Lifesaving for Beginners

to the computer. Not me. I get the mouse in my hand and bang it on the desk a couple of times.
    ‘Ssshhhhh.’ Faith straightens and stares at the door again. ‘Someone’s coming.’
    We listen. I hear footsteps. Heavy ones. Getting closer.
    Faith grabs my arm, tries to pull me out of the chair. ‘Close it, Milo, close it now. He’s coming.’
    I hook my feet round the legs of the chair so I don’t budge. The egg timer flashes. Faster now. There is a beep. And then the correspondence tab opens.
    I scroll down.
    Three letters.
    One name.
    One address.
    I hear voices in the corridor. Two voices. One of them is Jonathon’s.
    ‘Jesus, quick. Close that tab. Hurry up. Get over to the couch.’ Faith waits until I’ve pressed the X before she hauls me out of the chair. When the door opens, we are standing at the edge of the desk. I duck my head between my legs.
    Faith says, ‘I was just going to open the window. Milo is feeling a bit . . .’
    ‘He’s not going to barf, is he?’ Jonathon is one of those adults who talk about you like you’re not there. His shoes match but his laces don’t.
    I stand up straight. ‘Actually, I feel a lot better now.’
    Faith says, ‘Good. Great. We should go.’
    Jonathon says, ‘But what about . . .’ He nods at the two slices of bread on a plate in one hand. The glass in the other, half full of milk.
    I take one slice of the bread. ‘Thanks. I’ll eat it on the way out.’ I move towards the door, pulling Faith along behind me.
    Faith says, ‘Sorry, Jonathon. And thanks. For everything.’
    He stands in the middle of the office, with his shoes that match and his laces that don’t. He looks like he wants to say something but can’t think what. I bet he’ll eat the bread when we’re gone. Probably drink the milk too. He looks like the type.

 
    Declan Darker opened the door and stepped inside, his hand resting on the gun tucked into the waistband of his faded 501s. The house was quiet. Dark. He closed the door, making no sound, and began to move up the stairs. He knew Spencer was here. Hiding in the dark like the rat he was.
    I select the paragraph and stamp on the Delete button with my fist.
    Blank screen. Page one of one.
    I begin again.
    Darker stopped at the foot of the stairs. Every muscle in his body was taut, straining in the silence for a sound. The hand gripping the banister was as steady as a rock. He began to climb. He knew this was how it had to end. Him and Spencer. The two of them. There could be no other way.
    This time, I use the backspace. BACKSPACEBACKSPACEBACKSPACE.
    Blank screen. Page one of one.
    Dialogue. I’m not bad at dialogue. Even the reviewers have to admit it. I’ll kick-start the chapter with dialogue.
    ‘I thought you’d retired, Darker.’
    ‘With scumbags like you roaming the streets, Spencer? I don’t think so.’
    ‘I heard you’d lost your nerve. Since Razor Bill. I heard he cut you pretty bad.’
    Darker tightened his grip on the gun. ‘I’m lookin’ for a reason to pull this trigger, Spencer. Go ahead. It won’t take much.’
    CHRIST! DELETEDELETEDELETE.
    And there it was again. The blank screen. Page one of one. I bang the lid of the laptop down. Again. Shove it into the bag and push the bag under the desk until I can’t see it anymore.
    I get up. Put on my coat. Outside, the cold is shocking. So are the fairy lights. And the stars. And the lit-up Santas. It shouldn’t be Christmas. It’s only November.
    And yet somehow it is.
    I get in my car. My beautiful car. I love everything about it. It even smells the same as the last one. I bought the exact same air freshener. I turn the key and the engine engages with its low hum. I check the mirrors and get going. I love driving. People said I would be nervous, getting back behind the wheel. I forced myself not to think about it.
    In the supermarket, I’m back in the express lane. Ten items or less. A net of satsumas. One large tub of low-fat natural yoghurt. A packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers. A triangle of Brie. One bag of porridge oats. A bottle of red wine. A family-size pepperoni pizza and a frozen stick of garlic bread.
    Music pours like rain into the lift back to the car park. Christmas music. ‘Joy to the World’. Some marketing person came up with that idea. Told the MD that playing Christmas songs in the shop and the lift and the car park and the toilets would make people buy more tinsel and baubles and ribbons and wrapping paper. I’d love to take to