Click.

And now I’m here, in Thomas’s building, dripping water from my umbrella all over the mustard tiles by the letterboxes. And he’s not here.

I look to the stairs and swallow hard, dropping my umbrella in the metal bin by the door. Then I take those stairs two by two.

I’m at the third floor now, and Thomas’s hallway is empty. It’s just me and the walls and the old carpet with the 1970s circular patterning that has probably seen far worse things than what I’m about to do. I move slowly towards his door, reaching into my handbag and feeling around for the leather case of my locksmith set.

The one I took with me last night.

The one I didn’t need.

My pulse is thumping as I get to his door and look left, right and left again. I pause for a moment, listening for sounds – footsteps on the stairs – but all I can hear is my breathing. I zip open the case, pull out a tension wrench and my favourite pick, dropping the rest back into my bag.

These sorts of locks consist of five pin stacks of differing lengths. In simple terms, I need to lift all five simultaneously so none of them are engaged.

I push the tension wrench in first, applying the smallest amount of pressure. Just like I did with Harrison’s door when I broke in to get my stuff back. Just like the YouTube videos I watched showed me. Next, I insert the lock pick and gently move it up and down.

I’m almost there. I can feel the lack of pressure from the centre pins.

I keep going.

But shit.

Fuck.

The middle pin stacks have unpicked now.

My hands are clammy and slipping; my heart is fast. What if someone catches me? I glance up to the ceiling and check for the blinking red light of CCTV. But there is none.

And so I take a deep breath, centre myself, and try again.

The middle part is picked.

The outermost pin is picked.

There’s just one more to go.

I calm my breath, and slowly, gently, I twist the wrench ever so slightly as I work.

Then: click.

The final pin lifts and the lock swivels.

I reach for the handle and quickly move inside, relief pulsing through me. I click on the light switch, put the picks back in their case and drop my bag on the floor.

The door bangs gently behind me and I slip off my shoes, sliding off my coat and, as I look towards the window – is he still waiting out there? – I hang it over Thomas’s on a hook on the back of the door. Then I head towards the window and peek out through the curtains. I can’t see him but I know he’s out there.