My husband isn’t deliberately unhelpful, or one of those men who thinks it’s a woman’s job. Just absent-minded, and better – probably deliberately – at other things. He tends to favour building shelves in seventeenth-century nooks, and fixing the constantly-on-the-blink boiler, leaving me to take care of . . . well, everything else. You tend to settle into these roles without either of you meaning to – the school calls the mother when the child is sick, the plumber tells the man the valve is faulty. It can grind you down, but there are bigger battles to fight, like getting Robbie to agree to book a nice cottage in Cornwall for our October half-term holiday, rather than some dodgy Airbnb in Athens so he can visit the Parthenon. On some level, though, the prongs of those forks were needling, reminding me it was my job to put them the right way up so they got properly clean.

After breakfast, the usual hassle of getting everyone up and out, hauling Ethan out of bed, telling Hazel to switch off her GHD irons, wiping down worktops, dashing upstairs to slap on some semblance of a face, despairing at the eye bags, age spots at my temples, thread veins around my nose. Downstairs again, grabbing an overstuffed tote, shouting at everyone to get a move on. Of course, as soon as the front door closed, I had to go back to check the straighteners were off. I have to do this every day – we live in a lovely old farmhouse and I really don’t want it to burn down. The ancient wiring worries me enough as it is.

It’s the morning dance routine of a million households, we’re nothing special. No exceptional circumstances here, unless you count twins, and that’s only one in two hundred and fifty. Or is that two in two hundred and fifty? Whatever. The four of us were out of the house by ten past eight, and I was on a train to Bristol by eight-thirty. For a while after we went back to the office, post-pandemic, everyone had staggered starting times, but somehow it all fell away, Vincent began scheduling 9 a.m. meetings again and no one, least of all me, raised any objections. Like the Fire of London. After it razed everything to the ground, they said they were going to rebuild the city better, get rid of that higgledy-piggledy layout and plot big wide streets in grids, but in the end, they just built the roads where they’d always been, same as before. That pretty much went for everything, really. All this talk of making everything better, greener, fairer, came to nothing. Back to how it was, waiting for the next fire to strike.

On the train I was trying to read my book again but felt dozy and distracted, probably because of the pills kicking in, those letters still scrambling under my lids, so let it fall to my lap, as a thousand and one abstract concerns crowded my brain, vying for attention. Shopping lists and guest lists; cleaning tasks and sorting out mess; nails, emails and migraines; eye bags and emotional baggage. So much to do, so many people to placate, circling, jabbing at me like the prongs of the forks. I closed my eyes, then opened them, staring into space, vision swimming and refocusing.

That was when I saw the case. The case with the bomb in it.

2

Just to back up a bit here, I have a thing about suspect packages. Like, you know, planes or wasps. Or snakes. I have a thing about all those too, but they’re further back in the phobia files. Suspect packages are a more recent fear. You might argue that everyone has a thing about them, but it’s not true, because I asked my friend Susie and she just looked blank.

‘What?’

‘Are you ever scared? On public transport?’

‘Why would I be?’

‘In case, you know, you see something odd. Like, See it, say it, sorted, or whatever.’

She shrugged. ‘Dunno, I’m just looking at my phone. Probably wouldn’t see it.’

So it seemed it was just me. In an average week, I spot at least one questionable item in my carriage and have to react accordingly. I see it, but I don’t say it or sort it, just move down the train until I feel like I’m out of the danger zone. Sometimes I get a later, quieter service. Better safe than sorry. Better late than dead. Vince stares at me as I shuffle into morning catch-ups, muttering ‘Sorry, sorry, bloody trains,’ which is never a lie, because that’s my nightmare. One of them. Some people fantasize; I catastrophize. It’s extremely time-consuming. My younger sister Maz, who’s had extensive therapy, says my phobias are a distraction – i.e. irrational fears divert from the rational. But I’d rather not think about that.

Since our mother refused to pay for driving lessons when we were teenagers and I’m too neurotic to learn now, Robbie is the driver in our family – another reversion to stereotype. But we don’t have a car because of the environment, and he likes cycling to work because unlike me he doesn’t think getting on a bicycle is a sure-fire shortcut to an early grave. I’m not even sure I can ride a bike, despite learning as a child. They say you don’t forget, but I’m definitely more unbalanced now, wobblier with age. Anyway, since I can’t drive, it has to be the train. It’s only about ten minutes from Keynsham, the market town where we live, to Bristol Temple Meads, where I work, but it’s an intense experience.

Why do suspect packages preoccupy me so much when they clearly don’t perturb the Susies of this world? It just seems like such an awful way to go. And since this is the thing that worries me the most – more than wasps or planes or snakes – I decided that guaranteed it would happen. Because irony. You’re more likely to be crushed by unstable furniture than killed by a bomb, statistically, but in the story of my life, Susie’s looking at her phone because there’s nothing else to look at, whereas I glance up and see the deadly bag ticking, seconds before the timer hits zero. Susie ends up being killed another way. Falling wardrobe, probably. So I’m always on the alert, as if vigilance can fend it off, and this morning there was a prime candidate, much better than last week’s dubious parcel, which turned out to be an empty shoebox.

This was properly suspicious. It was huge, and black, and a very odd shape, propped up against one of the seats. Maybe it was some sort of music case. Really big though; big enough for a cello, or some sort of terrible device. I mean, it was the shape of a cello, but who knew what was really in there? And why was there nobody with it? Who left an expensive instrument just sitting there on its own? I tried to concentrate on my book again, but the words swam in front of my eyes like the names in the email: ‘this morning . . . woke . . . dread . . . a feeling . . .’ All my dread focused on this looming receptacle, packing every one of my worries into a black box. If I could just avoid whatever was in there, banish it, run away, then I would be safe.

Looking up, I decided that if no one rejoined the case in the next two minutes, I would have to change carriages, get outside the death radius. Out of sight, out of mind, out of danger. In fact, it was barely thirty seconds before I made my move. I wanted to give the other passengers the impression I was answering the call of nature, rather than being threatened by a cello case, so getting to my feet, I caught the eye of a woman opposite and said ‘Are the toilets that way, do you know?’ and she said ‘Clover? Clover Ashton?!’

‘Um, hi! How are you?’ It’s actually Clover Hendry now, but I didn’t like to correct her because there was no way I could take the slightest stab at her name.

‘Oh, you know, can’t complain. It’s been ages! You look great!’ Did I? I thought I probably looked dishevelled and harassed, and maybe a bit overweight. She looked completely unrecognizable, but I couldn’t betray a hint of confusion. Forgetting an acquaintance is the height of rudeness.

‘So good to see you! You look fabulous too!’ In fact, she was a little overdressed for a commute.

She grimaced. ‘I’m tarted up for a work do later. You still in TV?’

‘Um, yes. Still at the coal face . . .’ I mumbled, desperately trying to recall when we’d met. She’d used my maiden name, so it must have been a very long time ago. Had we worked on a show together? I’d moved about three feet further from the case, but we were still in the blast area, even if I used her as a shield. ‘How about you?’

‘Same old, same old. I really must move on, but life gets in the way, kids get in the way . . . Have YOU got any little ones?’ She put her head on one side, as if she could read my offspring in the lines under my eyes. I often don’t mention my kids, because talking about twins always provokes strong reactions from people, inevitably leading to long-winded conversations along the lines of double-trouble, two-for-the-price-of-one, was it IVF, etc. And I didn’t have time right now, what with the imminent threat.

‘Not that I’m aware of!’ I floundered. Denying my own progeny. That definitely destabilized my karma. Now I had two reasons to get away: the bomb, and this woman. Infuriatingly, the train had stopped just outside the station, waiting for a platform. I wondered if I could prise open the doors and pick my way along the track.

‘Well, there’s still time. Mind you, none of us are getting any younger. And you could get hit by a bus tomorrow!’ The stranger tittered merrily and thumped me on the arm.

As if I didn’t dwell on that every single day. I already felt like I’d been hit by a bus that morning. The train lurched as it started up again and – horror – the case lurched with it. For a second, it stood unsupported, then toppled to the floor with a crash. I sank with it, one arm over my face, moaning loudly as I anticipated the blow. Finally, it had happened, the thing I’d dreaded and brooded over for so long. It was almost a relief. Blown to smithereens, fears and to-do lists and guest lists obliterated forever . . .

There was no explosion. I remained crouched on the floor of the carriage as the train inched alongside the platform, wondering how to extricate myself from this situation. My forgotten friend gaped down at me in astonishment as I feebly pretended to have something in my shoe, taking it off and shaking a non-existent stone out of it, wishing a sudden detonation would put me out of my misery.

When the train finally stopped, I got to my feet, brushing off my clothes, trying to retain a modicum of dignity.

‘Anyway, this is me! Lovely to see you again!’

The strange woman stared at me strangely. Although there wasn’t a bomb, I’d basically let off some sort of incendiary device and was now poleaxed by the toxic fug of embarrassment, so it was a good job we’d arrived in Bristol. The doors opened and I jumped off the train, giving thanks to Hermes, protector of travellers. The woman got off as well, giving me a puzzled, tentative wave, and I waved back, watching her go, fuelled by a sense of freedom, and Vicodin. I still couldn’t remember who she was, but it was unlikely I’d ever see her again. As commuters surged around me, I turned around, felt a sharp jab at the base of my skull, and everything went black.

3

You’re statistically more likely to be killed by falling furniture than by a bomb, but I’d hazard a guess there’s more chance of you getting blown up than being felled by a businessman’s briefcase on a station platform. He was looking at his watch as he got off the train, and the corner connected with my head at a very precise and unlikely point. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost consciousnesses at all were it not for the pills, which had already left me fuzzy and disoriented – horseshoe nail territory again. As I lay there, all I could see marching across my eyelids were those letters. Letters in no particular order, or maybe they were, but I didn’t want to make sense of them. Like the sliding doors, it was easier to jump out than face what was there.

When I came to, I was still on the platform, my legs propped up on the offending briefcase, a jacket under my sore head.

Obviously, my overwhelming emotion was mortification. All these people having their day derailed, late for work because of me. Maybe they thought I was drunk. I felt quite drunk, thanks to drugs and head injuries and something else that I couldn’t quite explain.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, rearing up. Various hands pressed me back down. ‘Truly, I feel absolutely fine.’ Taking care to enunciate clearly, not give any evidence of inebriation, I tried to get up again, and this time no one stopped me. They all got out their phones, apart from the businessman.

‘Thank God,’ he said, picking up his case and jacket. ‘I’m a lawyer,’ he added, shaking the jacket and frowning at the bloodstain.

‘Oh, lovely,’ I replied, still feeling dizzy. ‘So’s my husband.’

He paled and began to back away. ‘Intellectual property,’ I qualified, to reassure. He shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the crowds. Hit and run. He could have at least said sorry. Maybe I should have said sorry first, to prompt him. Maybe it was really rude, not offering to dry-clean the jacket. My face began to burn as I considered the faux pas, simultaneously feeling the strange urge to follow him into the hordes and punch him. Another train creaked alongside the platform.

Figuring I’d already diced with death, so was safe to continue my journey, I boarded a bus outside the station, trying not to look at anything. Maybe it was like the tree falling in the forest – if I didn’t see it, it wasn’t there. As we rumbled along Redcliffe Way, the dizziness receded and was replaced by a vague, out-of-place feeling, like an aura before a migraine. I stared at page 48, not taking anything in. Just dots, join-the-dots, forming a picture I couldn’t quite piece together.

Lurching off the bus at Broad Quay, I tried to hold steady, looking up at the blue sky, the waving green trees, orienting myself. Get it together, Clover. I had the sense of things unravelling and in flux, taking in new atoms, cells shifting and regenerating with every shaky breath. Something big was happening, something that I couldn’t put my finger on but felt with every fibre. The blue sky. The green trees. The black box. The blue box, the black trees, the green sky. Everything on its axis.

I arrived at Red Eye’s offices on King Street shortly after 9 a.m., stumbling into the meeting room mouthing apologies to Vincent, who rolled his eyes and carried on talking about daytime slots. Edging into my seat, I put up a hand to check the back of my neck. It came away sticky with blood, which I wiped on my trousers – regulation black, tailored, paired with a skimming, interesting-print blouse, the work uniform of every woman my age. I still felt odd, dislocated, like I wasn’t really there. Was it an out-of-body experience? Had I, in fact, died on the platform?

Contemplating this possibility, I began to feel hot, sweat pooling underneath the silk, threatening to soak through. I licked the beads off my upper lip, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone had noticed. But everyone was staring fixedly at the table as Vince droned on. Petroc, one of my fellow executive producers, was doodling, drawing caricatures of Mr Burns from The Simpsons. Vince’s nickname is Monty, not because of any physical similarity, but because he has a habit of drawling ‘H-excellent’ and steepling his fingers whenever a rival company suffers a ratings dive.

I loosened the bow at the neck of my blouse, using the tie to subtly fan myself. My face felt bright red, as red as the blood oozing at my nape. Surely that proved I was still alive? Surely the afterlife was not sitting in a meeting room with managing director Vincent Chapel, pronounced Shapelle, as he debated whether or not the 11.45 slot on BBC One was worth chasing? It was a hell of sorts, I supposed. When did I die? Was it on the platform, when I was knocked out, or before that? Maybe when I took the tablets, or when I snapped the laptop shut? What was the tiny nail that set it all off?

Time to undo another button. Were there enough vegetables in the fridge for Hazel’s curry tonight? Must buy naan bread on the way home, or the twins would moan. Could get it on my way to pick up the dry-cleaning. Cleaning. The compost bin needed washing out, must remember to bleach it later. And do a towel wash. Maybe I could make a list on my phone under the table. Christ, it was hot. Was the air con broken? I glanced around again, but everyone else looked perfectly comfortable, and I didn’t like to suggest we open a window. Resting my phone on my lap, I couldn’t remember what was on my mind. Was it a to-do list? What did I have to do? Sitting there, thumbs hovering over the screen, I found myself tapping ‘BIG BABY’. No idea what that meant.

The headache was creeping back, tingling at my left cheekbone – I cupped my hand against it, to push it away. The room began to whirl around me, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, a bit like being on a waltzer at the fairground. Or those days when you used to get given gas at the dentist before they banned it. I remember swinging away in the chair as a child, away with the fairies, gorgeous drugs making it all better. What was it? Entonox? Like gas and air for giving birth. When the twins were born, Robbie tried it, got carried away, and ended up high as a kite. High on gas, high on Vicodin; my sober husband was such a junkie. I giggled.

‘Something amusing you, Clover?’

Screwing up my eyes, I tried to focus on Vince at the end of the table. ‘No, sir.’

What was wrong with me? Everything felt weird, as if I might float away and hover above the table like a drone. It was still hot, but now I was accustomed, it was almost like being in a sauna. Quite comforting heat, really. Maybe I’d have a sleep, wake up when Vince had finished analysing the daytime schedule. I closed my eyes, slid my cupped hand to my chin, and used his nasal tones as a lullaby . . .

It’s possible I slept for a while, maybe a few minutes, or an hour – those meetings can last forever. When I resurfaced, Vince was still going.

‘What we need,’ he was saying. ‘Is someone famous and gay. Gay-mous. Ha ha!’