Tried Mum and Dad, and Paula, but they both had their answerphones on. M&D must be asleep, and Paula’s probably out. It’s only midnight, early for her. Better keep writing. Maybe I’ll feel better if I get it all out, get the terror down onto paper and then all it is is little black letters and white spaces; nothing scary about that.

I hurled myself inside the house, bolted the door, and ran around yanking every single set of curtains closed, making sure that the back door and all the windows were locked, shaking so much that I could barely get my fingers to work. Then I poured myself a huge gin and tried to sit down in the armchair, but I couldn’t sit still, even when Biggles jumped on my lap and wanted stroking.

I tipped him on to the floor and paced up and down, dizzy and fidgeting with fear. What did the man want? Was he outside the house now? Had he been after my bag, or worse? What if he tried to get in? I didn’t know whether I should phone the police or not. I wished Phil wasn’t in Portugal. I had a sudden urge to call Kathy, but of course I didn’t.

I’ve been sitting in my bedroom for ages, peering through a tiny slit at the side of the curtains, scanning the road until I got a draft in my eyes and I was beginning to imagine dark shapes behind every garden fence. But whoever it was has – I hope – long gone. It’s late now; well past two o’clock but I can’t sleep so I’m just going to keep writing.

I’ve suddenly had a really, really appalling thought…. What if this is all linked? What if someone’s broken into my house and that’s how come the mug was there and Biggles got out and maybe somebody’s got my credit card number, and maybe that’s the same person that has just followed me home. It could be the same person who sent me flowers – not realizing they were dead? – and wrote that card. Oh God, oh God.

I’ve just run downstairs and checked the back door again. No sign of a break-in. Still locked and bolted top and bottom. Front door chained and Chubbed. Window locks all still in place.

It can’t be that. It’s impossible. I’m obviously just freaked out about that walk home. I’ll have another drink…

Had three big drinks. Bit pissed now. Keep writing.

This would never have got to me so much if it weren’t for what happened when I was fourteen. That time, when I looked around, he hadn't pressed himself against a wall and tried to hide. Instead, I’d seen him clearly under the streetlight, running at me. He was young and skinny, with wiry hair and tight jeans. He wore a cheap vinyl bomber jacket with a bobbled elasticated waist – tonight, I hadn’t even been able to tell if the man was black or white.

That time, I’d felt two hands pounce heavily on my shoulders, the way people at school did to one another when they wanted to scare them. I’d jumped, and actually half-laughed, trying to twist my head around again to get a better look at him.

It must be someone I knew, I’d thought. I waited for him to release me and announce himself. Perhaps he was that fifth year who went to swimming club with Donna, the one Donna said fancied me. But he didn't speak, and I didn’t recognise him. An arm snaked out and pinned my neck in an arm lock, so my head was forced back against his chest. I wasn't choking, because the crook of his elbow had left a breathing space in front of my Adam's apple, but I couldn't move either.

‘What are you doing?’ I remembered trying to say. I remember how my voice was all small and spluttering. I could smell his breath in my ear, sour, heavy, more man than boy.

I felt his other arm move in front of my body, his fingers searching for the opening of my dufflecoat beneath the bottom toggle. His hand shot inside and clamped itself between my legs, under the bulk of my Laura Ashley dress and over my cream woolly tights. I remember exactly what I was wearing: that awful green flower-sprigged Laura Ashley smock thing. The tights were too small and had got dragged down a bit when I walked, and I felt his thumb brush against my bare stomach above the waistband, and it was the sensation of skin on skin which snapped me out of immobility. I’d tried to struggle, but he was holding me too tightly. His hand moved, a steel claw grabbing at me coldly, somehow dispassionately, and I felt pinioned, ready for dissection. It was almost like was scratching an itch for me, but too roughly. Without my permission.

I made more of an effort to shake him off with my shoulders, flailing at him with my arms and hands. I managed to jam an elbow into his rib cage, and he gasped, but didn't let go. He was still clawing at me, mechanically, painfully, as if we were locked in a brief silent dance, a back-to-front waltz of lust and disbelief. I grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him off me, but his hand appeared to be superglued to my crotch.

I tried stamping on his foot, which unbalanced him, and we toppled together towards the alley wall. I was in front of him and so I connected with it first. I felt a horrible scraping, ripping sensation down the right side of my face as the rough bricks grated my skin, and then a stinging heat followed by a trickle of blood down my cheek and into the neck of my duffel coat.

Bloody hell. Where did that come from? I think I must have held my breath the entire time I typed that, it still stresses me out so much. I was fourteen, and twenty years later I still go to pieces if I even think someone’s creeping up on me. And I’d been lucky – I got away. I wasn’t even raped, just ‘sexually assaulted’, as the policewoman said, when I gave a statement. But at least my assailant didn’t know where I lived.

It’s four o’clock. I must go to bed. I’m so tired and drunk now that I know I’ll sleep.

Thursday

Really, really knackered this morning. Two rejection letters from editors – well, at least that’s saved me the bother of chasing them. One said that the Botox thing had been ‘done to death’, and the other just that they aren’t taking any work from freelancers at the moment. I wonder if I should bite the bullet and try and get a proper job somewhere. I could read manuscripts. I could maybe get a job for a literary agent. Although probably all the failed writers in the entire world – and Lord knows there are enough of us – think the same.

Perhaps I could just run away somewhere remote, and hide. Me and Biggles. Safe where nobody can follow us or leave dead flowers.

Friday

Have just realized I forgot to write about class on Wednesday night – I was too freaked out by what happened afterwards.

It went well, I think, I’m really getting a good picture of their strengths and weaknesses. We did another sensory exercise and they were all much more attentive this week, now they know the drill. Not nearly so much fidgeting and scratching.

Speaking of fidgeting and scratching, Brian wasn’t there, for the second week in a row. I feel somehow uneasy about his absence – I mean, I know it’s not school and he’s free to come and go as he pleases without a note from his mum – but what if he’s too embarrassed to come in because it was him who sent that card?

Anyway, Kathy read out another really excellent piece of writing. Last week’s exercise was about the character and their reaction to noise, and she’d done a brilliantly funny thing about roadworks. Her descriptions were so vivid that I knew instantly where she was talking about – they’ve been digging up the road by the park for ages – so when we got chatting afterwards, I asked her if I was right. Turns out that I was, and she only lives a few streets away from me.

We ended up walking home together, and just as we got to the George V, I mentioned what a great pub it was, and she said, ‘I know, it’s my local. I live across the road here. Shall we, then? I’m parched.’

Before I knew it we were inside the pub, looking around for an empty, non-sticky table, and draping our coats over the back of two spare armchairs.