Still, thinks Mr Dash, as he stares, wide-eyed, at the rectangle of yellow light, and yearns afresh for a glimpse of his round-hipped neighbour. Sees her in his mind’s eye. Chats with himself, as if with a trusted friend. Something about the gypsy look, isn’t there? Something beguiling. Blue eyes, bare feet; that touch of the dirtiness in the way they sway their hips. That certain something that speaks to a part of a gentleman in a way that nobody else ever seems to. He read mucky books about filthy gypsies when he was a young man. Books about seductresses in headscarves and long skirts.

He hadn’t had her pegged as Romany at first. Hid it well. The hair was short and mostly grey and she favoured silly little plastic earrings over big gold hoops. The eyes gave her away though. The eyes, and that mucky, sand-blown tan.

For a moment, Mr Dash suffers a brief flaring of discomfort. He feels at once embarrassed and ashamed, the way he had when Dinah came downstairs for a couple of painkillers and caught him watching some saucy French movie on one of the subscription channels. He sees himself, in this moment, for what he is. Unpleasant words fill his head. Peeping Tom. Voyeur. Perv. He doesn’t like it. He fancies he’s probably just about old enough to be thought of as a dirty old man. Sees himself, as if looking back through the binoculars. His paisley, flannel pyjamas, his fleecy, blue dressing gown and tartan slippers, his big waterproof coat; binoculars on a strap around his neck, half obscuring his round, porcine face. He feels dirty. Mucky. Pervy.

The light flicks off behind him. He should turn away, go back inside. Should lock up, put the keys on the hook, and make one last cup of malted drink to help him get off to sleep. Doesn’t get more than a few hours these days, and those are broken up by the ceaseless trips to the bathroom.

He can’t help himself. Needs one last peep.

Mr Dash swings the binoculars back to his neighbour’s window. Plays with the dial, seeking a clearer picture. Blurs become shapes; shapes delineate into figures. He glimpses movement. Sees the two furry outlines up on the windowsill, smearing themselves exotically against the glass. Two cats. Two fat, white cats. Two fat, white cats with grubby, red faces, scratching at the glass with rust-smeared paws.

Fear, now. Mr Dash feels the hairs rise upon his skin. Feels gooseflesh spreading across his arms, his shoulders, his thighs. He blinks, rapidly, behind the glass. He realizes he has ceased to breathe. Forces himself to gulp down some air. Focuses again. It’s clearer this time. Clearer, now he knows he is watching two cats scrabbling at the glass: a collage of bloodied paw-prints staining the glass. He squints. There is redness upon the faces of the cats. Each time they open their mouths to mew, it is as if they have been lapping at red wine. Teeth, tongue, little pink nose, all caked in dirty, crusted red.