Eleanor could not sleep. She had too many things running through her mind. The funeral. The flowers. The way Will had cried, head bowed on the phew, shoulders shaking. But the most recurring thing was the curtain that hung in her room, covering the mirror from view. It covered the truth of her actions, the way her bloodstained hands had gripped onto the bloody handle of the knife.

A noise. She bolted upright.

Clutching the duvet to her chest, she listened. Nothing. Reluctantly, she sank back into the bed. She must have been imagining it. Yes, she had so many things on her mind right now. He couldn't possibly have come back for her.

Her eyes were just starting to close again when it came again.

The little knocking downstairs. And then whispering.

She sat up again and swung her legs round the side of the bed. She wondered what to do. Go and wake Will? Would she get to his room in time? Or would she have to succumb to whoever was downstairs?

Quietly, she slipped on her slippers and padded to the door, resting an ear on it. She heard more banging from downstairs and the whispers were getting louder.

Eleanor turned back to the bed. She wondered about getting her compass from her maths set – her professor had always joked about how good a weapon it would be. Instead, she whipped the lamp from the table, yanking it from the socket. Then, she advanced towards the door, flung it open, and charged down the stairs.

The scream stung in her throat as she reached the two shady figures on the lower floor. She launched herself at one of them, screaming at the top of her lungs as she brought the lamp down on the intruder's head.

"Ow!" someone yelled.

"You're gonna poke his eye out!" shouted someone else.

Eleanor felt two arms wrap themselves firmly around her middle and with a mighty heave, she was pulled off the body, legs flailing in mid-air, body thrashing, lamp broken in her hands.

"Get off me!" she yelled. "Get! Off!"

The hands did not let go. Instead, she was forced to the ground, face first. She could only imagine what her nightgown would look after this.

"Calm down," a voice was saying. It sounded like a woman, only the voice was croaky. A smoker, Eleanor thought. "We're not going to hurt you."

Eleanor's ears pulsed at the words.

"Put the lamp down," said the voice.

Trembling, Eleanor released her grip. The broken lamp rolled away.

"Good," murmured the voice. "Now, can you tell us where Jonathan Coyle is?"

Her body stiffened. She turned round onto her back. The face of an elderly woman stared at her, two eyes of sharp blue.

"Excuse me?" panted Eleanor.

"Jonathan Coyle," repeated the old woman. "Know where he is?"

"Probably upstairs," groaned a second voice. Eleanor turned again. She saw a small boy of about seventeen sitting about a metre away. He was nursing his temple from where the lamp had hit him, which looked like it was swelling.

"No," Eleanor said before she could stop herself. She cut off, composed herself, and started again. "Sorry, but I don't know who the hell you two are and what you want with my father, but he's not here. Okay?"

The woman blinked. "I'm Carabella, and this is Howard, my grandson. We're in search of Mr Coyle. He's committed some serious crimes and needs to be punished. Now, where is he? Do I need to ransack the whole place in search of him?"

Eleanor gave out a small whimper.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Eleanor looked away. She could only think about the knife protruding from a chest, blood crusting round the edges.

"Well?" Carabella demanded.

"Leave it, ma," said the boy.

"He's not here," Eleanor replied weakly.

"Why? Where is he, then?"

Eleanor closed her eyes. Pictured the soft black fabric covering the truth, which was something she never wanted to reveal. But it was such a burden, something that had been eating her inside out for days now. Her own face staring back at her when she glanced into the mirror.

"Because," she started, "I killed him."

There was a pause. The boy gasped. Then, the woman barked, "You what?"

"I killed him," Eleanor repeated, surer of herself this time. Yes, she had done it. There was no denying it. The knife had been in her hands, through his chest. She had seen the blood running, felt it through her fingers.

She let out a little sob.

"But that's my job!" snarled the woman. "I was meant to kill him!"

Eleanor only cried harder.

"You disgusting fool!" roared the woman. "You took away my job! I was meant to kill Jonathan Coyle!"

"Gran—" the boy cut off short.

A noise on the staircase. Someone was looking over the bannister at them.

"Elle? What's all this noise?"

The man caught sight of the two strangers in the hallway. He shouted in fear. Eleanor thought she saw a tiny hint of recognition in his bloodshot eyes but it was gone in an instant.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out! Get out before I call the police!"

"Will!" cried Eleanor. "Will, no! They're friends! Friends! They've come for a visit. I should have said they were coming."

Will frowned, mouth slightly open. His face softened.

"Oh, right. Okay. Am I dreaming?"

"Yes, I think you are. Now go back to bed."

He looked momentarily lost. "Oh, yes. That's what I'll do."

The three watched him stumble his way back to his room. He left the scent of smoke lingering as he left.

"Where's he buried?" Carabella hissed furiously. "Your father. I need to see he's dead. With my own eyes."

Eleanor couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"What?" she exclaimed. "You can't—"

"Where is he buried?"

"C'mon, Grandma," said the boy. "Don't push her too much."

"I'm not, Howard. She took my job—"

"St Mark's Way," Eleanor blurted out. "The cemetery behind it. Just round the corner."

Carabella turned back to her. "Are you sure?"

Eleanor bit her lip but the boy answered for her.

"I think she's sure, ma," he said softly. "Now, let's leave her. She seems pretty wound up."

Carabella gave one Eleanor one last prod before standing up. The boy followed suit; he followed his grandmother through the door. Like an obedient little rodent, Eleanor thought.

She leaned back to the floor with a sigh. Yes, Will was right. This was all a dream.