtains didn’t twitch.
    She checked the street, then rang the bell and knocked again. With every second the urge to flee was growing stronger.
    Maybe this wasn’t the house. Although Alice knew most of the local residents on a