The Visitor

Spring in London is a redrawing of boundaries. Green creeps up the ancient plane trees in Regent’s Park, daffodils thick in the shadier corners. I move through it all half-ghost, hands clasped behind my back, ignoring my vibrating phone, stopping to watch the dogs or ferrying trays of coffee back to my armchair at random intervals. Every block is memory-laced: the bakery where I once argued anthropology over brioche; the mews with its stubborn, mossy cobblestones.

For days, I keep my world small, avoiding Tarmo’s relentless messages (“Call me. Now.” “I need to know you’re safe.” “Elena, please.”) and entrusting the outer chaos to Mrs H. The only voice I let in is my oldest friend, Marina—blunt, clear, always the right blend of realism and laughter.

Still, I notice the space I occupy feels thinner, as if something follows, just on the periphery: my wolf guardian stalking the city, or memory itself. It catches me off guard in mirrors, in shadows slipping through crocuses, in the way my heart jumps at the sound of my own name.

Coming from Harrods on a crystal-bright Saturday afternoon, my arms loaded with good cheese, odd olives, and a criminally expensive box of pastries, I spot it: a black SUV parked opposite my townhouse, its windows dark enough to eat daylight. My pulse stutters. Not Tarmo, not now. Please. I can’t be theorised or rescued today.

Eyes down, keys ready, I head for my door, letting the comfort of London stone and spring’s familiar cold settle my nerves. Maybe it’s just a neighbour’s guest. I give the SUV my best indifferent brush-off and slip through my own front door.

The calm evaporates. In the quiet kitchen, sunlight glances off soapstone, something is wrong. There, on the marble island, sits a mobile phone I’ve never seen before. cheap, black, clearly placed with intent.

I freeze. No message, no note. Just the hungry hum of a device awaiting contact.

He picked my lock. That bastard picked my bloody lock.

I place my shopping bags on the floor, staring at the phone as if it might leap up and bite.

As I stand there, the phone vibrates—a single buzz, demanding my attention.

I press answer before I even know why. A voice, instantly recognisable, slides into the room—equal parts mischief and threat, silk and gravel:

“Well, hello, Dr D.”