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pinpricks, where the skin’s been taken off. I put the plug in and start to turn the tap, but then I stop, remembering what happened last night when I splashed my face.
    The memories. The voice.
    But it was the middle of the night. I was tired. Confused.
    Even so, I check behind me. There’s no one there, of course.
    I watch the water dripping from the cold tap, forming a clear pool in the bottom of the sink, and anxiety stabs me in the guts.
    For Chrissake, just wash your face. Look at you. You’re a mess. A voice in my head is urging me on.
    I turn the hot tap full on, so it’s gushing and spluttering, and dip one hand into the water, swooshing it around to feel the temperature. I’m looking down but my eye catches something flashing in the mirror behind me, a movement. It’s gone before I’m even sure if I saw it, but my chest starts heaving, and I canfeel sweat prickling on my upper lip. I spin around and face the room.
    It’s empty.
    I turn back to the sink. Come on, you can do this. The water is nearly up to the outlet. I turn the hot tap off and tighten up the cold one so that it stops dripping, too. I plunge both hands into the water, lean forward, and splash my face.
    She’s screaming. Her hands are tearing at his, trying to wrench them away from her throat. I take another deep breath and swim toward them. I look up again. Rain splashes on the surface, making it seem alive, obscuring my view. But I can still hear her. Hear her screaming for her life.
    There’s sweat between my shoulder blades, my stomach’s contracting, my heart’s pounding. It’s not real; it’s a memory, that’s all. I force myself to pick up the soap and work my hands together. I lean forward again and scrub my cheeks and forehead, along my jawline and around my eyes.
    Get clean, wash all this away.
    I slop water onto my face again to rinse it. When I open my eyes the soapy drips have merged with the rest, clouding the water in the bowl below. I can still see the dark circle of the plug at the bottom, but there’s something else. A face looking up at me.
    His face. Deathly pale. Marked skin.
    “No!”
    I rear back, fumbling for the towel. I dry my face and inch forward, peering over the rim of the sink. There’s a pale shadow there now, the outline of a face and neck. Trembling, I lean closer. The shape gets larger. Closer still. Larger again.
    It’s me, of course. My reflection on the surface of the water.
    I pull the plug and watch the water disappear. Then I look at myself in the mirror.
    How can you tell if you’re going mad? Do you look different? Can you see it in your own eyes?

D ownstairs, the living room is a mess, cans lying where Mum left them last night. The coat I put on top of her is on the floor. But she’s not there. I check in the kitchen, then go back through to the bottom of the stairs and shout up.
    “Mum?”
    I run up and knock on the other bedroom door.
    “Mum?”
    No reply. I look in quickly. The bed’s empty, the duvet’s half on the floor. There are old tissues and cans littering the carpet. But no Mum. Where the hell is she? I’ve just got out of the hospital and she isn’t even here.
    I’m really thirsty; hungry, too. But there’s no food in the place and nothing to drink except lager, water, and some spoiled milk. I want something to get me going, get my senses working properly — something with some fizz, some caffeine.
    I grab last night’s jacket from the floor and have a quick look for some money. Surely there’s some cash lying around somewhere, for God’s sake, some emergency bills stashed in a biscuit tin or under a can in the cupboard. I do a quick trawl of the kitchen and living room, stick my hand down the back of the sofa. I find fifteen pence between the cushions, and that’s it. I drop the coins in my jeans pocket.
    On my way out I put the jacket on and explore the pockets. My fingers close around the phone, and last night’s guilty heat surges through me again. Don’t