I was still dithering about whether to turn up on his doorstep (rape alarm in my hand in case he tried to grab me, of course), figuring that it would be less easy for him to fob me off if I was standing there in person; or whether to just phone. In the end I decided to drive down to his flat, call him from the car to see if he was in, and then ring the bell.

I looked up his address again in the register for the writing class and drove straight there this morning before I changed my mind. I remembered him telling me that he wasn’t working at the moment, apart from writing - ha, has he got some disappointment ahead of him - so the morning should have been a good time to catch him. I felt odd at the prospect of seeing him. Almost excited, bizarrely. It has been said that love is the closest emotion to hate, and I like the poetic notion of his love and my hate mingling to form something explosive and…. God, did I really just say that? Get a hold of yourself, Siobhan. It’s clearly been too long since you last had sex.

Anyway, I reached his house, a nasty 1940’s semi with porridgy pebbledash and wonky crazy paving up the drive. You wouldn’t think a house that small could be divided into flats, but there were two bells, and I knew Alex’s was B. Was B ground floor or first floor? Upstairs, presumably. I parked a couple of houses away – not too far, in case I had to make a dash back to the car – and with a clear view of the (scabby) front door.

I dialled his number on my mobile. After two rings it picked up, making me jump. There was a short pause, during which I assumed an answer machine was about to click on, then a woman’s voice. Sort of sleepy and smug-sounding. I was so surprised that I terminated the call immediately. But then I thought about it, and decided that she was probably just his flatmate’s girlfriend. I’m sure that he told me he lived with a male flatmate that time we talked after Kathy’s funeral.

Actually, I was pleased that she’d answered the phone. It gave me the courage to get out of the car and walk towards his front door, knowing that another woman was in the flat. He couldn’t possibly try anything with her there – unless I’d stumbled on a Fred and Rosemary West-type scenario, heaven forbid. I made sure that my finger was poised over the button of my rape alarm, and my pepper spray was in my jacket pocket for extra back-up. Despite my trembling hands, I felt brave. Look at me, I thought, confronting my fears, exposing my demons. I want Alex Parkinson to know that I am not a woman to be toyed with like a cat with a mouse. I can give as good as I get!

Just then I heard the front door begin to open – and my much-vaunted courage dissipated like steam from a kettle. Feeling foolish, I hurled myself behind a tree which was conveniently growing out of the pavement, pressing myself close to its tough urban bark. Its girth was just about wide enough to conceal my own.

A youngish, fattish girl came out. She looked flushed and slightly dishevelled, and her clothes were rumpled. Yesterday’s clothes, I thought. You go, girl. Alex’s flatmate’s girlfriend must have stayed over last night. Her mouth was twitching at the corners, and then she broke out into a huge grin, which she tried unsuccessfully to hide by staring down at the crazy paving. I know a freshly-shagged woman when I see one. I felt a pang of envy, and idly wondered if Alex’s flatmate was in any way fanciable.

She turned and began to walk away, thankfully in the opposite direction to my tree. I was about to emerge from my hiding place, albeit with more qualms now that my potential back-up had left the building, when I heard a sharp knock from the upstairs window of Alex’s house. The girl wheeled around, no longer trying to hide the beam on her face, and waved exaggeratedly. I followed her gaze up to the window, which was when I saw – Alex. Not a flatmate at all. Alex!

Gone was the furtive and somehow downcast expression I was used to seeing him with, the one that made him look as if he was afraid of getting sand kicked in his face on the beach; the one that trumpeted ‘I have a grudge against the world’. It wasn’t even the intense, lustful expression with which he’d stared at me in my living room that time. His face looked so different – open and delighted. He waved back at her, then blew her a series of kisses, which I imagined pressing themselves through the glass and flying over to the plump girl, alighting on her hair and face like tiny white butterflies.

Unbelievable. There was no mistaking the sexual energy, even with twenty feet, a flight of stairs and a replacement double-glazed window between them.

Unbelievable!

I ducked back behind the tree, waited till Alex vanished behind the net curtain and the girl’s exhilarated humming had faded into the distance along with the tap of her heels on the pavement, then slunk back to my car and drove home.

Four hours later, and I still can’t believe what I saw this morning. The more I think about it, the more furious it makes me. I’m so angry that my hands are shaking and I’ve bitten nearly right through my lip. After everything he put me through! After him hanging around, breaking into my house, following me, professing his undying love for me, stealing my money, poisoning my cat – after all that, he goes out and gets himself a girlfriend?

Maybe he had one all along. Perhaps he’s married to her! Maybe he’s one of these sick creeps who gets off on scaring women. Maybe he never gave a shit about me, it was all just some weird fantasy. Or worse, research for his crappy novel!

He just seemed so convincing. His eyes were so intense, that time he was in the house and I was naked except for the robe. The way he looked at me – I really believed that he did love me. Nobody has ever looked at me like that before. It was just a pity he’s a psycho. And now he’s a psycho with a girlfriend! Oh, the irony.

I rang Paula. The conversation went along these lines:

‘Hi sis, it’s me.’

‘Hi Siobhan, how are you babe?’

‘You remember Alex?’

There was an audible groan from the end of the line. ‘You’re not still on about him, are you?’

What is it with these people? Don’t they care about me at all? I can’t understand why nobody seems to be able to accept that what Alex put me through has really traumatised me. Maybe I should make a few more appointments to see Dr. Bedford. At least he listens to me – even if I have to pay through the nose for the privilege.

‘Yes, Paula, I am still “on about” him. He broke into my house, remember? Amongst other things.’

She sighed this time, a downgraded groan. ‘Yeah. I know. And I still think you should’ve gone to the police.’

Then – and not before time! – her voice sharpened into concern. ‘What’s the matter, what’s he done? He hasn’t been back again, has he?’

That was more like it.

‘No, thank God. But you know he owes me all this money still?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Well, I gave him a month to pay me back, and he hasn’t paid me back, so I went round there and – ‘

‘You did WHAT?’

‘I took my rape alarm. And the pepper spray.’

‘Siobhan Alice McGowan, are you out of your tiny mind? What the hell did you do something as mad as that for?’

‘I want my money back.’

She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Right. So, that time my flat got burgled and they took my stereo and my holiday cash: by that logic, do you think I shouldn’t have informed the police, but instead – had I known the guy’s address – gone round there and politely asked for my stuff back? Only what you’ve done is worse, because this Alex was after you! You could have been in danger!’

Alex was after me. Alex wanted me. ‘Well, he isn’t after me anymore.’

‘How do you know? What did he say?’

‘I didn’t talk to him. He’s got a girlfriend.’

‘So?’

‘So…’ Suddenly I didn’t know what to say.