It's 11pm and she's lying still in bed. She's been staring at the ceiling for long enough that patterns are beginning to emerge from the darkness, swirling, then fading before they take on any true form. She's listening hard. The floorboards outside of her room creek again and she tenses, willing her bedroom door to stay shut. She knows that he's outside. It's hard to breathe, like there's an elephant sat right on the middle of her chest. She clutches her sheets with white knuckles and clammy palms. Then, the footsteps fade, and she feels a wave of relief wash over. A second later the relief is replaced with revulsion.

She wakes up gasping. Her pyjamas are soaked through by a cold sweat, and she can feel her heart racing in her chest. She looks around the room to gain her bearings and is comforted, gradually, by the familiar inky blue outlines of her bedroom. She reaches and switches on the bedside table lamp, hoping the soft lighting will stave off the unwelcome memory that had found its way into her sleep. With a sigh she pushes back the duvet, gets to her feet, and stumbles to the bathroom.

"Jesus. Pull yourself together." She mutters, staring at her horrified expression in the mirror. She's pale and wide eyed. The bathroom fan whirs quietly. The snippets of memories that haunt her dreams are more or less a nightly occurrence; much of her past is off limits to her conscious brain, but she has been experiencing ever increasing glimpses in her sleep. It unnerves her. It's a jigsaw, and she feels compelled to put the pieces together, yet afraid of what that may reveal.

Closure. The word pops into her head and is instantly met with disdainful rebuttal. She's clearly spent too long around that American shrink. Yet, there's something about the idea that she can't shake. If she can just get to the truth and put the whole thing to bed once and for all…

She shakes her head and scoffs derisively to the empty room for good measure.


Jac eyes the brown A4 sized envelope with trepidation. Morven Digby had clearly been surprised when she had got in touch and demanded that the documents complied by Jasmine on Saint Bartholomew's Children's Home be shipped, post-haste, but she had complied with the request all the same.

She thinks of her half-sister as she feels the weight of the paper in her hands, and wonders what motivated her to investigate this part of her life. They had been alike in many ways. They had been hurt in the same way, which she hadn't credited until it was too late.

Of course, they also had had their glaring differences. Their attitude towards the past was one such area. Jasmine had wanted to pick the past apart; to understand why things were the way they were, and why Paula had been their cross to bear. Whereas Jac was happy to never look back. The past was in the past, and it did not define her.

At least, that was how it used to be.

Her fingers twitch as she considers opening the envelope, and her stomach does an unexpected somersault. She can't help but wonder if she's about to open Pandora's box.

She takes a steadying breath and then tears open the package and tips the contents onto her kitchen table. The newspaper cuttings slide further than the printed sheets of A4. She looks down at the array of paper and feels bile rise in her throat.

She finds herself focusing on one item in particular. It's a photo of the building. It's large, detached, partially covered in ivy. She traces the outline with a finger, pausing as she reaches the window furthest to the left on the upper floor. Her bedroom. She digs her nail in then sinks down into a chair and stares.

The phone rings shrilly. She blinks, momentarily confused, then rises to her feet to answer it. At some point, while her mind has been elsewhere, it has grown dark outside.

"Hello?" She brings the phone up to her ear and answers, voice croaky from underuse.

"Jac!" It's Sacha. "What took you so long? I've been trying all afternoon."

She frowns, disconcerted. "What do you want, Levy?"

"To talk."

She can hear the concern in his voice. "About what?"

"Let's go for a coffee. Tomorrow afternoon, okay?" He's not taking no for an answer.

"Okay." She replies softly, lacking the energy to counter the proposal.

Sacha sighs. She can tell he wants to say more, but evidently, he decides it better to save it for tomorrow. "I'll see you then." He tells her.

She places down the phone.


She feels more like herself by the next day. She's dressed in clothes that are neither coffee stained, or crumpled, which is a start. She's even gone as far as to do her makeup.

Sacha looks surprised as she opens the front door. She raises her eyebrows at him, letting him know this hasn't gone unnoticed. Perhaps he had been expecting something that more closely resembled a train wreck.

"Ready?" He covers, smiling at her.

"You're paying." She informs him, pushing past him as she sweeps up her handbag and steps out the front door. He's not going to be invited in. She might've sharpened up her appearance, but the rest of the house is still a tip, and she'd rather he didn't see that.

They walk, instead of taking his car. Sacha informs her that there is a new café in the park that's close to her house and declares that the fresh air will do her good when she starts to make a fuss. She looks down at her feet as they stroll side by side down the asphalt pavement. Their silence is companionable, it always is, but there's a certain heaviness to it today.

"So..." Sacha begins, once they're sat down with their drinks in front of them. A black americano, no sugar, for Jac, and a mocha with a dusting of chocolate powder on top for him.

"So." She echoes, meeting his eyes. With an unblinking stare she's dares him to question the act that she's putting on. The demonstration that, yes, she is still a functioning member of society.

"How have you been?" He sips his drink, then grimaces, the milk a touch too hot.

She busies her hands by picking at the paper napkin in front of her. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be honest with me." He frowns at her.

"You don't have time for that." She warns him.

This doesn't seem to reduce his concern. She feels a stab of irritation as she takes in the look of worry on his face.

"Hey, I've got time. I'll always have time for you." He tells her.

She runs her hands over her face and groans. "Listen, Levy, I don't need an intervention if that is what this is. Yes, things aren't…" She pauses, searching for a suitable descriptor. "Things aren't brilliant at the moment, but I've got it in hand."

He looks at her searchingly. "It's just that last time you kept it all to yourself, and that didn't end too well. I want to help. Don't shut me out."

Her jaw tenses. "If by last time you're referring to when Fletcher had me sectioned, this isn't anything like that."

"I'm worried." He tells her again.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes, feeling her frustration mount. "I need you to trust me, Sacha. I don't need to be made to feel like a broken bird."

"Will you think about going to see your GP, at least?" He pleads.

She gives him a look. "See my GP?" She mouths incredulously.

"About your mental health." He clarified, as if it needed spelling out.

"And what exactly do you expect some sweater wearing part-timer to be able to do about my 'mental health'?"

"Well, you need to do something." He throws his hands up, all of a sudden frustrated. "You need to stop being so… flippant. It's reckless! We both know something is going on, Jac. You need to take responsibility for your health!"

"For your information." She glares daggers. "I am doing something. I'm seeing Dr Kozinsky."

"Oh." This stops him in his tracks. "As in Sharon Kozinsky? Consultant psychiatrist, had a fling with Elliot Hope, Dr Kozinsky?"

"Yes, the very same dog-killing yank." She gives him a withering look. "So, you can get off my back, okay? I'm not a child."

"Sorry." He quietens, looking regretful of his outburst. "I just care about you."

"I know." She murmurs in reply and reaches across the table to take hold of his hand.

"If there's anything I can do…?"

She blinks, then nods. "There's one thing."

He looks surprised that she's taking him up on his offer but nods eagerly. "Of course. Anything. What is it?"

She squeezes his hand, as if to draw strength, then lets go. "I need to go back to the Home."