That sliding bolt. I can’t stop shaking.

‘Is he gone?’ I whisper.

‘Who, Jim—’

‘The photocopy guy?’

‘Yes. Why—’

I push past her. Grab my bag and coat.

Run.

The streets are busy. I see him everywhere, walking into the chemist, punching numbers into the cash point, loafing at the bus stop.

I’ve left my car behind, knowing it will be quicker on foot, knowing that parking would be a problem when I get there, but without its steely casing and locking doors, I feel vulnerable.

At last I hare into the right street. Thunder up the steps and push against the front door. It’s locked.

‘Francesca!’ I bang on the door, not caring if she’s with another patient. ‘Francesca!’

It’s been so long since I’ve been here, I wonder if she still rents this as office space but the plaque by the doorbell tells me she does. She might have a day off. I pull out my mobile to see if I can find her home address online when I hear footsteps behind me. I swing around. It’s Francesca and for a second I am so relieved I can’t speak.

‘Leah?’ She looks wary, afraid. I must appear as though I’ve gone mad. Sweat streaming down my forehead, my hair wild and cheeks burning.

‘Please help me,’ I rasp. With one last worried glance over her shoulder, she ushers me inside.

While Francesca makes tea we both know I won’t drink as I haven’t handed her my own mug, I wash my hands three times in the bathroom before shaking them dry and pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. My clothes feel vile, my skin filthy, but it’s the best I can do for now.

‘It’s back,’ I say as soon as she returns to the room.

‘Your contamination OCD?’ Her eyes flicker to my gloves.

‘All of it.’

She gives a sharp intake of breath.

‘Look, Leah, I don’t know if I’m best placed to treat you any more.’

‘It’s back.’

‘I can recommend a colleague—’

‘It’s back,’ I say again, before I follow up with a ‘please’ filled with desperation. ‘I know I stopped coming and I ignored all of your messages asking me why. I’m sorry but I was feeling so good. I wasn’t even wearing the gloves any more. It was silly to stop treatment and ignore you but… but I thought it was over and I wanted to put everything behind me – but now…’ my voice breaks, ‘he’s out.’

‘And you think you’ve seen him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have you?’

I swallow hard and think carefully about my answer. ‘I don’t know… It felt real…’

Francesca sips her tea. The clock ticks.

And as I wait for her answer, I remember.

It was a few years before Archie was born. My mental health always plummeted around anniversaries, Marie’s drinking escalated, Carly became a virtual recluse, relinquishing her regular charity-shop expeditions and replacing them with buying things on eBay, hoping to take better photos, write better descriptions, sell them at a higher price. Graham had called to let me know he’d been released again and my OCD skyrocketed. Not just the contamination side but my rituals too. Everything having to be done three times, everything taking three times as long. I’d already been seeing Francesca for a while – her support along with George’s was just about keeping me upright, just about keeping me together – but the news that he was out there once more sent me plunging into an abyss that I just couldn’t scale.