Firstly, please accept my apologies that it has taken me so long to reply to your letter. At first, I thought the letter had been sent to the wrong person, because it was addressed to L Pica. My name is Matthews – it always has been, and David’s surname is Robson. Pica is the name of the woman we sold the flat to and, I assume, who you bought the flat from. I guess you never met Ms Pica – we never did either. It seems she bought the flat from us and then sold it on to you very quickly. I don’t know how much you paid for the flat, but she bought it from us very cheaply so I guess she made a tidy profit. Anyway, that isn’t important.

The other reason for my delay in replying is that your letter upset me a great deal. I had hoped to forget the names of Lucy and Chris Newton. I wish now that I hadn’t left a forwarding address with Mary. I had intended to sever all links with that flat. Before we left I scrubbed every inch of it. I wanted to wipe it completely from my memory.

Although that has been impossible.

Since we moved out in May, I have had the same dream every night. I am running through the woods when I spy the most wonderful looking gingerbread house, like in Hansel and Gretel. I go inside, and there is the witch. Lucy Newton, with that bastard husband of hers by her side. Chris Newton. That fucker.

Excuse me. But I cannot write their names without shaking. Yes, many of the things they have done to you, they did to us as well. The hoax letters, the banging on the ceiling, the constant complaints about noise, even though we are both very quiet people. In fact, since living in that flat, I have developed an extreme aversion to noise. Several therapists have tried to cure me, but the only cure is peace and quiet. That is why it is so wonderful living here. We live in a small stone farmhouse on the edge of a very quiet village. Our nearest neighbour is a mile away. It is bliss.

I suppose I should start from the beginning, although I am afraid it upsets me too much to write about this at great length. I will try my best, though.

Jamie finished his first cigarette and lit another. He read on, enrapt.

We moved into the flat in April last year, thirteen months before we moved out. The flat seemed perfect. No, the flat was perfect: it was the neighbours who made it less so. The space, the light, the warmth. It seemed like the ideal place to start out. We were so full of optimism. Well, you say the very same thing in your letter. We thought it was paradise. We were under the impression that we were lucky.