The Two-Tone Van
The flu had left me feeling slack and insubstantial. I sat draped in the chair like a damp towel, watching the street, dozing, watching the street again. Late that night I got up for the bathroom and happened to glance out of the window. The camper van was still there; I thought I saw a light flicker behind its curtains.

The following afternoon Mum had to go to work. I struggled into some clothes and went, on trembling legs, out onto the street. When I got alongside the VW I stopped. One of the sliding windows was half open, and I’d heard a sound that might have been the whimper of an abandoned animal.


Been Here, Done This
Déjà vu, they call it. Something seen before. But the weirdness of it doesn’t come from seeing. What gives you that sort of cold and breathless feeling is being certain that you’ve lived this moment before. That maybe there’s another dimension to your life. One that you don’t know, but sometimes glimpse.

I knew every scratch in that door’s paintwork, knew the pattern in the grain of the wood, recognised the feel of the latch in my hand. I knew what was on the other side of it, and that I didn’t want to open it. And I knew, of course, that I had to.