On Sunday night she and her mother had just joined her father in the sitting room, having washed up the supper things, when there was a banging on the front door. Laura was calculating that there were over twelve hours until it was time for her to leave. She was really looking forward to the number being in single figures.

‘Oh my goodness, who can that be, at this time of night?’ said her mother.

‘I’ll go,’ said Laura. ‘I’m on my feet.’

‘Keep the chain on,’ ordered her father, getting up. ‘I can’t imagine who’d be knocking so loudly. If they were a neighbour, they’d just ring the bell.’

Laura, feeling she’d welcome in an army of Jehovah’s Witnesses just to relieve the monotony, went into the hall, unlocked the door, leaving the chain on, as instructed, and opened it.

‘Hello?’ she said tentatively. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Is that Laura? Jesus-Kerrist-on-a-jet-ski! Am I glad to see you! I’ve been over half the world trying to track you down!’

Sure she was about to faint, Laura fiddled with the door chain but her sweating fingers skidded over the fitting.

‘Who is it?’ demanded her father, coming up behind her. ‘Who are you letting into the house?’

‘It’s me, Dermot, you silly—’

Just then, Laura got the door open. Dermot was on the doorstep wearing his old leather jacket, a pair of filthy jeans and three days’ worth of stubble.

Laura’s father acted quickly and had the door shut again in seconds.

There was a roar from outside and then more banging.

‘Dad, it’s Dermot! He’s – well, he’s a friend of mine.’

‘I demand to see Laura!’ came Dermot’s voice. ‘Or I’ll break the door down.’

‘Better let him in, Dad. Think of the neighbours!’ Laura hoped this old mantra would work as it always had before.

‘Shall I call the police?’ said Laura’s mother, who had joined them.

‘Good idea,’ said her father. ‘I think the man must be drunk.’

‘I don’t think so, Dad.’

‘I’ve never dialled nine, nine, nine before,’ said her mother. ‘I’m not sure how it works.’

‘You don’t need to dial it!’ insisted Laura, wrestling with her father for control of the door. ‘He’s not a burglar! He’s someone I know!’

‘He’s not coming into my house!’ said her father. ‘Making all that noise.’

‘Mum, you don’t want the police round. The neighbours! What would they think? Or say?’ Laura had been threatened with the wrath of the neighbours all her life. Why weren’t her parents thinking about them now, when it would be quite useful?

‘I’m not letting him in. He sounds quite mad to me,’ said her father. ‘And Irish!’

‘That’s racist!’ said Laura, fighting harder now and getting her fingers on the door chain long enough to pull it back.