Back at Mrs Scunthorpe’s house, Nandi stands in front of the mirror. The words pound inside her brain. Over and over. Of my own free will. Of my own free will … She rocks from side to side to the rhythm of the chant.

But just then the phone rings. A golden cheerful sound. Golden as the African sun. Nandi is surprised. She’s never heard the landline ring that way before! Normally it sounds to her like an ambulance on its way to an accident.

Merv is answering. “Yes? Oh man, is that you, Vuyani my bra? Wow, it’s great to hear your voice. How is sunny South Africa? … What’s that? You won the lottery? The big one? How fantastic is that!?”

In the mirror, Nandi sees that a little light is coming back into her eyes. They are beginning to shine again, yes! Beginning to glow with the golden warmth of Africa. Yes!

And Merv is rushing up the stairs to her now. He stands behind her, wraps his arms around her, smiles at her in the mirror.

He says, “You’ll never guess, Nandi! Your brother Vuyani is buying us tickets to fly back to Jozi! Yes! He says he’ll buy us a house and we can live there. Then you’ll be happy again, won’t you, my darling. Then we can throw away those pills.”

Together they rush upstairs to the bedroom. They fling open their empty cases, start filling them with clothes, not even bothering to fold anything neatly. Yes! Who cares?

“Not the thick jerseys,” Merv laughs. “Who needs thick jerseys where we’re going?”

Nandi takes out a bright, golden-yellow dress from the cupboard. She can’t remember buying it. But who cares? It is golden as the African sun. She will wear it on the plane. Yes!

But …

But …

The front door is opening. A cold blast of wind shoots up the stairs. And there is Merv, putting on his thick jacket. What is he doing at the front door? Why isn’t he upstairs packing?

He says, “We’re off to the pub for a pint, Nandi. Me and Mam. Do you want to come?”

Nandi shakes her head. She turns back to the mirror, back to the eyes that wait for her there. And the light is gone from them. They are back to being lifeless as snake-skin.

She understands – it was just a day-dream. Her brother’s phone call, the lottery win, the tickets back to South Africa, the golden dress. Just a sick, pathetic fantasy. Even though it seemed so real. So desperately real.

“Bye then, flower,” says Mrs Scunthorpe. “I left some hot soup on the stove if you’re hungry.”

***

Tell us: Have you ever had a day-dream that felt so real, for a moment you believed it was true?