Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist

‘I only called them fifteen minutes ago. They usually take ages.’

I handed him a twenty-pound note and an extra fiver, and stepped inside our neglected hallway, picking up my post and putting it in my bag.

‘Tuesday night is a bit decadent for takeaway,’ smiled Pete folding his arms awkwardly.

‘It’s my birthday,’ I replied without even thinking.

‘I wondered what the brightly coloured envelopes were doing scattered among the junk mail.’

‘So you’re not going out?’

‘It’s mid-week. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Killjoy.’

‘I’ve got to prepare for court tomorrow.’

‘You boring sod. I’m going to march you down to the pub.’

‘Pete, no. I’m really busy. Work with a pork dumpling chaser,’ I said holding up the bag of Chinese. ‘I know that might seem an odd way to celebrate your birthday, but that’s what happens when you’re almost forty.’

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said, with a zeal that told me he meant it.

‘I suppose I’ve bought too much Chinese. I’ll supply the chow mein if you’ve got any drinks. But I’ve got to be at my desk in an hour.’

‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he grinned.

Pete disappeared into his ground-floor flat and I walked up the stairs to mine.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, I hung my coat on the rack and set my bag down in the hall. I slipped off my shoes, enjoying the soft feel of carpet under my feet, and undid the top button of my blouse.

My flat was my sanctuary. A cool, calm, Farrow-and-Ball-painted haven for one, and I instantly regretted having invited someone in to share it.

Resigning myself to a visitor, I pulled two plates out of the kitchen cupboard, just as Pete appeared in the hall with a four-pack of lager.

‘Pass me a glass. I assume you’re not a straight-out-of-the-tin girl.’

He poured me a frothy glass of lager, then opened another can for himself as I carried the Chinese into the living room.

‘So, you’re almost forty,’ he said, perching on the sofa next to me. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘I’m thirty-seven,’ I said, realizing how little Pete and I knew about each other. We spoke more than most London neighbours: we saw each other at the bus stop, he was a willing fixer of laptops and fuse boxes. On one occasion last summer, I’d been walking past the local pub and he’d been having a beer outside. He invited me to join him, which I did because it was hot and sunny and I was thirsty from the gym, but I did not consider him a friend.

‘By the way, I got a letter from my landlord, yesterday,’ said Pete, peeling the foil top off the chow mein box. ‘He’s putting my rent up. The freeholder says the roof needs doing. Reckons both leaseholders have got to put fifteen grand into the sinking fund.’

‘Shit, I’ve not heard about that.’

‘But fifteen grand is just a day’s work for a distinguished lady of the Bar,’ he smiled.

‘I wish.’

‘Come on, you’re loaded.’

‘I’m not, I promise,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I am a jobbing barrister, in debt, thanks to thousands of pounds’ worth of unpaid invoices.’

‘You’ll get paid. The banks know you’re good for it. And then you’ll be rich.’

Rich, I scoffed quietly. My family thought I was rich, but everything was relative, and in London, mixing with lawyers and businessmen like Martin Joy, it was easier to view my financial situation through another prism. Perhaps if I made silk, things would change. I would land big, juicy cases, my hourly rate would double, so that one day I might even be able to afford one of those Georgian houses in Canonbury – the ones that had drawn me to the N1 postcode in the first place, the ones I still liked to walk past and dream about.

I thought about the £15,000 I would need to find from somewhere and took a commiseratory slug of beer, though I knew I shouldn’t.

‘You know, today, I was dealing with someone who spends £24,000 a year on lunch,’ I said, dipping a dumpling into some soy.

Pete shook his head. ‘And you’re missing a birthday night out on account of these people.’

He laughed and I knew he had a point.

‘I’m acting for the husband in that particular divorce. But you’ll be glad to know that tomorrow’s case, the case I should be preparing for, is a more deserving cause.’

‘Another poor rich husband about to get screwed,’ he smiled.

‘Actually, no. My client’s a man who is about to lose access to his kids. Just a regular guy who found his wife in bed with another man.’

‘People,’ said Pete quietly.

I nodded. ‘I bet you’re glad you only have to deal with computers all day. Things that don’t have feelings.’

‘Yet.’

‘Yet?’

‘If you subscribe to one model of how our brains create consciousness, you’ll believe that sentient computers will never exist. Other schools of Artificial Intelligence thought believe that the day is coming when computers will be able to imitate humans.’

‘That’s a scary idea. They’re going to make us all redundant, aren’t they.’

‘Some jobs are more future-proof than others.’

‘Like divorce lawyers?’

‘Machines are logical. Love and relationships are anything but. I’d say you’ll be all right for the foreseeable future.’

‘Glad to hear it, with a new roof to pay for.’

There was a long silence. We had eaten our food and run out of conversation.

‘I should get on with some work.’

Scooping up the leftovers, I took the plates into the kitchen. When I turned round, Pete was in the doorway. He took a step towards me and cupped his hand on my jaw. Gasping in surprise, I didn’t have time to think whether he had misinterpreted this as a sign of my desire, because his lips were already on mine. I could taste the ginger and yellow bean on his breath. His saliva smeared across my cheek.