It’s dark and cool out. On the other side of the street is a dimly lit park. I swallow hard as a pulse of fear races over my skin. I think of those faces that pop up a couple of times a year on the news – girls, usually walking home alone. So many murders, so many rapes seem to happen in suburban parks on quiet dark streets with big trees that absorb screams. If something did happen, what would Cain think? Would he work out why I was here and not at work? I swallow hard and lengthen my stride. No stopping now.

Years ago, when Cain was still in Afghanistan, I’d boasted to close girlfriends that we had better sex than I’d ever had. He was indelicate but considerate. I remember when we first met how much I wanted him from the moment I saw those thick lips, the moment he spoke. He was so unlike the boys I’d known.

But things change, especially sex. It becomes regimented, dull. I can’t remember the last time it felt fulfilling or genuinely exciting. Who knows, maybe Cain feels the same.

Turning my gaze from the park, I look towards the houses crowded in a row on the other side of the road, some with lights brightening curtains and blinds, some dark and still as the night.

A distant grumble comes from beyond the houses; it could be the sky heralding a storm, or it could be a particularly loud truck on the motorway.

My phone vibrates. I open the app and see his response: a photo of a pint of beer, half gone already and a caption: Couldn’t wait…

I use the selfie camera on my phone to check my teeth for lipstick. I barely look like myself.

At the end of the street, I can see a strip of shops, a couple of restaurants and the corner pub. Anglers Tavern.

We’re meeting on a weeknight because I knew it would be quieter, but also because there is less chance of bumping into someone. I have reached a stage in my life where I don’t know anyone who would be at a bar on a Thursday night. I’ve taken other precautions: only use cash, turn off location services on my phone, which I do now. Most importantly: be late, be quick.

The moment I’m inside, I spot him. Not because he looks like his photos but because he’s the only one sitting alone. An air of anticipation floats around him like a noxious gas. I make myself move in his direction, smile. Then he glances up from his phone, his hand rises; a small flick of the wrist.

‘Hello, Daniel.’

‘Hi,’ he says, standing from his seat. A hint of a smile on his lips. I see his pint is now empty. Dutch courage? Booze hound? Just like Cain, I suppose.