Dazed, she grabbed at the table to steady herself. ‘Kirsty, it’s me, it’s me.’ The wind snatched the voice and squeezed it into a whisper before the silhouetted figure in the doorway darted into the house. Eyes strained with horrified disbelief, Kirsty watched white fingers lock the kitchen door and bolt it. She shrank back, screwing her eyes tightly shut. Surely she was having a nightmare. Hadn’t she been very overwrought? The shock of Johnny’s death, the strain of his funeral and worry about her mother had played havoc with her nerves. Was it any wonder she had nightmares? But everything was quiet again. If she opened her eyes now, she would gaze through soft shadows at the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. There was nothing to be afraid of. Cautiously she relaxed the tense muscles of her eyes, but through a shimmery veil of lashes, she still saw the same grey face. ‘Kirsty, it’s me. Johnny.’ ‘But you’re … You’re …’ Kirsty’s tongue refused to form the word.
