THE CHILLING VOICE THAT LURED OUR JUDGES IN

THE voice wakes me as it so often does: a melodious whisper on the cool breeze, its owner always just out of reach. ‘Emmmily. Emmmily.’ In return, my own voice penetrates the silence of the bedroom, although I’m not sure if it’s real or in the dream.

I respond, as ever, ‘My name is Alice.’

White sunlight nudges itself around me and I flutter my eyelids open, taking in the familiar surroundings of my bedroom.

The forget-me-knot freckle curtains that billow ever-soslightly in the crack of breeze (it’s bad for the health to sleep with the windows open); the pinewood dresser whose contents I know by heart, upon which sits a matching mirror, a stack of books and a pile of hairbands; the squash of teddies that line the shelf to my right, whom I grew out of years ago but can’t quite bear to give away.

These things; these petty, everyday things, are the items that make me feel safe. These are the sights that tell me I am home, and happy, when the voice in my dreams tries to convince me otherwise.