The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Louise Jensen Read Free Book Online

in bed. Whatever had happened in the day, whatever abuse had been hurled at us, whatever we’d had to deal with, it was our one constant. Our specialtime. I miss that. I miss her.
    Trying to remember what happened in the last episode, Phil Mitchell’s growly voice lances me and the bread I have dipped orange and soft sits hard and solid in the pit of my stomach. I don’t recognise him. Suddenly the enormity of the impact prosopagnosia will have on my life crashes into me. Soup sloshes onto my lap as my body shakes with the force of thehowl that rips through me, my tears splattering into the bowl.
    As Dr Saunders had explained the condition, I hadn’t fully taken it in, but now, as I kneel in front of the TV as though I am praying, tracing the faces of the characters on screen with my fingertips, it seems horribly, horribly real. These people in Albert Square feel like family to me almost, the family I lost, and I mightnever recognise them again. I might never recognise anyone again. It was impossible to imagine how life would be with my friends, my family, looking like strangers. I’d never once thought about TV. Movies. Theatre. I jab the screen to darkness with such force the DVDs housed on the shelf below tumble to the floor.
    Although we stream most of the things we watch, I always buy my favouriteson disc. The box set of Friends . The Step Up movies. Bridesmaids , our go-to bad day movie, which Chrissy and I have watched far too many times, sliding a box of Maltesers between us, topping up our gin with fizzing tonic, stomach muscles sore with laughter.
    There will be no re-watching my favourite films. No watching new ones. The actors’ faces will become unrecognisable to me the secondthey leave the screen, morphing into someone else as they return. I feel I haven’t just lost them, the characters in the programmes I love, I’ve lost a piece of myself too and, inexplicably, I feel like I’m losing Mum all over again. My life will never be the same and I fold in on myself, my forehead resting on my knees, and I sob and sob as though my heart is breaking. As though my heart is breakingagain.
    A crashing sound from the back garden.
    Fear beats its wings. A scraping now. Something rooting around, and I tell myself it’s a fox. If Branwell were here his hackles would be raised, a low growl in his throat, but he is not here, and I am utterly alone and utterly terrified. Out of the kitchen window, there is nothing to see but blackness. I know if I were to fling open theback door it would scare away the fox – if it is an animal that is skulking around in the dark.
    If .
    Rummaging through the junk drawer I find the Maglite buried under tea towels and takeaway menus and, quickly, I stride upstairs. Opening my bedroom window wide I peer out into the garden, arcing the torchlight over the lawn, illuminating the roses scattered over it. I tell myself thewind must have caught the lid, blown the bouquet to the ground, but even I can see from here the heads of the flowers have been torn violently from their stems.
    A fox foraging for his dinner. That’s all.
    I shine the torch on the bin. It is upright. The lid firmly closed.

8
    I can’t settle. The thought of the shredded roses conquers sleep. The hours slide by as I lie on my back, the mattress curving up around my body, sagging and sighing as I roll onto my side. The hour late. Cars thrum past infrequently now, and the pub at the end of the road mustbe closed. In the distance, a dog barks. Every sound is amplified, slicing through the silence. My fingers scrunch the top of my duvet. As a child I was scared of monsters and I used to draw the covers over my head. The fingertip-bruises on my arms, the still-throbbing lump on my head remind me that monsters are real. They walk among us, looking like us, talking like us. Unidentifiable. While Iwas in hospital I was desperate to be at home, but now I am here I am longing for the sanctity of the ward, where the constant