This was not a good time to spring even a pleasant surprise upon Ms Gabby Arnold, so I got out and stood in the howling wet.

A lonely streetlight ghosted on, white, dull and useless against the skimming grey cloud. The wind swatted icy rain down the back of my shirt collar and I shuddered. The streetlight warmed yellow then amber, finally kicking through the gloom. I’d never noticed how orange these lights shine. As I admired the ignited horizontal rain, I sensed someone watching me. I spun around. To my left, a footstep sounded. My pivoting eyes caught a fleeing shadow, flitting past a parked white van into the black.

I walked urgently towards what I’d seen, straining my eyes to make out more.

‘Rogan,’ I shouted.

I reached the back of the van and waited. My own blood hammered at my ears. After a silent count to three, I craned my face around the side.

Nothing. What had I just seen? He must be somewhere.

I crept along the side of the van. Fearing he was waiting to pounce at the front, I veered to the other side of the pavement, close to a garden wall. How I now missed my standard-issue wooden truncheon. I baby-stepped sideways until I got level with the van’s front side passenger window. Again, nothing. Through the wet glass, something moved across the road, shadow settling back into shadow at the entry to the alleyway. But there was nothing there when I looked at it now: had I really seen it? Then a sound came from the same place.

I slid round the front of the van out into the road. At that very moment, a car roared round the corner into the street, engine gunned, headlights scorching like death rays. I froze like a rabbit. The car’s shrill horn sliced through me. I felt myself stagger backwards into the van.

I could hear the car screaming to a halt forty feet past me. This being London, I fully expected it to reverse back so that the occupant could verbally abuse me for spoiling his joyride.

I planted a hand on each knee, took two deep breaths, ordered myself to pull the rest of me together. I straightened, stared at the alleyway entrance and strode directly towards it. The blue sporty Subaru that had almost wiped me out was turning in the road. As I got to the alley, I could hear a voice, jabbering whispers from the black.

‘Fucking shit. You fucking want it. I’ll fucking give it. Come on then.’

Was this Rogan? Was he armed?

Hands flat to the wall, I leaned to my right to peer cautiously around the corner. Nothing. But I could sense someone right there.

‘I’m a police officer. Get out here now,’ I ordered.

I suddenly realised someone was behind me.

I went to turn when the ground seemed to fly up and hit my face. Someone stood over me. Something struck at my back, thudded off an elbow. I went foetal.

Seconds passed. I scrambled to my feet. No damage done.

I sprinted out of the alleyway, checking left, then right. The car that winged me earlier roared past, in the opposite direction, no doubt carrying my assailant. Burglary? A drug deal? I’d check later for reports of crime or suspicious activity in the area.

Or had it been Dom Rogan? My gut said no. Dom was a coward who bullied women. Surely he wouldn’t feel lucky enough to have a pop at me?

As I watched the Subaru scream away my eye latched onto determined movement. A blurred figure marched towards me. I still felt rattled but stepped out into the open, making my presence known. I could make out a duffle coat, a beanie hat, then a broad grin.

‘Are you ever off duty, Officer?’ she called.

I let the air out and mouthed a silent ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘You poor thing, you’re soaked. Why have you got mud on your face?’

‘How have you been, Gabby?’ I asked, wiping my face with my drenched sleeve and following her to the front gate.

‘How long has it been since you lived with your parents?’ she asked.

‘Ooh, about three years.’

‘Six for me. I’m not sure how long I can stand it.’

‘All that home cooking and free laundry? It must be horrendous.’

‘Oh God, they mean so well,’ she protested, to herself mostly, ‘but they’re so, oh I don’t know, set in their ways I suppose.’

‘Well it’s just for a while.’

‘Mum takes no interest in my job whatsoever. She talks about it as if it’s a minor diversion, a stopgap until I get down to the important stuff, you know, like getting married and having babies.’

‘That’s just a generation thing …’

‘She goes on and on about how fucking well Toby is doing. My brother. And how lovely Natalia is. His fiancée. They’re always doing stuff with my parents without me. I don’t know, I feel like I’m being left out.’

She attacked her fortress front door with multi-keyed gusto.

‘They all say now they never thought Dom was “right” for me. Of course, no one ever thought to say anything at the time. I had to remind Mum that when I told her we’d split up, she didn’t call me for four weeks, she was so fucking disappointed.’

Gabby pushed her front door open and strode purposefully over her mail. At the top of the pile, I spied a handwritten card. My eyes snagged upon the capital letters of ‘BITCH’. I scooped up the bundle, stuffing the hand-delivered card into my trouser pocket.

I followed her rant trail into the kitchen and popped the stamped post upon the stripped pine table. She had moved on to her dad’s obsession with some Asian family that had moved into ‘the Close’.

‘Sorry,’ she announced suddenly, ‘you must think I’m unhinged. And thank you for doing this for me. I’m sure it’s not necessary but I really appreciate it.’

I gave a neutral chuckle: ‘Don’t worry. I know how frustrating parents can be.’

‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad,’ she announced, then pointed to her heaving bookshelves: ‘Why don’t you help yourself? Pick out a Philip Larkin. I think you’d really like him. You can keep it, as a thank you.’

‘Great,’ I said, sauntering over to her literary trophy cabinet.

‘There’s a clean towel on the radiator. Feel free. We don’t want you catching your death.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, grabbing it and wiping my face.

‘I’ll be a few minutes,’ she said, walking into her bedroom and closing the door.

I’d heard that ‘They fuck you up …’ line of Larkin’s before. As I surveyed her mini library, I wondered: just how much Martin had fucked me up? I reminded myself that I’d never utter a single word to him again in my lifetime. I might not even get the chance to speak to Mum again, if her health was deteriorating at the rate Fintan described. I pressed Gabby’s towel to my face. It smelt like spring flowers, just like home. My last hours there came flooding through me. Oh he’d fucked me up alright, good and proper.

After seeing Eve that last time at the bedroom window, I’d spent a sleepless night on the couch with Mum. We held hands and watched the giant evergreen trees dance to the single street lamp by the church. Finally, those first wisps of cloud showed, the upstairs floorboards creaked under familiar feet, the bathroom door shut and I decided to run upstairs and hide in my bedroom.

I hadn’t clapped eyes on Martin since the day before Eve’s party. He was swerving me, no doubt, giving me the silent treatment.

Shunning me wasn’t his tactic of choice, of course – he preferred naked, unabashed violence as a rule – but he wouldn’t have given me a hiding that day, not when I’d just come out of hospital. That wouldn’t chime with his ‘real man’ moral compass at all. He’d prefer to wait until I got better, then put me back in hospital with a fresh set of injuries. But I couldn’t be certain. Violent men are unpredictable: he’d caught me out before.

I was certain of one thing: perennial source of embarrassment that I was, he couldn’t wait for me to fuck off to England. Tick me off the list: job done. Another tricky deal successfully negotiated.