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There’s no one there after all. My face is pale and there are dark circles under my eyes, but the contours of my cheekbones and the familiar smattering of freckles across them comforts me. I breathe into the bag, doing what I can to slow my heart-rate down, and continue to keep my gaze fixed on my reflection. Something’s still not right.
    I drop the phone and reach one shaky hand up to my long brown hair which curtains my face in waves. For some reason, it’s damp.

Chapter Three
    I am interested in imperfections, quirkiness, insanity, unpredictability. That’s what we really pay attention to anyway. We don’t talk about planes flying; we talk about them crashing.
    Tibor Kalman
    ––––––––
    I t’s not surprising that I don’t sleep that night. The Chairman also spends most of the wee hours hiding. It’s not the first time I’ve wished he could talk; perhaps then he could tell me exactly what happened.
    I get through the night by sitting upright in bed, hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I manage yet again to avoid another full-blown panic attack but it’s still a relief when dawn breaks. When the telephone rings just after nine, it’s a welcome distraction.
    ‘Ms Lydon? This is Sergeant Rawlins. We met yesterday? I was hoping we could come by again today.’
    I almost gush down the phone. It’s embarrassing. ‘That would be fantastic. Can you come now?’
    If the policewoman is taken aback at my sudden desire to have visitors, she doesn’t show it in her voice and merely agrees to come by mid-morning. As soon as I replace the receiver, I’m galvanised into action. I’ve been scouring the internet and I can find no trace of anyone experiencing strange, post-mushroom-eating hallucinations in the last month. At least, not from mainstream, supermarket-aisle mushrooms. So either a policeman or paramedic used an airborne or skin-to-skin contact pathogen to make me dream like that or I am going crazy. Frankly, I am more inclined to believe the latter. I may be agoraphobic and extremely paranoid but that doesn’t mean the emergency services of Great Britain are out to get me. I’m not a complete idiot.
    Unfortunately, if I am going insane, I have no idea how to deal with it. A doctor might want to take me into hospital for evaluation; I might even be locked up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t think that will help me in the slightest.
    At the moment, the easiest thing to do is to eliminate the police from my amateur enquiries. Why did the young policeman pop up out of nowhere in my dream? Is my subconscious telling me something? I just wish it would speak a little more clearly.
    I dash upstairs and change, ensuring that I wear a long-sleeved shirt along with a pair of jeans. Officer Sex-In-The-Alley touched my arm yesterday and I was wearing a T-shirt, so he’d connected with my bare skin. It was nothing more than a brief brush – and seemed innocuous enough – but I’m not taking any chances. I even hunt through my underwear drawer to find the long-sleeved gloves I bought for a fancy-dress party. It’ll look weird but, let’s face it, I am weird.
    Once I’m satisfied with my clothing, I close all the upstairs doors and steel myself to open the ground-floor windows. If I’m not nuts and this thing (whatever it is) is airborne, then I need fresh air to keep everything ventilated.
    When the doorbell finally rings, I slowly unbolt each lock. Butterflies squirm in my belly but I manage to squash them. It’s not the two police officers standing on my porch, however, it’s the postman. He’s a regular visitor and is well aware of my foibles but there’s something dark and furtive about him. Still, while I wouldn’t say I feel comfortable when he appears, his presence is not frightening. 
    ‘Hello, Zoe!’ he says, raising his thin eyebrows. ‘You have a parcel.’ He holds it out and I take it awkwardly, shoving it under my arm.
    ‘There’s no sign of another letter is there?’ I ask.