She used her left arm to feel for the edge of the shower curtain. As she moved towards it she felt the light breeze coming through the window, and smelt the saltiness of the ocean in the air. The plastic curtain rustled in the wind, a sound that took Cassie back to when she was a little girl on her grandfather’s sailboat in the sea off Newport. In her head she still had a clear picture of what he looked like – the head of silver hair, the bronzed, lined face, the glint in his grey eyes.

What would it have been like if she had never been able to see, she asked herself. She tried to imagine it for a moment and couldn’t. Even though she had been completely blind for fifteen years – a result of juvenile glaucoma - at least she had the visual images of her past to call on. She knew what the inside of a rose looked like. And the waves crashing on the shore. When she touched a person’s face now she was able to recall all the noses, foreheads, lips, cheeks, jaw lines and mouths she had seen before to compose a visual portrait in her head. As she turned on the water, took off her light bathrobe and stepped into the shower she remembered how that skill had served her, how it had helped put a man behind bars. That man – if you could dignify him with such a term – had died in prison. But without her help he would have been free to prey on women, to continue – what was it the newspapers had said? – his reign of terror.

As she let the warm water wash over her, she tried to erase those memories from her. The therapist had taught her a technique where she had to imagine washing every trace of him from her and, as she soaped herself, she pictured herself cleansing herself of him, rinsing away every speck of him. He was dirt, scum and he had no place within her. She was free of him now. He was dead and could hurt her no longer.

She was looking forward to a night by herself – and Moisie, her tortoiseshell. Settling down with her new audio book and a glass of chilled white wine. She had had a hard week at work at the charity – there had been a crisis about whether the organisation’s grant would pay for the rent increase on the building – and she had to deal with a deluge of calls from various banks, government divisions and a number of wealthy individuals who had promised, but had so far failed to deliver, generous donations. It looked like the Glaucoma Research Trust would be able to meet the rent hike, but it had not been easy. She had hated to break her date with her friend Gloria, who worked in the public records office, but she knew that she would have been poor company. So she had had to leave a message on her cell, apologising for letting her girlfriend down again. Hopefully she wouldn’t mind. She’d make an effort, take her out somewhere nice for dinner, or to that swanky bar where Gloria had flirted with the waiter.

She squeezed some shampoo onto the palm of her hand, and gently massaged it into her scalp. She felt the scars on her skull, traces of something that had happened in her past. Part of her, yes, of course – there was no denying that – but not the sum of her. She refused to be one of those people whose lives centred around being a victim. She was more than that. She had survived. She had moved on.

Just then she felt something sting in her eye. A drop of shampoo. She leant back and let the shower run over her forehead and down her face. She moved out of the stream of the water and blinked, but it still hurt. She tried to ignore the discomfort and rinsed herself. As she turned off the shower, and reached for a towel, she thought she heard a noise. She listened - no, it was nothing. But then when her ears were free of water she heard it again. There was someone knocking at the door. Had Gloria not picked up her message? She stepped out of the shower and quickly dried herself. Another knock.

‘Okay, okay, I’m coming,’ she shouted, feeling her way from the bathroom out into the corridor of her apartment.

As she reached the front door – her hand outstretched to open it - she stopped. Hey, how had Gloria managed to get through the main door downstairs? Perhaps somebody had been letting themselves in just as Gloria had turned up? Or maybe Gloria had pressed the buzzer and she hadn’t heard it because of the noise of the shower, but one of her neighbours in the block had buzzed her in? And yet …

A shiver of fear ran down her spine. Her hand retreated from the lock and she took a step back. She traced her way down the corridor to the lounge. Her hands moved over the sofa. Moisie was lying on a cushion at its edge. He started to purr as he felt Cassie’s touch.

‘Everything’s fine, Moisie,’ she said, trying to calm herself. ‘Just fine.’

Cassie picked up her specially-adapted cell phone and spoke into it, asking to be connected to her voicemail. She had one new message.

‘Hi, Cassie, you lightweight.’ It was Gloria in typical upbeat mode. ‘Got your message. Don’t worry about blowing me out – yet again. Suppose I’ll have to enjoy another night in with my secret admirer.’

Cassie tried to laugh – that was the name Gloria called her vibrator – but she couldn’t. The message only filled her with more fear.

If that wasn’t Gloria at the door then who was it?

She sat on the edge of the sofa, paralysed, frozen. Outside her window she heard the sounds of people walking on the boardwalk. A group of boisterous young guys boasting about how much beer they could drink. The high-pitched squeal of a couple of children at play. The passing swish of rollerblades. Help was close at hand if she needed it, she knew that. So what was bugging her?

She stood up and walked around the room, taking a series of deep breaths as she did so. There was probably some logical explanation. It could have been one of her neighbours asking to borrow – surely not a cup of sugar – but a bottle of wine or a tub of ice cream. Maybe it was a courier with a stash of documents relating to the new rental agreement. Or –

There was no point going through all the possibilities, she told herself. She would check it out.

She felt her way down the corridor to the door, careful not to make a sound. As she placed her ear against the door she thought she could hear the beating of her heart. She tried to calm her breathing, thinking that whoever it was on the other side of the door – there was no point trying to tell herself there was no-one – would be able to hear it. Was that the sound of rustling? No, that noise was coming from the direction of the street. Who was that wheezing? She listened carefully, finally realising it was herself. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, and concentrated. She could hear the distant banter of a couple of stallholders further down the promenade and the noise of joggers as they ran past the apartment block – but finally she became convinced that whoever it had been had gone. But then, as she stood up, she heard the quick approach of footsteps and then the sound of a key entering a lock. It was her neighbour, Ron, the gay guy who lived opposite.

She fumbled with the lock and opened the door.

‘Ron, Ron,’ she said, holding her bath robe close to her chest.