Outside, Maurice, reeled in by his urges, continued across the road, keeping clear of the glow from the ersatz Victorian street light directly opposite. He took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped it on the ground and took out a mint from the tin he always carried in his pocket to mask the smell of smoke from his wife.

Sucking on it, and with erotic butterflies fluttering in his stomach, unseen strings pulled him closer to number forty-seven, eyes glued to that window. He was feeling increasingly aroused. Mrs P-W had better be in the mood tonight.

He reached the railings and the open front gate, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at his house, at Santa’s grotto and the closed blinds behind which his wife would be absorbed with the show and her chocolates.

He wanted so much to turn back. But his feet seemed disconnected from his mind and he kept going forward. Tiptoeing now. Forward. Invisible in the darkness, inching his reluctant way towards that window.

Definitely invisible.

He was panting. His heart drumming. His face burning with embarrassment.

Must stop. Turn away. Go. Go!

Closer.

Closer.

Something moved behind that window. Pale, naked buttocks rising. Falling. Rising. Falling.

Enough, he must leave right away.

Instead, helplessly, he continued tiptoeing forward.

Could see more of the buttocks.

Just yards away now.

Another step.

Then a face pressed against the window, staring at him venomously.

The thin, wrinkled face of an old woman, her flesh a hideous grey, her eyes filled with hatred.

Almost simultaneously, security lights flooded down on him, spotlighting him like an actor on stage.

Maurice took a startled step back and stumbled, almost falling. Then, shaking in shock and terror, he turned and fled. He did not dare run over to his house in case she was still looking out of the window and would see him. The shame of it. Maurice Penze-Weedell – a pervy voyeur.

He ran along the pavement, curving past two completed but empty houses that were still for sale. Then a dinky one with white clapboarding, with a ‘SOLD’ sign and a spindly sapling in the front garden. Where the road curved left, there were two partially completed houses on the right, the gardens just mounds of earthworks secured behind steel fencing. A sign outside on a blue square board read, FOREST MILLS DEVELOPMENTS – PLOTS 28 & 29.

He reached a junction, perspiring heavily now, and stopped, panting, badly in need of another cigarette to calm his nerves, hardly daring to look over his shoulder. Finally, he plucked up courage and turned, looking back at number forty-seven. To his relief the security lights had gone off and Lakeview Drive was dark and silent again. The downstairs light in the house where he had seen the couple having sex was still on.

God, who was that hideous-looking woman? That hag?

Directly opposite him was a row of silent, dark, finished houses, all with blue signs on their walls. All as yet unsold. With shaking hands, he fumbled out a cigarette and was about to light it when he smelled a strong whiff of cigar smoke. Where was it coming from? There wasn’t a soul around this end of the estate.