I get my car keys and drive down to the local PC World. Like always, it’s a toss-up whether I make it to where I’m going or just to the Tesco booze department. But, by ten o’clock, I’m the proud owner of a top-of-the-range notebook. Large memory, small enough to be portable. Long battery life. I drive to the centre of Manchester and park up on Dale Street. The laptop’s partly charged when I switch it on and it searches for Wi-Fi. Searching, searching, searching until it identifies a nice, anonymous cloud network. Manchester Free Wi-Fi. An hour of free internet time every night.

I sign up as Monica Bradley. The name just came to me out of nowhere. I make a Facebook account and a Twitter account and search Facebook for an anonymous face. Someone the opposite of me, dark and sultry. Someone attractive, with lots of friends and an open profile that I can steal photos from. Sally King from Halifax will do. I give Monica a relationship. Married. For four years. She went to our local school and she’s got a degree in computer science.

I send friend requests to some of your friends and some from my own friends list. I send one to myself. My real self.

Then I drive over to the university. A security guard waves me through when I explain I’ve forgotten some seminar papers that I need to copy for tomorrow. I go straight to the print room and take the journal out of my bag. I carefully scan each page. Each receipt. Each condom wrapper. Each narrative on how you scored them and why you scored them. Where you met them. What each woman’s ‘speciality’ was. Pictures of you together.

I always get a split second where I doubt myself. Wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Usually self-preservation, knowing that no matter how wrongly accused I was, if anything else happens I’ll end up in Holloway. But, like every other time, it’s diffused. This time my fear is reframed when I’m about to scan a photo of you and Alicia Turnbull. It’s one of those sickly-sweet end-of-the-bed poses, her head upside down. All black underwear and legs in the background. The background of my bedroom. Our bedroom. That’s my bed she’s lying on. My blue dressing gown hangs on the back of the door and that’s my mini Tiffany lamp on the bedside table.