The Possession of Mr Cave. Matt Haig

phoned me an hour ago.’

      ‘Phoned you?’

      ‘On her mobile.’

      ‘Phoned you on her mobile telephone? When?’

      ‘I told you,’ Cynthia said, exasperated. ‘An hour ago.’

      ‘Well, I’m afraid, Cynthia, you’ve been misinformed. She promised you she was coming and she’s coming. Now, Bryony? Bryony?’

      The taxi honked outside.

      ‘Bryony? Bryony?’

      Your voice, somewhere above: ‘What?’

      ‘Why did you tell your grandmother you weren’t coming with us?’

      ‘I’m going to Imogen’s,’ you said with cool defiance.

      ‘Imogen’s?’

      At which point Cynthia’s fingers played a quick four notes on my arm, her nails shining like onyx jewels.

      ‘Apparently her friend’s very upset,’ she whispered. ‘She’s just split up with her boyfriend and wants to have a girls’ night with Bryony. You know girls like sleepovers, don’t you? Now, come on, Terence, don’t make a big hoo-ha.’

      I went upstairs and you handed me a piece of paper you had already prepared, complete with Imogen’s address and telephone number. You assumed, no doubt, that I would do nothing with this information.

      A third baritone blast of that taxi horn and Cynthia’s voice: ‘Come on, Terence. We’ll be late.’

      And me looking directly in your eyes saying: ‘So, it’s just going to be you and Imogen?’

      Your eyes conjured their wide innocence. ‘Uh-huh.’

      ‘And how, may I ask, are you getting there?’

      ‘Imogen knows a pimp who works this part of town and he’s kindly offered me a lift,’ you said, before puncturing your tease. ‘Imogen’s mum. She’s picking me up.’