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The first time I see him, he’s just a blear in the doorway. He stands there, like he’s almost as wary of me as I should be of him. His face is in shadow, the light bulb from the kitchen behind his head, it’s glinting off that brooch he wears round his neck. The lamp in the corner of the living room has fallen over, casting weird shadows on the wall, and the record player is skipping at the end of ‘Bridge Of Spies’. I wonder if I’ve been singing along again? If Genghis is going to be putting in another complaint?

He turns then, like he’s going to leave if I scream, but he must see the truth on my face: I’m not afraid of him. Really, what is there to be afraid of? Rape? Assault? Murder?

I try to tell him it’s OK. I’m not going to scream. The words don’t come out right and I just end up giggling. I feel so light right now, like all the weight’s gone from me, like I could float. Like a duck with its arse in the air. Like the crazy seeds of a dandelion clock. Like an 18-30 lilo. I’m on the happy part of the circle.

“I’d offer you a drink,” I tell him, hoping the words sound the same in his ears as they do in my head. It’s difficult to tell sometimes. “But I seem to be tempo… tempy… timpytampytompytumpy… Ha!” I roll one of the empty bottles across the rug at him and laugh again. “I don’t think there’s anymore left in the fridge, but you’re welcome to look.”

He goes over and switches off the record player. Considerate, I like that. Then he flumps down in the armchair, like he owns the place. Yeah, go ahead, mister, you’re the closest thing we’ve had to a visitor in the six weeks since we moved in. I say we, though even Trixie ran away after a month. I thought maybe she’d gone back to the old place, but I called the people who’d moved in and they hadn’t seen her. Still, what I don’t spend on Kit-E-Kat, I can sure enough put to other uses.

“Fuck her,” I tell him. “Fucking cat did nothing but sleep and shit anyway. Not as though she was fec… ‘fectionate. Scratched me to shit ever I tried to pick her up. Mowwwwrrr!”

He’s staring at me now and his eyes have that look I sometimes see in the people at work. I have curry on my blouse and pigeon shit in my hair (though he probably can’t see the pigeon shit). Mum used to tell me that was lucky. I should have washed it when I got in, I’m so not going to feel like it in the morning, but I just couldn’t be… I just couldn’t be… I mean, what the hell difference does it make anyway?

I guess even rapists have their standards.

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