14 May, 5.30 a.m.

I can’t get rid of the smell. That fishy smell. The one Stephen leaves when he comes. I’ve tried everything; even resorted to scrubbing the walls with Domestos. The bleach made my eyes burn, but I couldn’t stop.

Jess didn’t take any notice as usual. She sat in the lounge watching The X Factor while her mad uncle flitted through the house with a bucket of toilet cleaner. Couldn’t give a toss, as Geoff would say. I invited Mrs E-B around; I was hoping maybe she had some old-lady wisdom about getting rid of lingering odours (I lied and said that I’d burned Jess’s fish fingers). But she said she couldn’t smell anything, apart from the eye-watering sting of bleach. She took me outside into the garden for a cigarette, patted my hand again, and said that maybe I was trying to do too much, especially with all the pressure from the media. She said I should try to cry more, get my grief out that way instead of bottling it up. Went on and on about how cut up she was when her husband died ten years ago. She said she didn’t think she’d be able to go on, but God helped her find a way.

Hello, God, it’s me, Paul. Why the fuck aren’t you listening?

It’s like I’m split in two. Rational Paul and Going Mental Paul. It’s not like it was before. That was just a depressive episode. More than once I’ve picked up the phone to call Dr K or Darren to beg them to take Jess away from me. But then Shelly’s voice pops into my head, ‘All they need is love, and you’ve got buckets to spare, Paul.’

I can’t let them down.

Could it be Capgras Syndrome? Could it?

I’ve even… God. I even made an excuse to take Jess over to Mrs E-B’s place so that I could see how Mrs E-B’s dog reacted to her. In the movies, animals can always sense if there’s something wrong with someone. If they’re possessed or whatever. But that dog didn’t do anything. It just lay there. Got to take it a day at a time.

Got to.

But the pressure of acting normal when I’m screaming inside… Jesus. The Discovery Channel wants me to do some kind of interview about how I felt when I heard the news about the crash. I can’t. Turned them down flat. And I completely forgot about a Sunday Times photo shoot that Gerry organised weeks ago. When the photographers showed up I slammed the door on them.

Gerry’s tearing his hair out, and he’s no longer buying my ‘I’m still grief-stricken’ card. He says your publishers are going to sue, Mandi. Let them. Fuck, what do I care? It’s all falling apart.

And the pills don’t work.

How the fuck did she know the Dictaphone was in her room?

21 May, 2.30 p.m.

While Jess was at school I did some more Internet research. Googled the crap out of the Pamelists, the alien theorists, even the ones who believe the kids are possessed by demons (there are a lot of these).

Because the kids. The other kids. Bobby Small and Hiro whatshisname. They’re not normal, either, are they? I could tell Lillian was hiding something when I phoned her, and now I know what it was. There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s. Everyone knows that. No. There’s something up with Bobby. And the other one, talking through an android. What the fuck is that all about?

Couldn’t find much on Kenneth Oduah apart from what I was expecting–a shedload of hysterical religious sites (The Final Proof We Need!), several satirical articles, and some bumf about him being kept at a safe house in Lagos ‘for his own safety’.

What if they are the horsemen? I know, I know. Mel especially would freak if she heard me talking like this. But just hear me out. Sane Paul won’t even take this on board, but I think we need to keep an open mind. There’s definitely something wrong with Jess. And weird shit is happening around the other two. Or three. Who the fuck knows what gubbins the other one is up to?

Aliens, horsemen or demons–oh my!

(starts sobbing)

Should I call Lillian again? I just don’t know.

28 May, 10.30 p.m.

I know I should feel sorry for Bobby after being attacked like that, but I only feel sorry for Lillian.

It’s all over the news of course. Every bloody channel. In the old days I’d try to stop Jess watching it. Keep her away from it, but why bother? It doesn’t seem to affect her either way.

On the Sky report they had a collage of photographs of the crashes and giant blown up pics of The Three. I found Jess sitting inches from the screen, her My Little Ponies littered around her, watching as Sky did a ‘timeline’ of events and brought pundits in to discuss it ad nauseam.

I made myself approach her. ‘Do you want to talk about this, Jess?’

‘Talk about what, Uncle Paul?’

‘Why that little boy is on the news. Why your photograph is on the news.’

‘No thanks.’

I hovered around for a few more seconds, then ran outside for a fag.

Darren says it’s likely that the police will be keeping a close eye on the house, just in case the religious nutters decide to jump across the Atlantic and target Jess.

Tonight after she has gone to bed, I’m going to try one last time to get Stephen to talk to me. ‘How could you let that thing in here?’ He has to mean Jess, right?

I should have done it ages ago.

I’m going to stay up all night, drink enough coffee to fell a horse, and when Stephen comes I’m going to make him talk to me.

30 May, 4.00 a.m.

I must’ve dropped off. Because when I woke up, there he was. All the lights were on, but he looked like he was in the dark. Sitting in shadow. Couldn’t see his face.

He shifted his position, and the smell was so strong I gagged.

‘What do you want? Please tell me,’ I begged him. ‘Please!’

I reached out to grab him, but there was nothing there.

I ran into Jess’s room, shook her, thrust a photo of Polly in her face. ‘This is your sister! Why don’t you fucking care?’

She turned over, stretched, and smiled at me. ‘Uncle Paul, I need to sleep. I’ve got school in the morning.’

Jesus. Could it be that she’s the rational one?

God help me.

1 June, 6.30 p.m.

A couple of cops came to see me today, showed up this morning before I was even dressed. Actually, they’re not police, but Special Branch. Sane Paul, the me before all this fucked-up shit happened, was squeeing inside. Calvin and Mason, they’re called. Calvin and Mason! Like the title of a butch cop show. Calvin’s black, speaks with a public school accent, and has shoulders like a prop forward. Totally Sane Paul’s type. Mason is older, a silver fox.

I made them tea, apologised for the lingering bleach smell (after Mrs E-B’s reaction I’ve learned not to mention the fishy rotten stench). They wanted to know if I’d had any threatening phone calls lately, like the ones we got right at the beginning when Jess first came home. I said no. Told them the truth. That the only hassle we were getting these days was from the press.

Jess was on its best behaviour of course. Smiling and laughing and acting like a charming little celebrity. Hot they may be, but I don’t think much of Mason and Calvin’s detection skills. They fell for it, of course. Hook, line and sinker. Mason even had the gall to ask if he could have a photo with her to show to his daughter.

They said they’d be keeping an eye on the house, and to give them a call if I was worried about anything. I almost said, ‘Would you mind giving my brother a warning, and telling him to leave me the fuck alone?’ My dead brother! And IT, of course. Imagine how that would have gone down.

Must stop calling Jess ‘it’. Not right, just feeds the monster.

When they left, I tried to call Lillian again. No answer.

2 June, 4.00 a.m.

(sobbing)

Okay.

Woke up. Felt that familiar weight on the bed. But it wasn’t Stephen. It was Jess, although she’s not heavy enough to make a dent in the mattress, is she?

‘Do you like your dreams?’ she said. ‘I’ve given them to you, Uncle Paul. So that you can see Stephen whenever you like.’

‘What are you?’ It was the first time I’d come out and said it.

‘I’m Jess,’ she said. ‘Who do you think I am? You’re such a silly billy, Uncle Paul.’

‘Get out!’ I screamed at her. ‘Get out get out get out.’ My throat is still sore.

She laughed and skipped away. I locked the door behind her.

I’m running out of options. They’ll take Jess away from me if they find out what I’m thinking. Some days I think that would be a good thing. But what if the real Jess is still in there, trying to get out, trying to get help? What if she needs me?

It’s time to be proactive. Explore my options. Keep an open mind. Do more research. Cover all bases.

I don’t have any other choice.